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She took the bloom, holding it awkwardly in her fingers as she passed it from one hand to the other. His eyes tracked the movement hungrily, and the awareness and sensuality humming between them left her breathless. Then he blinked several times and squared his shoulders, continuing as though the interlude had not taken place.

“The manor and its servants have shifted and transformed to reflect our new duchess. Emma was …” He paused, his features softening at the memory. “Emma was elegant, classically refined. She embraced the duties of the title with pride and excellence, and was a matched pair with Gabriel’s bone-deep commitment to the needs of the title. They loved one another deeply. But Violet”—satisfaction and joy sparked in his expression—“Violet taught Gabriel’s heart how to beat again, invigorating every gardener and scullery maid right alongside him.” He took a step closer and bowed his head. “Come. It is a fine evening, Sofia. Will you walk with me?”

She hesitated, her heart pattering its encouragement in her chest. “It is late.”

“Just a quick turn about the garden. I love the kaleidoscope of colourful roses bathed in starlight.” He leaned closer then, as if imparting a great secret. “But I am a little afraid of the dark, so I seldom indulge in late night strolls to bask in their glory.” He smiled. “I trust that you will keep my confidence.”

Stepping closer still, he slid the yellow bloom from where it hung lax between her fingers and tucked it behind his own ear. “If you’re not going to wear it, I will. It seems a shame to waste,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. He wiggled his winged arm, lowering his voice. “I’d have a walk with my friend, if you please.”

With the flower drooping from behind his ear, he looked comical and dear. Safe.

“A short one.” Sofia slipped her fingers onto the crook of his arm, drawing a quick breath when he immediately moved to cover her hand with his. They set off at a leisurely pace, out the kitchen door and into the dominion of chirping crickets and twinkling stars.

Christopher turned them into the gardens and asked nothing of her. Not her words. Not her attention. He just became a part of the atmosphere, a gentle, encouraging presence, like lavender when you cannot sleep.

“You have a knack for putting people at ease, Mr Keene. It’s extremely vexing.”

He grinned. “A habit of my childhood, I think. It’s what others required of me.” Sofia waited for him to expound on the statement, but he did not do so immediately. Instead, he fell as silent as the blooms that surrounded them. Then his fingers tightened over hers and his steps slowed. Her heart beat raced.

Finally, he spoke. “Gabriel’s life was complicated. His parents’ expectations were rigid. They cared only for the duke he would become and not at all for the boy he was—a boy both desperately lonely and intensely determined to please parents who would never be more than vaguely satisfied. In everything he did, he strove to be the best. But with me, he didn’t have to be anything but Gabriel.” She looked up, but his gaze remained forward as he guided her gently through a series of turns.

“And my sister, Sarah …” He exhaled a long breath. “She had … spells. Periods of sadness that even she did not understand. Sarah was always a contemplative child, worrying about things that a little girl ought not to, but I could almost always coax a laugh out of her, even when she was crying. When I could not, when nothing would stop her tears”—she watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow—“well, then I sat quietly with her. I held her hand until whatever melancholy gripped her loosened its hold on her soul. Then she would be all right for a while. When I was a boy, I used to think that if I kept her comfortable enough, happy enough …” He shook his head, then rubbed the fingers of his free hand across his forehead. “Little boys think they should be able to protect their sisters from everything. But what weapon does a ten-year-old boy have against his sister’s own mind?”

Christopher’s vulnerability, the emotion unchecked in his expression, caused something to loosen in Sofia’s chest. She could easily envision the boy who made it his life’s work to provide care for those around him. The boy who would protect his loved ones from the rain, waving away the impending storm clouds until his own arms were exhausted from the strain.

The man walking beside her now still had that same generous spirit, ready and willing to exhaust his arms on her behalf. She didn’t want to know that about him. Didn’t want to wonder whose arms grew exhausted on his behalf. She didn’t want to see the emotion he had placed on display for her, but there was such bravery in his offering that she could not look away. Her hand covered his, and before she could stop herself, she offered her own confession. “Not all older brothers try to protect their sisters. Some brothers simply walk away when life gets especially hard, no matter how much their sisters love them.”

Christopher slowed his steps to a stop and turned to her. “I’ve scarcely known you for a sennight, and still, I cannot imagine a world where anyone would willingly walk away from you. I am glad that you are my friend today, Sofia.”

She was thankful for the noise of the overzealous crickets, certain that nothing short of their shrill chorus could drown out the clatter of her pounding heart. Christopher deftly removed the rosebud from behind his ear and nestled it into her curls, his fingers sliding down the angle of her jaw to cup her chin between his thumb and index finger. He gently tilted her face from side to side, admiring his work. “It looks far prettier on you than me.” Dropping his hand to his side, he turned to continue at their ambling pace.

Falling into step beside him, she peeked up from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m not sure about that, Mr Keene. You look rather fetching in yellow.” She had meant it as a jest, as a way to shake free of the tingling anticipation that had settled over them, but it came out rather more like⁠—

“Are you flirting with me, Miss Lioni?”

“E una pessima idea flirtare con te,” Sofia whispered on a breath.

“It’s unsporting to answer in a language I do not speak.” He paused, frowning in thought. “It feels like flirting. My heart certainly sped up when you called me fetching.” He pressed his hand to his chest as though he could measure its beats. “I’ll no doubt turn my wardrobe inside out in search of a yellow waistcoat in the morning, and if you should compare my eyes to a summer storm, I’m afraid I may lose my head altogether and start spouting poetry.”

“Ridicolo. Your eyes look nothing like a summer storm.” She slid her hand back into the crook of his arm, losing the battle to keep an amused smile from her lips.

“What then, like the dense fog that covers the hills at dawn? Soft grey dove feathers? Flickers of stardust?” Keene asked, his voice lowering to an intimate murmur.

“Continue with this insanity and I shall compare them to puddles of mud!” She laughed then and something that had been pulled taut for too many years loosened by degrees.

“I rather wish you would. I love mud puddles. My poor mama couldn’t keep me out of them. I ruined my best pair of Sunday breeches once as a lad and she took away my dessert for a week. Longest week of my life.” He shivered dramatically.

Turning the final corner of the garden, Christopher stopped walking. His hand moved to cover hers where it rested atop his sleeve, and then he eased their hands together down his forearm until her hand was cradled between both of his. Warmth seeped into her skin as Christopher’s fingers moved across her palm. He watched their path, across the shallow lines, up and down the length of her fingers, lingering on the little calluses. His touch was light and his movements were slow, giving her every opportunity to pull away. And she might have perhaps, had her thoughts not slowed to match his deliberate pace. He looked up at her then.

“The interesting thing about compliments is that who gives them matters far more than their eloquence. When you compare my eyes to mud puddles, all my heart hears is that you’ve been looking into my eyes.”

Even in the hazy light of the waxing moon, the wash of colour on his cheeks was visible. Still, he did not look away.

“I will say goodnight to you now, Sofia. But would you meet me Monday evening in the kitchens? Around eight, perhaps?”

She nodded, and it wasn’t until his body relaxed that Sofia realised how perfectly still he’d been as he had waited for her answer. She wasn’t sure he had even taken a breath.

“Good.” He bowed over her hand. “Thank you for protecting me from the dark, Miss Lioni. Until tomorrow then.”