In Some Parts Of Life, Flowers Are Scattered, With Profusion, The Road Is Smooth, And The Prospect Pleasant But In Others （And I Fear The Greater Number） The Road Is Rugged, Beset With Thorns And Brie
“It would be a pleasure.” Verity could feel Miles’ contemplation like a candle flame too near her bared skin but nevertheless, she remained resolute upon the duchess’ violet eyes. “How do you all come to know one another, Your Grace?”
“My late husband and Alasdair became good friends during their Grand Tour – before I became his duchess – but when I lost him, Alasdair was a great comfort to me and I relied upon him to guide me in financial matters and still do.”
Verity and Sephi both bowed their heads. “Your loss was a great tragedy, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” The duchess’ fingers curled tight around her fan. “We were both so young but such love seems to me rather like a first sketch for an artist. It might be lightly drawn yet in our hearts, it is never lost but stays with one, shaping the final composition of each of us.”
With Miles’ eyes still heavy upon her, the words sank deep into Verity like a pebble into water. “Never a truer word, Your Grace,” she whispered before there came a firm male clearing of throat.
“Miss Seymour?”
“Yes, Lord Stonewold?”
“Would you care to walk the Gardens?”
“I…”
Now it was Verity who felt the clutch of Sephi’s hand. “I’ll come with you.”
The duchess placed her fan to her lips. “We could all go? What say you, Alasdair?”
“Er… Well…” His eyes slipped to Miles.
But Verity shook her head. “No, please, stay and enjoy the exhibition.” She touched Sephi’s hand. “All of you.”
For this event had brought to the fore what deep down she already knew. With them both in London, not to mention mutual acquaintances and their mutual love of gardens, it was inevitable their paths would cross. She needed to speak with Miles.
Better then to walk with him in quietude to address the matter calmly and plainly. He must cease his questions about the past. Cease from digging up what had long been laid to rest, soil smoothed back over and not to be turned again.
Mr Firth gestured with a flourish of hand. “Never fret, for I shall keep Eleanor and Miss Nash entertained with incisive commentary upon the artworks.”
The duchess rolled her eyes and nudged Sephi. “Alasdair doesn’t know a goose from a Gainsborough, but he is amusing company.”
And so Miles’ arm was proffered and, after a glance to Sephi and a curtsey to the duchess, Verity laid her hand upon it.
Many a guest, evidently of the same mind, had taken to the Gardens, strolling among the shrubs and admiring the late flowers but Miles seemed to be leading her to the quieter tree-lined gravel paths that skirted the perimeter, each step taking them further.
No words were spoken yet Verity’s apprehension began to lift as they became enveloped by the inferno reds and glinting golds of the leaves billowing above their heads like burnished lanterns.
“Verity?” And he halted his step.
She flicked her eyes to his serious countenance. “Lord Stonewold?”
A pause. So many words to be said but none given voice.
“Verity.” His eyes were unyielding before he straightened his shoulders. “I apologise.”
Not what she’d expected.
“What for? You’ve done naught to–”
“The fair. I should not have kissed you like that.”
Ah.
“No,” she agreed.
“My sole excuse is that…that passion eclipsed my restraint and I could not help myself.”
“I-I…” She briefly closed her eyes. “But why did you wish to kiss me, Miles?” She pulled her hand from his arm. “I snapped your heart in two, remember? That’s what you said. For goodness’ sake, I jilted you for a large botanical garden in Devon.”
“Or Cornwall.”
“But–”
“Because…” He thrust a hand through his hair and began to march in front of her on the gravel path. “Because I’m not sure I believe a damn word you said to me that night. In fact, I think you lied to me, Verity.”
Of course she should rail against his accusation, say it had all been true, but her thoughts were in such turmoil, and so what came out was…
“Oh.”
In confusion, she twisted away, stepped near a gnarled tree. These had been planted when the Chesterfield house had been first built and their trunks were pitted and rife with fractures.
She traced one with her fingers. Felt akin to the tree.
One couldn’t see her own fractures, but they were there, just beneath the surface.
A broad hand, painted tan by the fierce Spanish sun, covered hers.
“Verity…”
She would not turn. She wouldn’t.
And yet she did, meeting his forest-green gaze. Not at all empty as she had depicted on the battlefield but full of life and verve. And she didn’t understand how he could not blame her for upending his life.
From the nature he adored to war.
From flowers and life to mayhem and death.
But then he bent near and she merely closed her eyes, let herself feel for once.
Waited.
“My intention was to hear the truth from you,” he said with a rasp. “But I never seem to care about the truth when you are close. Because all is just as it should be.”
And his lips met hers, this time languid and soft. A sweet reunion of disparate sensations: the rough bark of the tree at her back and the soft treacherous warmth of his kiss.
A first kiss for an innocent debutante.
Not a twenty-four-year-old spinster who’d lost her bloom. One with no status amongst the Ton or dowry for an earl. One with fractures.
So Verity drew aside. “I should go,” she muttered, feeling every kind of coward.
A nod and he likewise drew aside, arms wide. “Go then, Verity. As you always do. But you can’t hide yourself away in that little box forever.”
She stilled. “No.” Her lashes fell and she closed her eyes for a moment. “But it’s the safest place I have.”