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is more likely."
He lifted an ironic brow.
Madeline ignored it. "The fact remains you’ve halved my work this morning, and I’m grateful."
His eyes narrowed. Instead of taking the shears, however, he shook his head.
Without a word, he left her, striding into the morning mist with a rigidness on his spine.
Madeline watched after him for a moment, admiring with some small part of her woman’s heart the taut, muscled length of his legs.
A puzzle.
At the end of the garden, he turned around. For a long, long moment, he simply looked at her with no expression at all on his handsome face. Madeline bore it for a time, then she put him out of her mind and trimmed her roses.
When she looked up again, he was gone.
…
Juliette, restless and weary, climbed from her bed, disturbed by something she couldn’t name—only knew it had taken her from sleep. Jonathan had not slept with her last night. He started his foolishness about marriage again, and she’d been forced to send him away when he appeared at her door. There were rules.
She missed him with a vague, aching hollowness in her belly. Trailing her amber silk dressing gown behind her, she rubbed the hollowness with her palm and drew open the drapes over the long French windows. A dreary, misty morning greeted her and she leaned against the wall, gazing out on the grounds.
From here, she had an eagle’s-eye view of the maze and rose gardens, and also of the open meadow, lined by elms, that lay beyond. Madeline’s gardens. How fiercely she protected them!
And there the girl was, amid the roses with her basket of tools at her feet. Even from this distance, Juliette could see the muddy hem of her old gown. She smiled fondly.
In truth, the girl had a rather dazzling talent for flowers, inherited from both sides of the family. The earl’s ancestors had built the gardens, of course, but Juliette’s mother, too, had had a passion for flowers. Although she died when Juliette was twelve, and the flowers she coaxed out of the mean back garden in the rough London slum where Juliette had grown up had hardly compared with this grandeur, Juliette remembered that small plot with great joy. It had been the only spot of joy in her mother’s short, hard, brutal life.
Too bad she did not live to see Juliette’s stunning success and the granddaughter that so resembled her. Where Juliette was blond, Madeline was dark, with the same creamy English skin as the grandmother she’d never seen, didn’t even know existed.
Only Juliette and a handful of trusted servants knew all the secrets of Juliette and Madeline’s lives. And this gray, gloomy morning, Juliette wished she could tell Madeline of her true parentage, that she looked like a grandmother long dead; that her love of flowers had come from that long-dead woman.
As she stared at the girl in the dim light, a figure emerged, dashed toward one end of the garden and came back to give Madeline a flower. Juliette grasped the edge of the drapes.
Lucien Harrow. There was no mistaking that elegant, graceful figure. Unlike most of the dandies in his crowd, Lucien was a restless, physical man, and it showed in his trim body. He was rather roughly dressed and appeared to be working with Madeline on the roses.
Juliette narrowed her eyes. Not bloody likely he was doing it without good reason. And Juliette knew just what that reason was.
She frowned.
For months, even before Madeline’s return, Juliette had researched the possibilities of a husband for the girl. It was important to Juliette that the man not only be rich enough to save Whitethorn, but that he have a reputation for kindness—and that he not have a wandering eye. Madeline was a biddable girl to some extent, but she’d not tolerate unfaithfulness, however fashionable it was at the moment. Her husband would be husband to her in more than name, or a wife he would not have.
Her quest brought her directly to the doorstep of Charles Devon, the marquess of
He lifted an ironic brow.
Madeline ignored it. "The fact remains you’ve halved my work this morning, and I’m grateful."
His eyes narrowed. Instead of taking the shears, however, he shook his head.
Without a word, he left her, striding into the morning mist with a rigidness on his spine.
Madeline watched after him for a moment, admiring with some small part of her woman’s heart the taut, muscled length of his legs.
A puzzle.
At the end of the garden, he turned around. For a long, long moment, he simply looked at her with no expression at all on his handsome face. Madeline bore it for a time, then she put him out of her mind and trimmed her roses.
When she looked up again, he was gone.
…
Juliette, restless and weary, climbed from her bed, disturbed by something she couldn’t name—only knew it had taken her from sleep. Jonathan had not slept with her last night. He started his foolishness about marriage again, and she’d been forced to send him away when he appeared at her door. There were rules.
She missed him with a vague, aching hollowness in her belly. Trailing her amber silk dressing gown behind her, she rubbed the hollowness with her palm and drew open the drapes over the long French windows. A dreary, misty morning greeted her and she leaned against the wall, gazing out on the grounds.
From here, she had an eagle’s-eye view of the maze and rose gardens, and also of the open meadow, lined by elms, that lay beyond. Madeline’s gardens. How fiercely she protected them!
And there the girl was, amid the roses with her basket of tools at her feet. Even from this distance, Juliette could see the muddy hem of her old gown. She smiled fondly.
In truth, the girl had a rather dazzling talent for flowers, inherited from both sides of the family. The earl’s ancestors had built the gardens, of course, but Juliette’s mother, too, had had a passion for flowers. Although she died when Juliette was twelve, and the flowers she coaxed out of the mean back garden in the rough London slum where Juliette had grown up had hardly compared with this grandeur, Juliette remembered that small plot with great joy. It had been the only spot of joy in her mother’s short, hard, brutal life.
Too bad she did not live to see Juliette’s stunning success and the granddaughter that so resembled her. Where Juliette was blond, Madeline was dark, with the same creamy English skin as the grandmother she’d never seen, didn’t even know existed.
Only Juliette and a handful of trusted servants knew all the secrets of Juliette and Madeline’s lives. And this gray, gloomy morning, Juliette wished she could tell Madeline of her true parentage, that she looked like a grandmother long dead; that her love of flowers had come from that long-dead woman.
As she stared at the girl in the dim light, a figure emerged, dashed toward one end of the garden and came back to give Madeline a flower. Juliette grasped the edge of the drapes.
Lucien Harrow. There was no mistaking that elegant, graceful figure. Unlike most of the dandies in his crowd, Lucien was a restless, physical man, and it showed in his trim body. He was rather roughly dressed and appeared to be working with Madeline on the roses.
Juliette narrowed her eyes. Not bloody likely he was doing it without good reason. And Juliette knew just what that reason was.
She frowned.
For months, even before Madeline’s return, Juliette had researched the possibilities of a husband for the girl. It was important to Juliette that the man not only be rich enough to save Whitethorn, but that he have a reputation for kindness—and that he not have a wandering eye. Madeline was a biddable girl to some extent, but she’d not tolerate unfaithfulness, however fashionable it was at the moment. Her husband would be husband to her in more than name, or a wife he would not have.
Her quest brought her directly to the doorstep of Charles Devon, the marquess of
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