Miles’ head shot up.
Sprawled on the chaise, his cousin had the habitual whisky in hand, cravat abandoned, boots on the silk upholstery.
“Remind me why I tolerate you?”
“No idea.” The fine-cut crystal glass was recklessly wafted. “The rest of the family despise me. Mother bemoans my very existence, Jeremy isn’t allowed any company except Mother, and Father likely turns in his grave whenever my name is mentioned.”
“Alasdair, why did your father–”
“Pretty woman, Miss Seymour,” his cousin prosed on. “Exotic eyes. Most comely proportioned. Silken hair. Nice teeth.”
“A woman is more than just her looks, Dair.” And loath though he was to admit it, Verity was a hell of a lot more thanprettyin his view, with hair as black as the tar they’d used on the cannons. Perhaps not the words a poet would use but he was a soldier.
“Pray do tell?”
“Well… If onehappenedto be talking of Miss Seymour specifically, it would be her skill at botanical art, for example. You should’ve seen her drawing of a spatulate leaf skeleton.”
“Er…”
“She would never miss the vein pattern at a leaf margin.”
“That’s as maybe but–”
“The manner in which she concentrated on a pinnately lobed leaf of theCrataegus monogynawas astounding.”
“Perhaps if I knew–”
“A hawthorn tree. And the way her hand moved as she painted its ribs. I used to sit behind her…” Miles’ lids slipped closed. “Watch her fingers move back and forth. Imagine them…” His eyes snapped open. “Anyhow, she–”
“No, no. Glad to know it also had an, ahem, earthiness to it. I was all a-fret. But you never told me how you first met. Or, in fact, how it all ended.”
“I don’t recall. We were both very young.”
Dair snorted. “Dish it up, Miles. There’s plenty of whisky left.”
There won’t be at this rate.
“There’s naught to tell.”
“Miles…”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Confirmed by a shake of head.
“If I must then,” he grumbled, settling back into his chair. “Well, a veryverylong time ago, Father decided to have the family wing of the Derbyshire manor house renovated. Being one for control, he wanted to oversee the completion, while my mother rented a house in affluent Surrey, to visit other stately homes of the far south and draw inspiration for decor.”
“Your brother too?”
“No, he was grouse hunting in Westmoreland. Didn’t bag a thing as I recall.” Miles shook his head. “Anyhow, Verity and her father were neighbours of that rented house. Her mother had died young but her father was a social sort and invited us to tea. After that, Verity and I kept bumping into one another, in the orchard or by the river, as we both enjoyed plants and the outdoors. Then it became no coincidence. We would plan to meet, the clandestine nature of it all part of the excitement, I suppose. I would write or study and she would draw. Always drawing the flowers.”
“Sounds idyllic. If you’re of that inclination.”
“It was. But hell, we were so young when I think back. And we grew closer, started to make plans for the future. We’d go plant-hunting together. All over the world. At twenty years old and having just left Oxford, it all seemed so…serendipitous. In fact, nothing had ever felt so right, even though we’d only known each other for a summer.”
“But?”
“I couldn’t formally ask for her hand until I’d spoken to my father, so we agreed I would depart for Derbyshire when August came to an end and talk with him. But when Mother and I arrived home, though the renovations were complete, Father had been called to the Shropshire estate, his steward having written of some trouble, and was not expected back for another month or so. So I waited. Verity and I exchanged letters, beautiful letters, and all was well until…”
