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“Oh.” Hopefully she sounded distressed rather than delighted. “I don’t think I can countenance remaining here any longer. Might I return home with Miss Carruthers? I think her company would be a comfort.”

Mr. Dalton cleared his throat. “Of course you may. Wait here and I’ll have someone collect Miss Carruthers and have her brought to our carriage. I’m sure you would prefer to slip out the side rather than walk through the church.”

“Thank you, Father.” She had known he would agree. The only thing that terrified him more than his own emotions was women’s emotions. He would be eager to send her away with someone he considered better equipped to handle her.

He stuck his head through the door into the church, gestured someone over, and had a hushed conversation with them, then turned back to her. “The carriage is parked in the same place it was earlier. I believe there’s a side exit just through the office there.” He pointed to the small office attached to the vestry. “The viscount and I will make a plan. There’s no need to distress yourself.”

She hustled through the office, out the door, and ducked so that no one would see her through the church windows as she scurried past. As soon as the carriage came into view, she bolted for the open door and hurried inside. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what had happened, but it would be best if she could escape before anyone noticed and started asking questions.

Letitia swept through the church’s front doors and down the stairs, her expression uncharacteristically somber. She kept her head down as she crossed to the carriage and got in, but as soon as the driver shut the door, a smile lit up her features.

“Congratulations, Sera! You’ve officially been jilted.”

CHAPTER 2

Even from halfway across the country, Lord Fitzgerald’s mother still found ways to harass him about getting married. Trevor stared sullenly at the letter on his desk, irked that even on a day when he was free to indulge in the subject he loved most—botany—he couldn’t escape her persistent efforts to see him settled down.

He loved his mother, but Lady Wembley knew how much he hated socializing and how he struggled to make meaningless conversation with pretty women who inevitably ended up thinking him either a bore or hopelessly awkward.

Social chitchat was a unique form of torture, and no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be any good at it.

Of course, there was one woman he would have happily married, but as usual, he had been too slow to fully recognize what was right in front of him, and now she was beyond his reach.

Trevor tore his gaze from the letter, grabbed his satchel and slung it over his shoulder, then made his way through his family’s ancestral home in the Lincolnshire countryside and out into the gardens. It was late spring, and tulips, peonies, and pansies were blooming, creating a beautiful blanket of yellow, red, pink, white, and purple.

He smiled, the riot of colors heartening him. Something about spring always brightened his mood. Who could be glum when faced with such beauty?

He carried on through the gardens, following the path to the pond on their neighbor Mr. Bigsby’s land. The sun warmed his back, and he was glad there were no visitors at the manor to be scandalized when he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

As he reached the edge of the water, he tilted his face to bask in the glow. While summer hadn’t arrived yet, it wasn’t far off, and days like this made him feel like he was a plant energized by the sunlight.

It was unfortunate that England didn’t have as many bright, sunny days as some other countries.

He pulled a notebook from his satchel, along with a pen, and surveyed the surface of the water, taking note of the different waterlily varietals that were beginning to bud. The flowers weren’t fully formed yet, but they would be within a week or two, and he was monitoring their progress.

Strolling around the edge of the pond, he recorded how many of each varietal were present and what stage of development they were at. That done, he knelt on the shore and sketched the different stages that were currently present, paying close attention to the geometry of the leaves, the way the veins snaked through them, and the subtle differences in shape.

Trevor wasn’t naturally artistic, but he’d taught himself the basics of drawing to support his studies and found it very soothing. Nature was all about patterns, and patterns could be relied upon to remain the same unless something interfered with them.

By the time he’d finished, the sun was high in the sky. He faltered, realizing that more time had passed than he’d expected. Not that he ought to be surprised. When he became engrossed in a subject that fascinated him, time vanished like it had no meaning.

The sun was getting hotter, and he burned easily, so he packed his book and pencil in his satchel and made his way back to the manor. On the way through the gardens, he paused to check in with the head gardener, then circled around to every flowerbed and continued on to the vegetable gardens before heading inside.

Usually, he chose to focus on agricultural plants rather than flowers and wild flora, but last year’s crops had a plentiful yield, and he’d given himself a year off to indulge in his passion for the beautiful and unusual.

“The post arrived,” Mr. O’Brien, the butler, said as he appeared from the servants’ quarters with a basket in hand. “You have a letter from Lord Sylvestor and another from Miss Carruthers.”

Trevor took the letters and tucked them into his satchel. “Thank you, O’Brien.”

The man bowed. “You’re welcome, my lord. How was the pond this morning?”

“Lovely, as always.”

“Excellent.” O’Brien’s nose scrunched as he studied Trevor’s face. “You might want to apply some of that lotion your mother sent. You’ve a little pink in your cheeks, and you know how she’ll complain if you become even more freckled.”

Trevor inclined his head. “I’ll do that.”

Lady Wembley was patient with many of Trevor’s quirks, but she got rather exasperated with what she called his “determination to ruin his complexion.”