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Dangerous. So dangerous to care about such things. To let herself hope that someone might see value in her work, might appreciate the knowledge she possessed, might look past the superficial to recognize what lay beneath.

Because even if Angelo appreciated her gardens, even if he respected the expertise they represented, that appreciation would vanish the moment he saw her stained face. The moment he understood what manner of creature had cultivated these beds.

She should retreat. Should abandon this fascination before it grew into something that could truly hurt her.

But Isolde knew herself well enough to recognize a losing battle when she faced one.

She would watch Angelo Scott. Would follow him through the passages, observe his movements, study his gestures and expressions. Would hold onto these moments when someone walked through her world and saw it as she did, even if he never knew it was hers.

It would have to be enough.

Even if her heart whispered that it would never, ever be enough.

Isolde straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirts, and made her way deeper into the secret passages. Away from windows and dangerous hopes and the ominous warmth that bloomed in her chest whenever she thought of brown eyes filled with wonder.

She had her duty. Her gardens. Her secrets to protect.

She did not need more than that.

But as the wind sang its eerie song through the passages and the last light faded from the sky, Isolde could not stop herself from touching her fingers to her lips, imagining, just for a moment, what it might feel like to stand in that garden openly. To tend the beds in daylight rather than shadow. To speak with someone who understood the language of plants and growing things.

To be seen.

Fanciful woolgathering, she scolded herself.

But this time, the words held less conviction than before.

Because Angelo Scott had looked up. Had looked toward where she had been standing. Had seemed to want to know who was there.

And some treacherous part of her wanted him to find her, even knowing the pain that discovery would bring. The same treacherous part that had noticed he had gone without his cravat in the garden, his open collar lending him an unexpectedly informal air.

Liar! You watched him in the privacy of his chamber!

Isolde's cheeks warmed at the memory. She had lingered far longer than propriety permitted, fascinated by the easy confidence of his movements and the unguarded expression he wore when he believed himself alone. She ought to have turned away at once.

Yet she had not.

CHAPTER 5

“Her imagination, heated by fear, produced wild pictures.”

Ann Radcliffe

* * *

The dining room at Grimsfell Hall was a tableau of faded grandeur. The long mahogany table could have seated twenty with ease, but tonight it held only five, Angelo, Nicholas, Lorenzo, and their hosts, Lord and Lady Trenwith—Gabriel and Henri. The walls were paneled in dark wood that absorbed the candlelight, and portraits of stern-faced ancestors gazed down from their gilded frames with expressions ranging from disapproval to outright hostility.

Angelo found the atmosphere oddly oppressive, despite the excellent meal Cook had prepared. Or perhaps because of the contrast. The warmth of good food and company set against the cold watchfulness of painted eyes and ancient stone.

“The roast is exceptional,” Henri said, though Angelo noticed she had barely touched hers. She seemed distracted, her gaze occasionally drifting to the shadows in the corners, as if expecting something to emerge from them.

“Mrs. Roskelly is a treasure,” Gabriel agreed. The viscount sat at the head of the table with the effortless authority of someone accustomed to command, but even he seemed affected by the hall’s atmosphere. There was a tension in his shoulders that suggested vigilance rather than relaxation.

Lorenzo had been unusually quiet throughout the first course, pushing food around his plate while his mind clearly worked through some puzzle. But as Mrs. Roskelly brought in the next course, a fish pie that smelled of butter and herbs, he finally broke his silence.

“How did you find this place?” he asked abruptly, his accent thickening with emotion. “Grimsfell Hall. How did it lead you here, specifically?”

Gabriel and Henri exchanged a glance, and Angelo saw something pass between them, a shared understanding or, perhaps, even concern about how much to reveal.