Chapter 4
She had avoided Foxmere all day, dodging him with the skill of a seasoned spy.
He had countered with bows and ostentatious remarks during supper, and a note tucked into her glove that read, “Next time, use a rope ladder. Far less dangerous and with fewer witnesses.” Still she longed to continue their game.
Now the evening had reached the moment when the worst guests began plotting their exits, and the best plotted each other's ruin. Louisa lingered at the edge of the music room, a champagne flute in hand, her gaze fixed on the dark window. Inside, Lady Featherstone’s group laughed over cards and sweets, while the orchestra struggled through a country dance.
Outside, beyond the tall glass panes, the gardens beckoned, moonlit and full of secrets.
She slipped out unnoticed, or so she thought, moving along the unlit passage and down the back stairs, her slippers barely whispering on the runner.
In the corridor, she nearly collided with a footman, who gave her a knowing look that made her resolve to tip him double at Christmas.
Louisa glided past, into the vestibule, and out to the terrace, where the cold air bit her skin through silk.
The gardens shimmered, dewy and ghostly. To the east, the house glowed with lamplight and occasional laughter. To the west, topiary and trelliswork promised the anonymity she craved.
Instinctively, she followed the path, her arms folded for warmth, her mind racing with memories from the night before.
So it was almost a relief, almost, when she reached the arched trellis at the center of the rose walk and found him waiting, a shadow among shadows, boots planted in the path as if he’d grown there overnight.
He wore evening black, jacket undone and cravat hanging loose enough to suggest a man recently hanged and miraculously reprieved.
In his hand, he carried a lantern with the wick turned low, casting bands of gold and umber across his features.
He smiled lazily, but his other hand toyed with the edge of his cravat.
“Out after curfew, Primrose? What would your mother say?”
She would have liked to retort, “Go to the devil, Foxmere,” but an unexplainable fascination had worn her responses thin. “I imagine she would recommend a healthy dose of laudanum and a return to bed,” she said instead.
He stepped aside, inclining his head. “If you’re determined to haunt the grounds, at least let me provide illumination. I’d hate for you to impale yourself on a yew.”
She did not reply, but when he offered the lantern, she took it, careful to keep her gloves from brushing his fingers.
They walked unhurried along the avenue of roses. It would have been peaceful, but memories of the previous night’s waltz lingered—the way his palm had pressed against her back, or how his laughter, genuine for once, had vibrated through her chest like the bass of a church organ.
Foxmere walked with his hands clasped behind him, a pose part foppish and part philosophical. “Did you know,” he mused, “that Lady Honoria once set her own wig on fire at a rout? Entirely by accident, I’m told, though the evidence suggested sabotage.”
Louisa bit back a smile. “I’ve heard she prefers her scandals flambéed.”
He shot her a sideways look, his eyes bright as the lamp’s flame. “You are in rare form tonight, Lady Louisa. Should I prepare myself for a cutting?”
“You should always prepare yourself,” she said. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
He tipped an imaginary hat, but for a moment, his fidgeting returned. He watched her over the edge of his sleeve, as if trying to gauge her mood, or perhaps her intent.
The walk brought them to the heart of the garden, where a wisteria-draped trellis curled above a bench of pale stone.
Lanterns glowed from hooks, painting the path in yellow pools, but otherwise, the world belonged to the moon.
Louisa sat, partly to put the lantern between them, and partly because she was tired of standing.
Foxmere joined her, close but not touching, and for a while, they were content to watch the moths orbit the lamps.
“Do you ever,” he asked after a silence that was almost comfortable, “wonder if we are simply playing roles we didn’t audition for?”
She considered. “If so, I intend to be promoted. Wallflower does not suit me.”
He chuckled, then sobered. “I envy that. You know who you are, or at least who you refuse to be. I sometimes think I was typecast before I ever drew breath.”
She glanced at him, sharp and analytical. “You mean your father’s legacy, the title, or the endless parade of expectant matrons?”
He shrugged, but the gesture seemed heavier than usual. “The lot. My mother used to say that sons are born with one foot in the grave and the other in Parliament, and God help any who straddle the fence. My father disagreed. He believed sons should be seen, not heard.”
Louisa tilted her head. “That explains the volume, I suppose.”
He snorted. “Touché. But the rest?” He leaned back, gaze on the shifting moonlight above. “It’s like walking through a maze where every turn leads back to the same entrance.”
She found herself wanting to contradict him, to point out that he’d always had options, but the words died in her throat. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the arbor, the way his voice had sounded almost lost.
“Why do you do it, then?” she asked. “If you hate the path, why not break out of the maze?”
He was silent so long she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Because,” he said finally, “sometimes the devil you know is less terrible than the one you might become.”
She looked at his hands, folded tightly together, the knuckles shining pale in the lantern light.
“My father drank himself to death,” he said, voice flat. “To escape my mother’s coldness, or perhaps just for sport. And she retreated so far into propriety that I sometimes wondered if she remembered how to breathe without consulting an etiquette book first.”
Louisa stared at the night-blooming datura curled around the bench, its trumpet flowers scenting the air with something cloying, almost poisonous.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.
He laughed, but there was no edge to it now. “No, you aren’t.”
She considered denying it, but the lantern made his eyes too honest for lies.
“Perhaps not,” she conceded. “But I understand.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and the moment stretched between them fragile, ridiculous, but entirely real.
“Your turn, Primrose,” he said softly. “What would you do if you could leave the maze?”
She smiled, a small, private thing. “Light it on fire.”
He grinned, but the humor in it was raw. “You see, this is why I prefer you to every other woman in that house. You don’t just want to break free. You want to burn the rules to the ground.”
She didn’t reply, but the words buzzed through her veins.
For a long time, they said nothing, sharing the bench and the scent of wisteria, each aware of the other’s warmth but unwilling to move closer. When the clock in the house chimed midnight, Louisa rose.
“I should go,” she said. “My mother’s spies grow more inventive after midnight.”
He stood, and for once, did not offer an arm. “Until tomorrow, Lady Louisa.”
She left him under the trellis, alone with the moon and the echo of his words.
As she reached the steps to the house, she glanced back. He hadn’t moved. He stared up at the tangle of vines, as if searching for a route she couldn’t see.
Louisa slipped inside, heart pounding for reasons she preferred not to examine.
Louisa slept poorly. Her dreams twisted through ballrooms and gardens, punctuated by laughter and faces that turned away at crucial moments. She awoke before dawn, her throat raw and her limbs tangled in sheets, as if she had wrestled invisible adversaries all night.
In the library that morning, she feigned interest in a botanical guide while her mind replayed the conversation under the wisteria.
The weight of Foxmere’s words, the unfamiliar texture of his honesty ringing through her.
By noon, her nerves were so taut that even Sophia’s attempts at distraction, such as a wager on whether Lord Bertram could be induced to eat a live snail, barely registered.
It was late afternoon before she saw him again.
The household had gathered for a garden party, and the air was thick with the scent of grass and the sound of champagne being poured into cut crystal.
Louisa lingered at the edge of the event, determined to avoid him, but fate, or perhaps just Lady Featherstone, intervened.
Within minutes, she found herself cornered between a rose arch and a hedge maze, with Foxmere blocking her only means of escape.
He looked tired, which she found oddly satisfying, though she told herself it was because he deserved it.
“Lady Louisa,” he said, the glint in his eye dimmed, as though he had exhausted all his mischief.
“My lord,” she replied, cold and crisp as the champaign in her glass.
A pause ensued as he studied her, not in his usual predatory way, but with a look of calculation, as if piecing together a puzzle that had just shifted shape.
“You vanished rather suddenly last night,” he said. “I confess, I found it almost wounding.”
She snorted. “I doubt you’ve ever been wounded in your life, Foxmere.”
“On the contrary. I am riddled with old injuries.”
She was about to deliver a retort when he surprised her by gesturing to the maze. “Will you walk with me?”
It was the most polite request he’d ever made. Reluctant curiosity, or the urge to be in control, propelled her to accept.
They entered the maze together, the world narrowing to gravel and clipped topiary, the sun low enough to paint everything in gold. For a while, they walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of their shoes and distant laughter from the party.
When he spoke, it was without preamble. “What happened to you, Louisa?”
She almost laughed. The question was not a weapon but a hand extended in darkness.