But then, gradually, she relaxed, her movements instinctive.
This particular flower was nature at its more complex and demanded careful reproduction on paper. It would also be the devil to colour, requiring layers to build the intense crimson, remaining patient while each layer dried lest the watercolours bleed.
“Verity…”
“Hmm?”
Her cousin leaned over her. “Oh, Verity, how you can draw. It’s so lifelike, even in pencil.”
She peered down to see it as a whole. “It’s a little skew-whiff.”
“Perfectionist.”
“Says the woman who spends three hours choosing bolts of silk.”
They both laughed before Sephi kissed her cheek. “I’ll see where tea has got to. And ensure Aunt has found Darcy.”
Absently she nodded.
“Oh, and Verity?”
“Hmm?”
“You should tell him everything. At Kew. And I meaneverything.”
She closed her eyes. “I shall think on it.”
Sephi huffed and closed the door.
With lips pressed, Verity continued drawing, the concentration on fine detail taking her to another place – of peace and Miles.
Years back, he would distract her by placing his lips upon her nape. Then along her shoulder. Yet he’d always stopped at her sleeve and how she’d ached for more.
A shiver wracked her, the ghost of his kisses upon her skin.
And she decided…
She would savour each moment of her excursion with Miles.
Each glance, every word.
They’d wander the Gardens and admire the flowers.
Talk about nature’s beauty.
And then…
Then she would tell himeverything.
19
ALL PLANTS HAVE THEIR PECCADILLOS
The evening sky through the sash window had become increasingly drear with opaque cloud and the type of drizzle that London so excelled at.
Miles twisted a loose cufflink and hoped the skies cleared for Kew Gardens on the morrow. Yes, the English garden required rain for its lush greenery and abundant flowers but it could also be a misery to walk in, requiring overshoes, oiled capes and waterproof hats.
With a grimace, he braced an arm against the study windowsill and watched a few neighbours scurry to their homes within the swatches of yellow lamplights.
