“Come away from the soil for a moment,” he said. “There is something else.”
She allowed him to guide her a few paces back toward the central path, where the stones were warm beneath her slippers and the air carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle. He drew her gently against him, mindful of the tender wrist she had fractured in her fall, though the bone had healed with only a whisper of stiffness now.
“I had no ring when I asked you to wed me,” he said.
She shook her head, confused.
“You did not,” she said. “Although that was hardly a happy occasion, and I am certain that was the last thing we were considering.”
Gabriel nodded, smiling sheepishly.
“I wish to amend this,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a gift box tied with a crimson ribbon.
Smiling, she opened the box. Inside, there was a beautiful gold ring with a large, oval-shaped diamond.
“Oh, Gabriel,” she said, gasping. “This is so beautiful.”
Gabriel shook his head, taking her left hand in both of his.
“You are,” he said. “And I hope you will choose to remain united in matrimony with me for ever after.”
With tears in her eyes, she stood on her toes and gave him a sweet kiss.
“Yes, darling,” she said eagerly, kissing him again more intently. “I want nothing more in this world.”
For a time, they stood among the orchids, surrounded by green life and the quiet strength of stone and glass remade. Outside, the estate bustled in the distance. Here, in this space they had reclaimed together, the past receded. Orchids opened their petals. A fern unfurled its newest frond. And Genevieve stood rooted in strength, beside the man who had once believed himself too damaged to deserve love, now learning that healing, like any garden, required light, care, and the courage to begin again.
The following day, the drawing room at Mountwood filled with golden light as the afternoon waned, and the great windows cast clear brightness across the polished floor and embroidered settees. Genevieve adjusted the position of the tea service with practiced ease, the silver gleaming beneath her fingers, the scent of warm scones and steeping Darjeeling floating up in pleasant wisps. Sophia, seated near the hearth in a gown of pale blue muslin, laughed at something Victoria had just said, her head tipping back as her hand pressed gently to her waist.
Victoria, every inch the London sophisticate even in the countryside, lounged comfortably beside her. Her russet hair had regained its luster, her skin no longer pale from the slow poison Richard Harrington had administered during his final weeks of freedom. The vibrancy returned to her eyes with each passing day, her appetite once again healthy, her wit as sharp and welcome as ever. She had arrived the week prior, intending to stay only a few days, but had been coaxed into a full fortnight by Gabriel’s entreaties and Genevieve’s gentle insistence.
“I swear, if I must spend another minute in Mayfair surrounded by over groomed men with fewer thoughts than cravats,” Victoria said, sipping her tea, “I shall begin flinging bonbons from the balcony at the next ball.”
James chortled, seated across from her, his teacup balanced precisely in his hand.
“I have heard that you have always had a certain flair for spectacle, my lady,” he said. “Though I must warn you, bonbons may be seen as an invitation rather than a deterrent.”
Genevieve’s aunt scoffed.
“Precisely the problem,” she said dryly. “That, and being cornered by Lady Grenville’s latest protégé. He recited Byron for an entire hour and then asked if I might critique his ode to my hair.”
Sophia gasped.
“You did not,” she said, her eyes wide.
“Oh, I did,” Victoria said slyly, her smile curling. “With ruthless honesty.”
Genevieve laughed, her hand reaching automatically for the teapot.
“You are wasted on drawing rooms, dearest Aunt,” she said. “You ought to be terrifying ministers.”
Victoria grinned.
“I am reserving that for my third act,” she said, setting her cup down. “After I wed a minor duke and scandalize the ton by reading political pamphlets at breakfast.”
Gabriel, standing near the window, turned from the view of the orchard to watch his wife. The ease with which she navigated the table, attentive yet never flustered, brought a quiet smile to his face. He crossed to sit beside her, his hand finding hers beneath the linen cloth, thumb brushing her palm in silent acknowledgment.
James reached for another scone, managing to simultaneously critique the angle of Gabriel’s estate ledgers and compliment Sophia’s lavender preserves.
