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“Yes, I daresay the first Duke of Hawthorne thought himself very clever. A particular type of hawthorn known as Glastonbury thorn grows on the estate. You must make time to see the one on the western side of the castle. It’s been there for six centuries, at least.”
“Six centuries! My goodness, how impressive.”
“It is, indeed. It’s over forty feet, which is unusually tall for a Glastonbury thorn. It reaches past the roof, and the trunk is as big around as my thigh.”
A dainty eyebrow lifted. “Your thigh, Mr. Ambrose?”
Oh, no. He shouldn’t have said that, should he? Gentlemen didn’t discuss their thighs with young ladies. Or lady’s maids either, for that matter. They didn’t discuss thighs at all, with anyone.
Another apology hovered on his lips, but if Miss Harley was offended, she didn’t show it. Delicate pink color flooded her cheeks, but she was smiling again, and this time there was no bitterness in it. It was the pure, unselfconscious smile of a lady who was enjoying herself.
He wanted more of it. More of her.
There was something forthright about her that put him at ease.
Her lovely blue eyes hadn’t hurt matters, either.
All told, once he’d gotten over the initial shock of a strange young lady wandering around his conservatory, he’d spent a most delightful half hour with her.
She’d made him forget himself, in the best possible way.
A miraculous feat, indeed. No one had ever managed it before.
That was what made up his mind. “Would you care to take a stroll with me this evening while Lady Featherstone and her daughters are occupied with dinner? I’d be happy to show you the rest of the conservatory and the formal gardens.”
He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
“How kind of you to offer. Yes, I would like that very much, Mr. Ambrose.”
“Wonderful! I believe dinner will be served at eight. Shall we meet here at eight fifteen?” They’d be safe from prying eyes here. No one ever came to this wing of the house since he’d moved his bees into the conservatory. They were afraid of getting stung.
“Yes. I’ll see you here at eight fifteen, but I’d best be off now. Lady Featherstone does not like to be kept waiting.”
She gave him a brief curtsy, and then she was gone, and the thing was done.
Mr. Ambrose, the Duke of Hawthorne’s fictional gardener, would be taking Miss Harley on a stroll amongst the flowers this evening.
There was only one small matter left to see to.
Poor Rowan was going to be beside himself.
He took the stairs two at a time and burst into his bedchamber with such force the door hit the wall behind it with a thud, startling Rowan, who was still fussing with the blue coat he’d selected for Gabriel for tonight’s dinner.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I was just—”
“Never mind the blue tailcoat, Rowan. I won’t be needing it after all.”
There. That was as good a place to start as any.
“Very well, Your Grace. I daresay the bottle-green superfine will do just as well.”
“I won’t be needing the bottle green either, Rowan.” Gabriel closed the bedchamber door behind him and dropped onto a settee. “I won’t be needing a coat tonight at all.”
“No coat?” Rowan’s brow creased. “But it’s a formal dinner to welcome your guests to Hawthorne Castle.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, but I, ah … well, you see, Rowan, the thing is that I’ve decided I won’t be attending the dinner this evening.”
“Not attending! I don’t understand, Your Grace. The young ladies are here at your invitation. They’ve come here to meet you.”
