Chapter Twelve

Alexander was not expecting anybody in the rose gardens. People tended to find them a little too wild, not as manicured and perfect as a proper estate should keep its flowers. Besides, there was the hill to tackle, anyway.

He carried the flowers he’d selected for his apology bouquet to his mother in a basket on his arm. She loved roses. When he was younger, Alexander had always believed that their father had planted the huge, half-wild, Willenshire roses up on the hill for his wife.

He was wrong about that, of course. The roses had been there for generations, and had they not been “traditional”, it was likely that the old Duke would have had them uprooted altogether and replaced by a folly on top of the hill.

I slept in, Alexander chastised himself. He’d planned to have the bouquet ready before breakfast, but now he’d have to settle for getting it ready before luncheon.

She’ll forgive me, he thought with a pang. Far more easily than I should be forgiven, though.

He picked up the pace, breaking into a light jog. He rounded the corner, and lo and behold, a woman stood there, bending over to smell a rose.

He knew it was Abigail Atwater a splintered second before he crashed into her.

She gave a shriek, toppling backwards.

Managing to juggle the basket, Alexander grabbed her arm to steady her, hauling her forward out of the way of the murderous, thorny roses.

She regained her balance, lurching forward and grabbing at his forearm to steady herself.

“Watch where you’re going, sir!” the maid yelped, before reddening and recollecting herself. “Sorry, your lordship,” she muttered, dropping her gaze.

“No, no, you’re quite right, I was clumsy,” Alexander admitted, glancing briefly at Abigail. She was not looking at him. Her gaze was pinned to her feet, and she shook out her skirts with a little more care than they really needed.

Memories of their dance together came flooding back, making Alexander shiver. He cleared his throat.

“Are you alright, Miss Atwater? Did I hurt you?”

“N-No, no, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

He gave a short laugh. “What are you apologising for? I am the one who wasn’t looking where he was going. You’re lucky I was here, though – I’m rather good at saving you, aren’t I?”

That worked. Her head shot up, eyes narrowed.

“ Saving me? Let me remind you, Lord Alexander, that without you racing around like that, I wouldn’t have needed saving.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough, fair enough.”

And then there was a silence. Alexander was aware that really, he ought to just make his goodbyes and leave her in peace. He hadn’t attended breakfast, but had it on good authority from the butler that there had been an atmosphere over the breakfast table between Lady Diana Lockwell and… well, just about everyone else. Miss Atwater, mostly. The butler had been surprised to relate that the two ladies had gone out walking afterwards.

“They did not seem to enjoy each other’s company, your lordship,” the man admitted, shaking his head. “But then, I do not know much of young ladies, after all.”

Neither do I, Alexander thought grimly, but I know enough to guess that Lady Diana Lockwell means trouble.

He felt like a fool for having ever considered Lady Diana as a marriage partner. He’d regret such a decision for the rest of his life. Would it be worth getting his part of the fortune, and finally being seen as an adult by his siblings?

Probably not.

As if she’d known what he was thinking, Abigail spoke up.

“Lady Diana Lockwell was looking for you last night, I think. She seemed angry that I was able to dance with you and she didn’t.”

He bit his lip. “Lady Diana has… expectations of me. Unfortunately, I cannot fulfil them. I think she resents me.”

Abigail eyed him for a long moment. Alexander held her gaze, not allowing himself to drop his eyes like he secretly wished to do. The warm feeling spread through his chest again, and he found himself holding his breath.

She’s so beautiful.

Abigail was the one who dropped her eyes first.

“I thought there was something between you,” she said at last, steadfastly eyeing the rose. “I didn’t dare ask what, but she… she seems resentful, as I say. Of you, and of me.”

He nodded. “That seems fair.”

“She’s jealous of me, and I don’t know why.” She raised her eyes to look at him again, as if asking him to explain where Lady Diana Lockwell’s jealousy might have come from.

His tongue had turned to lead. When Alexander finally opened his mouth and began to speak, it wasn’t Lady Diana’s jealousy he was speaking of.

“I was in love with her, once.”

Abigail flinched backwards. She glanced briefly at her maid, and some sort of look passed between the women. The maid sighed, just heavily enough to be heard, and wandered about ten or fifteen paces away, pretending to inspect some roses.

It was hardly privacy , but it was better than nothing. Abigail turned to face him, folding her hands in front of her waist.

“Go on,” she said quietly.

He drew in a breath. “I loved her, or at least I thought I did. I thought we would get married. I made no proposal, you understand, as I had no money and had to secure my father’s permission. I suppose it’ll be William’s permission I need to marry now. His blessing, at least. What an odd thought. anyway, I digress. I was sure that I would secure my father’s permission, since she was a suitable enough girl, and Father never had high hopes for me. We’d talked about it, but nothing official was decided. And then…” he breathed out slowly, steeling himself. “And then she went to Bath for a month, with an aunt. I read about her engagement in the Gazette less than two weeks after she’d gone.”

Abigail looked down. “Oh, Alexander, I’m sorry.”

Alexander. She called me by my Christian name.

A frisson of excitement rolled down his spine, and he swallowed hard, trying to force moisture into his dry mouth. She didn’t seem to notice her slip of the tongue, and he was determined not to draw it to her attention.

“She got married,” he continued, shrugging. “I speak about it easily now, but at the time, I truly thought I would die. I think my older brother – William, that is – thought I was being silly. He’s always been more practical than me. Katherine and I are the dreamers of our family. As I said, she married, and years passed. She’s a widow now, and it seems she plans to secure my hand after all.”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Abigail said suddenly, looking just as surprised as Alexander to hear the words coming out of her mouth. “Lady Diana is… well, I find her cruel. Beautiful, and clever, but cruel. She’ll hurt you, if you let her.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? I just… I don’t know. It’s odd, seeing her again.”

There was more silence after that. Alexander wondered whether he’d shocked Abigail, speaking so openly. She seemed to be working up to say something – perhaps to make an excuse and then hurry away.

To forestall the inevitable, Alexander spoke up himself, as quickly as he dared.

“I’m bringing back some flowers for my mother,” he said, holding up the basket. “I see you were admiring that bloom in particular. I can cut it for you, if you like? Help yourself to as many flowers as you like.”

She blinked, glancing at the basket. “You’re such a good son, Lord Alexander.”

He winced. “Not as good as I should be.”

Reaching out, she trailed a fingertip over the rose’s petals. “It’s a beautiful flower, and it would look lovely in my room. But I never like to cut flowers for myself. They die so quickly, and I think I can admire their beauty out here, when they are alive, instead of keeping them in vases.” She paused, glancing up at him anxiously. “Not that I mean anything against people who do keep flowers, I just…”

“No, no, I understand. You’re a sensitive young lady, Miss Atwater.”

She smiled wryly. “Hardly. My mother believes it’s a fault.”

“Really? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She would much rather my sister were here, instead of me,” Abigail admitted, shrugging. “And sometimes I think she was right. Scarlett would have secured a match very quickly, but me… well. I suppose I’m just a wallflower.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a wallflower. All flowers are beautiful, after all.”

Had those words really just exited his mouth? Alexander felt colour rising to his cheeks. But Abigail was smiling, gaze pointed downwards.

“Thank you. That… that means a lot,” she admitted, at last. “You’re a kind man.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a rake. A fool.”

She shrugged. “Those things are not incompatible with kindness.”

Glancing up, her eyes met his. This time, Alexander found that he could not look away. The breath stopped in his throat. The perfume of the roses, always heady, became intoxicating. Choking, almost, but pleasant.

Abigail was close to him, so close that he could almost imagine that he felt the heat from her skin. His hand inched out of its own accord, wanting to touch the smooth skin at her collarbone, to feel the silky strands of hair, escaped from the knot she’d pinned it into, brush across his knuckles. Her lips were parted, eyes fixed on his, and she was holding her breath too, and surely…

Somebody cleared their throat, loudly.

The spell was broken. Alexander blinked, hand dropping back to his side. In an instant, Abigail moved backwards.

It was the maid, of course, who had coughed so pointedly. She was currently aiming a flat glare at him.

“What is it, Lucy?” Abigail said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“We should get back, Miss Atwater,” the maid replied coolly. “It looks like rain.”

Alexander glanced up at the idyllic blue skies above them and said nothing. There were a few clouds, certainly, but… he cleared his throat.

“Your maid is right, Miss Atwater. May I escort you back to the house?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, a tremendous crash echoed up from somewhere below.

Biting back a curse, Alexander hurried forward out of the rose gardens, and peered down the hill.

Hamish. Of course it was Hamish. He was staggering through the maze and had knocked over a stone statue. The thing had probably stood for generations, and now its head was broken off.

“My friend,” Alexander said, apologetically. “I had better see to him.”

Abigail nodded. The three of them descended the same way anyway, and soon they reached the centre of the maze, where Hamish was ineffectually trying to slot the statue’s head back into place.

“Are you well, Lord Grey?” Abigail asked, looking anxious. “Lord Alexander, I think he’s ill.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Alexander responded, levelling a steely glare at his friend.

The wretch is still drunk from last night, he thought, annoyed. Hamish had the grace to look ashamed, hanging his head like a drunken puppet.

“I’m so sorry, Alex,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Miss Atwater is such a nice lady, and I know you must marry, since…”

Fear spiked through Alexander’s chest.

“Yes, yes, well. I’ll take care of this, Miss Atwater, not to worry. You go on back to the house, won’t you?”

Abigail showed no signs of having heard or understood what Hamish was saying, much to Alexander’s relief. She gestured to her maid, and the two set off down the hill without another word. Alexander watched them go, hands on his hips, and breathed a sigh of relief once they were out of earshot.

Then he rounded on Hamish.

“What are you thinking of?” he hissed. “You were about to spill… to tell what I told you last night! It’s a secret, you fool!”

Hamish’s eyes widened. “What, that you won’t receive your money until you marry?”

“Hush! Don’t say it again! Oh, heavens. Who else have you told, Hamish?”

“Nobody. Nobody, I swear.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s true.”

Hamish slumped to the ground, leaning heavily back onto one of the hedges. He eyed the broken statue miserably.

“I just tripped,” he mumbled, pointing at the statue.

Alexander sank down onto a stone bench, elbows on his knees.

“Am I like this, do you think?” he wondered aloud, gesturing vaguely at Hamish and the statue. “When I’m… when I’m in my cups?”

Hamish stared at him. “You’re worse, Alex.”

He groaned. “My wretched siblings were right, then. I need to stop, don’t I?”

“I think we both do. I had an uncle who drunk himself to death. It wasn’t a pretty way to go.”

The two men sat there in silence for a few moments, staring at the statue to avoid staring at each other.

“We can do it together,” Alexander said at last. “What do you think?”

Hamish considered. “Well, we’ve done plenty of other things together, as old friends. I don’t see why not.”

“I’ll show my brother I’m not a useless fool.”

“Alex, you are too hard on yourself. You always have been.”

He shook his head, gaze aiming into the distance. “I’m the third son and the youngest child. Nobody was ever interested in me beyond my mother, and even she…” he bit his lip. “Even she is being let down by me these days. I have to do better.”

Hamish leaned forward, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much drink.

“We will do it together. We will, I promise.”

“Agreed. Thank you, Hamish.”

“Oh, and for what it’s worth? I like her.”

The hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck prickled. He wasn’t drunk enough for this conversation. Of course, that could be helped. “You… you mean…”

Hamish grinned tiredly. “Miss Atwater, that is. There’s a lot of talk about how she doesn’t have a fortune, and isn’t charming enough, but it’s nonsense. I like her a great deal. And, more to the point, I think you like her a great deal, Alexander.”

He bit his lip. “Lady Caldecott warned me away. She’s too sensible to… to care for someone like me.”

But the scene in the rose garden replayed itself before Alexander’s eyes, the way Abigail’s eyes had widened at him, the way her breath had stuttered in her throat when he leaned near her.

Perhaps…

But hope could kill just as surely as a knife.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try and find out,” Hamish said, grinning wryly. “Come on, the Alexander I know always loved to wager. Take a gamble now and try and win Miss Atwater’s heart.”

***

Alexander tapped on the door to the drawing room, waiting for a response before he entered.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mother.”

“Oh, Alex, darling! Come in.”

Alexander pushed open the door. The drawing room was quiet, with none of the guests around. As far as he could tell, they were all in their rooms, or in the libraries. Outside, rain was starting to patter on the windows, forcing anyone who’d gone out for a walk to hurry back inside.

Mary was not alone, though. Lady Caldecott was sitting on the sofa, reading quietly. She shot him a look over the top of her book, though, which he tried his best to ignore.

Mary got up, pattering happily over to her son.

“There you are, darling! Sit down, let me ring for fresh tea. Are you feeling better? You must have been ill last night, to have retired so early from my ball.”

There was a tinge of hopefulness in her voice. Alexander smiled weakly, trying not to remember the anger in William’s voice as he told him to go to bed.

I hope they did something about the urn in the library, he thought suddenly. The one Hamish threw up into.

“Yes, I felt awful, Mother,” Alexander said. It was not entirely a lie. “But I brought you these to make up for it.”

He produced the bouquet of roses, and Mary gave an exclamation of delight.

Her favourites were the pink roses, so Alexander had gotten only pink ones. There were a variety of shades in the bouquet, adding depth, and he’d picked a good amount of greenery to fill out the bouquet, tying the stems with a smooth satin ribbon.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, Alex! Florence, take a look at this!”

“He has a remarkable eye,” Lady Caldecott admitted begrudgingly. “It’s very pretty.”

Mary stood up on her tiptoes to kiss Alexander on the cheek.

“What a darling boy you are. Oh, I have an idea! Why don’t you make up a little bouquet to give to Florence’s niece? She’s such a shy little thing, and only danced half the dances last night.”

Lady Caldecott’s glare burned into the side of Alexander’s face. He forced a smile.

“I would, but I happen to know that Miss Atwater doesn’t like to pick flowers. She likes to admire them alive, in their habitats.”

Mary blinked, surprised, and glanced over at Lady Caldecott. “Oh. Is that true, Florence?”

Lady Caldecott looked as though she’d swallowed an insect, or perhaps taking a long sip of lemon juice.

Behind the sourness, however, he could have sworn there was a hint of admiration and surprise.

“He’s right,” she admitted begrudgingly.

Mary shrugged, taking a long sniff of her roses.

“Oh, well. You’ll have to get her another present then, Alex.”