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“Look.” He pointed. They’d reached the orange walk, a living wall of orange, citron, lime, and lemon trees. The fruits between the shiny leaves were green. No tiny suns yet. But he could see that she’d lost herself in memory. She hadn’t lied about those childhood moments in the glasshouse. Her blue eyes shone and she breathed deep, inhaling the sweet-sharp tang of the air.

Stay. He felt the urge to say it aloud, as he had in the woods at Mawbyn. Forget France. Stay and fight.

He didn’t speak. She hadn’t even trusted him with her surname. Mrs. Stowe was how she’d introduced herself to Mrs. Lampshire, cutting her eyes at him imploringly. A lie. She was hiding from her husband, yes. But she also hid from him.

Tomorrow she’d be gone.

She drifted to the fountain, perched on the marble lip. She wore one of her fussy silk gowns, gray trimmed with pink, but her hauteur had melted away. Her posture was relaxed, expression unguarded. She dipped her fingers in the water.

“How did it happen, then?” she asked, looking up. “How did you become the proprietor if no one wanted it . . . including you?”

She was perceptive. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, kicking away a pebble. Why was it still so bloody hard to talk about?

“It was supposed to be James, Charles Varnham’s son. Only son.” He didn’t think he could manage more unless he sat. He joined her on the fountain.

“James,” she said thoughtfully, and placed the name. “You fought the condors together in the Andes.” The corner of her mouth lifted. Her eyes, though, her eyes were grave.

“Fought condors. Found orchids. Traveled to volcanic peaks and through hard-frozen snow and mosquito-filled jungles. Crossed the pampas.” He returned her half smile. “He was three years older, a member of a Thames swimming club. We met at a race, nearly tied for first place. Or, that’s how he liked to describe coming in second.” He felt his smile twitch.

James never beat him once in competition, a fact Neal used to bring up as often as possible.

“Charles wouldn’t have hired me as a plant hunter if it weren’t for James. From my own father, I knew how to collect, make herbarium specimens, pack live plants, but I’d no commercial experience. James wanted to go to South America. Wanted it so badly he said he’d take a contract with Edevane & Fernsby if Charles wouldn’t send him.” He laughed. That had been a night. “Charles relented, of course. James wasn’t finished, though. He wanted me to go with him.” He paused. She was focused on him, lips parted.

“Charles said . . .” He’d never told anyone what Charles had said. He took a breath. “Charles said, You’ll either keep each other safe or get each other killed. I don’t know which.” He drilled his knuckles into the marble. “We know now.”

She was shaking her head. “Charles didn’t blame you. He made you the proprietor of Varnham. He knows it wasn’t your fault.”

Her chin had that stubborn tilt. She took his part without even knowing the story.

“He’s fond of me.” He looked away from the compassion in her eyes. “James and I did well. We had good luck, and also good nerves, strong stomachs. Every expedition we sent back cases of specimens, plants, bulbs, seeds. We introduced new species of passion flower, lily, nasturtium, myrtle, cypress . . .”

A few of their discoveries had become commercial successes, and a few had excited interest among the botanists at Kew. Charles was never lavish with his praise, but he was proud. Both of them knew it.

He sighed. “Between expeditions, I spent much of the time at the Varnhams’ town house in London. Especially after my father died. In part, it was so I could tend and study South American plants with the head gardener at the London nursery. But in part . . . I’d missed too much. Nessa’s wedding. Jory’s wedding. My father’s illness, his—”

He broke off. He felt the old knot forming in his stomach.

“They welcomed me back, make no mistake. I was the one who avoided them. I couldn’t bear to feel like an outsider.”

“You’re a Traymayne.”

His heart thudded queerly in his chest. She’d said it with assurance, as assurance, like it meant something precious. “And?”

“And you stick by each other. You protect each other. You love each other. You join each other’s ridiculous societies.” She touched his hand. He stopped punishing his knuckles and grasped her fingers. “You share much more than a name. It’s deeper. It’s a whole way of being. You’ll always have it, no matter how far you wander.” She hesitated.

“No matter your disagreements with your mother,” she said slowly. “When you’re truly an outsider, like me, you start to see families for what they are. Yours is something special.”

She glanced down, but not before he glimpsed envy and something else, some naked longing, in her eyes.

He exhaled. He was a Traymayne, in exactly the way that she meant. He’d known it once, forgotten, relearned the hard way.

But she was Lavinia, just Lavinia. Alone in a way he could scarcely understand, especially if she didn’t let him try. He lifted her hand to his lips, wishing he could bring her inside his circle of protection, which she was right in pointing out had never really broken.

“What happened next?” she asked softly.

He lowered her hand. “Charles was a bachelor for years, had James late in life. He wanted to step down, hand the business over. But I convinced James that we should go on one more expedition. Just one more.”

Her fingers tightened on his. He stared over her shoulder at the orange walk and beyond, at the shining glasshouses in the distance, the gorgeously landscaped green acres that were James’s birthright. Not his.