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He swallowed hard as he expected this to be a jab, a criticism, but she smiled softly at him.

“You see,” she continued, “there is not much research on artificial fertilization at all. And not many roses are both exquisitely beautiful and resistant to disease as mine. I think if I publish it, more botanists and even farmers will try this technique more deliberately, and I think it can help with a variety of plants, including crops. But…I’m just an eighteen-year-old woman who never had a governess or went to university. I’ve been too afraid to submit it. I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

Dorian took her hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. “It is,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “You are quite brilliant… How did you learn botany? I can’t imagine your papa could afford many books.”

“No, he could not. And with our family being such a poor connection for the local community, the only library I had access to was the vicar Mr. Menon’s. When I was ready to move beyond the book John had brought home, the vicar loaned me several books on botany. He also borrowed books from the Marchioness of Virtoux and other wealthy parishioners and passed them to me.” She chuckled. “If those people only knew what a scandalous person read their books…”

She was determined…but he already knew that about her. Determined, intelligent, and tenacious. He was in awe of her.

“So you created a new rose hybrid on your own, starting from the time you were twelve? Your work must be out there for others to see. I will help. What do you need?”

She was seemingly at a loss for words, her eyes wide with surprise, her mouth open. “Duke…”

“Call me Dorian,” he said.

Like last night, when he’d heard her gentle voice calling him Dorian, pulling him from the terrible nightmare, he didn’t feel wrathful, didn’t feel like smashing anything or exploding with rage. He wanted her to call him by his given name always.

She slammed into him, with her arms wrapped around his neck, and her flowery scent in his nose. It was his turn to be surprised. He pulled her closer, bathing his face in the silk of her golden hair. It tickled his skin so pleasantly, he didn’t even feel the thin cuts on his skin.

“Both the garden and the glasshouse,” he murmured before he could stop himself. “They’re both yours. Use them for your research, for your experiments, or simply for your pleasure. Let it be a place of growth and discovery, just like your roses.”

What are you doing, you fool? screamed the voice inside his head. First you gave her your bed, then part of your garden, then your mama’s room, and now…everything?

Because she has my heart already.

Great. Are you going to tell her about John, too?

He jerked at the thought and, with regret, pulled out of her embrace as he imagined the pain, the fury on her face. The heartbreak in her eyes.

He couldn’t bear it.

He’d rather break his own heart hundreds of times than break hers once.

And perhaps he was selfish, too, because all he could think about was that she’d never wrap her arms around him like that again. Never give him that brilliant smile that was sunshine itself.

Patience’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. “Truly?” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

Dorian nodded, his heart swelling with pure, unadulterated love for this woman who had brought light back into his life.

As they stood, bathed in the warmth of the sun, Dorian knew that something had irrevocably changed within him. She had opened the curtains, let the light back in. In doing so, she’d given him a glimpse of the happiness he could have with her.

But only if he could keep his secret from her forever.

22

“You have allowed me to use the garden and the glasshouse,” Patience said gently. “May I ask what happened there? Why has it stood so abandoned? Why have you kept me away from it?”

He looked at the glasshouse, its triangular roof visible through the tree canopy, grime and algae making it almost impossible to see through. The angry beast within lashed at him. And he clenched his fists to stop it from lashing out at her.

But there was a new part of him that, to his great surprise, wanted to tell her the story.

He’d never told anyone before. Lucien and Chastity knew what had happened; they’d both been there to witness it. But she hadn’t. And, just as she had shared with him about wanting to publish a paper, he ached to share with her, too.

“I was ten,” he said. “A boy, really. It was right after Papa sent Mama away, and I rebelled against him.”

His chest tightened, and he looked at the rest of the garden. His fists clenched while he battled the painful memories. He felt the weight of Patience’s blue eyes, and the sympathy and understanding in them.

“My papa had taught me to fight. Every morning, in that very garden”—he pointed at the tangled overgrowth—“he’d have a fencing master fight me with real swords. He had fired three previous masters who had refused to train a ten-year-old boy with real steel. They preferred wooden swords at that tender age. But Mr. Beaumont didn’t mind using real steel on me. I don’t think he had any ability for empathy—just like my papa. He never injured me, though, not really. He was a true master who was skillful enough to make controlled movements without harming his opponent.”