Laura was able to prepare their cups with a fair measure of her usual calm.
Don’t meet his eye. Don’t listen for his voice. Pour the tea, smile politely, leave. Now that, at long last, she was finally about to depart, she felt an irrational sadness that the evening was truly going to end. Cinderella, returning to sackcloth and ashes.
“Another round of cards?” Reverend Blackthorne suggested. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of partnering Mrs. Martin.”
“Not for me, I’m afraid,” Lady Elspeth said, smothering a yawn. “My daughter has me up betimes. My warmest regards to all, but I shall have to retire.”
“I expect we should leave, as well,” Sir Ramsdale said. “A capital party, though, squire! Be sure to convey our warmest thanks to Lady Winters.”
Amid murmurs of agreement among the other guests, the squire motioned the butler to summon the carriages.
“I’m past needing to check on our patient. Please excuse me,” Laura said with a curtsey to the company.
“I should like to look on him, as well,” the earl said. “Squire, my lords and ladies, a delightful evening. If I might escort you, Mrs. Martin?”
Beau climbed the stairs beside Mrs. Martin in a silence that was both edgy with awareness and paradoxically, companionable. After Peters answered their soft knock, Mrs. Martin walked to the side of his sleeping brother’s bed. “Has he been resting comfortably?” she asked the valet.
“Aye, ma’am. He argufied some, but I got ‘em to drink all his broth.”
“Good.” She reached out to touch Kit’s forehead, ran her fingers down to his temple, then moved them to the pulse at the base of his jaw and let them rest there. Beau felt a sharp, involuntary pang of envy.
“Fever is not much elevated, and his pulse is quiet,” she observed. “Has he been coughing?”
“A bit. But not what’s you might call excessive.”
She nodded, then carefully laid her head against his brother’s chest. Beau sucked in a breath, thinking it might be worth getting shot to be in Kit’s place. Especially with a tad fewer witnesses and a lot fewer garments.
“Just a bit of a whistle in his lungs, and his breathing is easier,” she said. “I expect he should do fine tonight, although perhaps it would be best if I—”
“There’s no need, Mrs. Martin,” Beau interrupted hastily. “Dr. MacDonovan would not have turned Kit over to Peters if he had any doubts about his well-being.”
“You get some rest, ma’am,” Peters said. “Young master will be fine.”
Kit murmured and stirred. Beau took that opportunity to place a hand under Mrs. Martin’s elbow. “Come, we don’t wish to disturb his slumber.”
She hesitated a moment before nodding. “Very well. Good night, Peters.”
“Good night, ma’am, your lordship.”
His hand still at her elbow, Beau urged her toward the door. He paused at the threshold to glance back—and caught Kit watching them. His brother flashed him a wink before snapping his eyes shut. Suppressing a chuckle, Beau led Mrs. Martin from the room.
At last he would have her to himself. Anticipation surged through his veins.
“You missed your walk with Lady Catherine this afternoon,” he said, willing his voice to calm. “Or so she informed me during our ride, with no little indignation. You mustn’t neglect your exercise, though, and so unless you are fatigued, I suggest you take that walk now. The evening is clear with no trace of wind, the garden near bright as day under a full moon, and with a wool wrap you should be perfectly warm.”
“What an appealing thought! I believe I will.” She smiled. “I’ve always wondered if roses smell as sweetly at night.”
“Shall we find out?”
Her smile dissolved, her eyes widening. “W-we?” “I can hardly allow you to walk about the grounds after dark without an escort. And since ‘tis I who urged you to it, ‘tis only fitting that I do the honors.”
“Oh, but my lord, you said you had work … I could not—”
“My papers will wait. Lady Winters’s white garden was designed to be seen in moonlight, she told me. I should like very much to inspect it with you.” His touch feather-light, he put a finger to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes were forced to meet his. Come with me, his gaze implored. “Please, Mrs. Martin.”
He held his breath, frantic with impatience as he awaited her response. She had no guile; he could read on her face the distress, uncertainty—and longing his invitation evoked. All his energy concentrated in wordless imperative, he willed her to yield to the desire that warred with caution in her eyes.
Each moment she did not flee brought her closer to consent. Acquiescence trembled on her lips, and he sought to help it find voice. “Does a white rose truly smell as sweet at midnight? I, too, should like to know.” His eyes never leaving hers, he offered his arm. “Let us see.”
Say yes, say yes, say yes. The refrain beat so loudly in his head he might have spoken it aloud. If she demurred now he wasn’t at all sure he could make himself leave her.
The briefest flicker of a smile creased her lips. “It would be much wiser if we did not. But …” She uttered a small sigh, as if having won—or lost—some great struggle. “Let me fetch my shawl.”
Relief, excitement and gladness shot through him like an exploding Congreve rocket. Knowing he was grinning like an infatuated schoolboy but unable to help himself, he said, “My cloak is in the library. ‘Twill be warmer.”
Before she could change her mind and bolt, he clasped her arm and led her downstairs, across the deserted entryway where the case clock ticked loudly in the stillness, and into the library. Snatching up the cloak he’d left there after his late ride, he fastened it beneath her chin with care, the deliberate avoidance of contact with the soft skin so tantalizingly near his fingers a delicious game of heightening awareness.
“Come,” he whispered. Taking the gloved hand she offered, he led them out the French doors onto the terrace. As they descended to the garden, Mrs. Martin gave a gasp.
“It is a fairyland!”
Illumined by moonlight, each urn, bench and planting stood in its usual place, yet the silvered light and the odd, amorphous shadows it cast gave everything a strange, otherworldly aspect.
His senses seemed uncommonly acute, as well. He heard the plaintive call of an owl, the scurrying of some small animal in the bushes, the crunch of the gravel under their feet, the silken rustle of her skirts. Her subtle scent carried on the chill night air, teasing his nose with the warmth and fragrance of her. Moonlight painted her dark hair, silhouetted her small straight nose and delicate lips with a crystalline line. Each time she took a step the opaque darkness of his cloak parted to reveal a sparkling flash of gown, as magically luminescent as phosphorus in the wake of a ship.
In awed silence they walked down the center allee, then turned toward the west wing into the white garden.
Ghostly
