A quirk of lip was his sole answer. “Well, shall we?”
Miles looked so very handsome today – chestnut hair tousled, cheekbones a little flush from the breeze, and although he wore a dour coat of brown, his waistcoat was of rich burgundy, embroidered with sprays of pink and white roses, their delicacy only serving to emphasise his masculinity.
“Yes, let us, my lord.”
Kew had become a centre for discovery and science, but the Gardens also had a designated promenading route for gentlefolk, with far-reaching vistas, wilderness meadows, lakes and a hotch-potch of Classical follies. And that pagoda.
A hand to his arm, she and Miles sauntered the wide paths, admiring the naturalistic landscape that had been created by man and talking of all but the obvious.
Instead they chatted of Miles’ time on the Continent, of her paintings and what his plans were for his estate gardens.
A stone arch in a dire crumbling state appeared ahead and Miles paused. “I don’t see the point to this,” he groused. “It goes nowhere and needs repairing even though it’s only sixty years old.”
Verity’s lips quivered. “I read the architect hoped the ruinous nature would cause visitors to contemplate the disappointments of humanity, inclining one to serious reflection.” She cocked her head. “I’m afraid I rather adore the scene. I’d like to paint it in fact – the unruliness, the weeds artfully tumbling from the top and the tree branches nigh kissing each other…”
Not that she was thinking of kissing. In any way. And she cleared her throat. Flapped the collar of her pelisse. Then turned to Miles who was inspecting her and not the arch at all.
“How did you come to call yourself The Witness?”
Ah, yes.
“It was the blacksmith I told you about. He looked at my sketch one day and observed that artists were like witnesses to a fleeting moment in time but able to capture it forever.” She trailed a hand across the damp brick of the archway. “So I-I signed myself The Witness.”
“Well, they are magnificent, Verity. Although…” He smiled, eyes gleaming, and came to stand near. “I’m too thin in them.”
“Well, yes, but…” Her gaze travelled from his broad shoulders to his trim waist and hips and then on to those powerful thighs. “I-I could hardly know that you would put on so much…muscle.” Standing so near, she could smell his cologne of sandalwood, feel the heat of him, the strength of him.
She snapped her gaze away, should not be allowing her eyes and thoughts to roam for it was a path to hurt. After they’d enjoyed the Gardens, she would tel–
“I was just a boy when we were young, Verity.” A hand briefly caressed her cheek. “I’m a man now.”
She swallowed and stepped back. “S-shall we continue?”
He raised a brow.
“To the hothouse?” Although at this moment in time, despite the chill breeze, she rather felt an icehouse was more required.
But they strolled on, passing lakes and various follies that were dotted around like chess pieces. At the Temple of Bellona, they tarried a while. It was an elegant white folly with Doric porch, four fluted columns and even a dome. Verity poked her nose inside and then just as swiftly withdrew for it was most dark.
“Do you remember,” she mused as they wandered on, “when you used to read to me from the Kew catalogue – all the plants that were arriving here from the four corners of the world.”
“I hope I didn’t bore you?”
“No! I…I loved it. I would imagine them in my head. How to draw them.”
They turned a corner and caught sight of the hothouses outlined against the ponderous sky. Most who visited the Gardens expected them to be structures arranged in ordered neatness, rows of exact lines or some such. When, in actual fact, they were a hotch-potch collection of glass, wood and brick.
Built some fifty years past, the long hothouse stood out. Nicknamed The Great Stove, it stretched twenty feet high but had a plethora of wooden scaffolding surrounding it for repairs. In truth, the whole structure looked rather dilapidated. The other glasshouses had obviously been added higgledy-piggledy as space had become tight, some mere rickety lean-to constructions with misted glass panels within wood frames, others brick-built with windows.
“Come,” Miles said, holding out his hand. “A fellow at the Horticultural Society also supervises the old South Africa House and he lent me the key. I’ve never visited but he said it holds a little bit of everything nowadays as some of the elder specimens became so large they were taken to the Orangery. I’m told…” He leaned close, voice husky. “The hibiscus has been placed in there.”
Verity’s heart leaped at the thought of viewing such a beauty, at the excitement upon Miles’ face but… She should rein in her own enthusiasm, treat Miles as a friend and nothing more.
Yet standing here, with his fingers outstretched, eyes as green as bottle glass and with the hibiscus beckoning, she threw caution to the wind and seized his hand, felt the power of it even through their gloves.
This particular hothouse was one of the lean-to constructions with misted panes, and from his fob pocket, Miles produced a key which he slid into the lock.
As the door creaked open, a rush of heat assailed her, exotic and scented with an earthiness of decaying leaves and musky spice. She was nigh yanked in – to keep the heat contained, Miles muttered apologetically – before the door was closed behind them.
