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“Then you know the gardens.”

“Some of them,” he said. “Lady Wetherby makes alterations often, which renders any confident opinion dangerous.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Perhaps that is why she wished to bring us out here today.”

He arched a brow. “To witness the disagreement?”

She laughed. “To discover what she has changed.”

“That’s likely,” he agreed. “She is rather proud of them.”

Her laugh escaped more readily than she expected, bright and a little startled. Lord Rosedale looked pleased, a quiet warmth lighting his eyes. He did not act as if he had achieved something extraordinary merely by amusing her. She was grateful for that too.

They began walking slowly along the border, their steps crunching softly on the gravel. Elizabeth kept her attention on the flowers for a few steps, trying to find a question worth asking. Her thoughts tumbled, making it impossible. She had enjoyed his company the previous evening. She was enjoying it now, and the knowledge was a small, glowing thing in her chest. She wished he could know that without her having to explain. “Do you prefer the country?” she asked.

“As opposed to London?” he asked.

“Yes.” She nodded.

He considered the question, tilting his head. “There are parts of London I enjoy,” he said. “But there are also some decidedly unpleasant areas.” He met her gaze. “I don’t think there is a preference to be had, if I am being honest. Both have an appeal, and it largely depends on a whim.”

“That makes sense,” she said.

“And you?” he asked. “Do you have a preference?”

“I like the quiet.” She hesitated, then added, “Though I suppose I have made that rather obvious.”

“You know what you like. That is what is important,” he told her. “You need not apologize for it.”

“I was not...” She stopped, looking at him, and her lips curved ruefully. “Perhaps I was.”

His expression remained gentle. “I have spent a good many conversations saying what I thought was expected. It can become a habit.”

Elizabeth had not imagined he would understand that. He spoke so easily that he made her laugh without effort, and it was oddly touching to learn he wore a careful face when he had to. “Do you find that tiring?” Elizabeth asked, glancing up at him. The question had slipped out before she could weigh it, and she felt a small flutter of nerves at her own boldness.

“Yes.” He said it simply, without a trace of the polished charm she had seen him use on others.

“What do you do?” she asked, softer now, her curiosity outrunning her shyness.

“Occasionally, I leave a drawing room and find a garden.” A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth, and he glanced at her, as though unsure how she would take the admission.

She smiled, remembering his explanation of the disputed trick and the light humor in his voice. A warm, pleased feeling stole through her chest at the thought that he had meant it then, too. “Then I was interrupting your retreat,” she said, her tone gently teasing.

He stopped beside a gap in the border and turned toward her, the sunlight catching in his hair and turning the chestnut strands to gold. His expression grew quiet, and he held her gaze a moment longer than the joke required. “I was glad to find you,” he said.

The words were simple. Elizabeth could not mistake them for a general courtesy concerning their hostess’s guests. Her cheeks warmed, and she noticed how steadily he was looking at her, how still he had become. Her heart gave a quick, shy flutter. She glanced toward Charlotte, visible beyond the hedge with Lady Wetherby, their heads bent together. They were still speaking to the gardener.

No one would answer for her; no interruption would let the moment pass. The thought frightened her a little, and thrilled her more. “I was glad you stayed,” she said, softly.

His smile changed. It grew quieter, losing the easy amusement of their conversation, and she felt a small flutter beneath her ribs. “So was I.”

Elizabeth looked down at the path. A pale petal lay upon the gravel near his shoe. She focused on it for a moment, giving herself time to recover, and breathed in the scent of the roses. He did not bring up another subject immediately, and his patience touched her. She remembered his promise to be patient, and the thought made her look up again. “I am more comfortable speaking to one person,” she admitted, her voice small.

“Then I shall endeavor to remain one person.”

She laughed, surprised into it. “I meant...” Heat filled her cheeks. Why was she always so awkward?

“I know what you meant.” His smile warmed, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “And I shall remember.”