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Josie didn’t much care. “Would you like to see my soldiers, Lady Henrietta? I could show you the way my brother Simon ordered the battalions.”

“Henrietta,” she reminded her. In truth, she would rather not hear about my brother Simon. “I would rather not play with soldiers today. How would it be if I told you a story?”

Josie’s heart sank a little. In truth, she was longing to engage her soldiers in fierce battle. Ladies generally told stories about kittens and mittens and sometimes ducklings, none of which interested Josie very much.

“Of course,” she said politely. For when she was happy, she was a quite polite child.

“This is the story of a pair of little boots, made of the finest calf leather,” Henrietta said, seating herself by the fire. “They had twelve little buttons up the front and the buttons were chocolate brown, just the color of your hair.”

Well, at least the little boots weren’t little kittens. Josie tucked herself onto a hassock at Henrietta’s feet.

“I don’t think you ever saw these boots, Josie, because they didn’t belong to a girl. Nor did they belong to a boy. In fact, these boots didn’t belong to anyone, because when this story starts, they were lost. Lost in a deep, dark, forest full of shadows and trees with spindly branches.”

Josie drew in her breath. “How did they get there?”

“No one knows. One day they just found themselves in the midst of a dark, dark wood.”

Josie shivered just to think about it.

“So the pair of boots wandered down a twisting path, crying—”

“Were they crying for their mama?” Josie was tremendously interested in the whole question of mamas.

“Yes,” Lady Henrietta said. “How did you know? That is precisely what they were doing.”

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As the story went on, the boots got wet. They got cold. They were frightened by an owl. Finally, they found their mommy, although she turned out to be a cow, because the boots were made from the finest calf leather. But it was all right because it was winter, and the mommy cow could use some boots to wear, so everyone was happy. By the time the cow danced off wearing beautiful new boots with twelve chocolate-colored buttons, Josie was leaning against Lady Henrietta’s legs, quite overcome with the pleasure of the story.

“Again? Will you tell me that story again?”

“Not at this time,” Lady Henrietta said. But she was smiling.

Aunt Esme walked into the nursery at that moment, and said, “You must come to tea tomorrow, and I shall invite the children to the parlor, Henrietta.”

“Yes, do come,” Josie said.

“I would be more than happy to visit the nursery. We needn’t disrupt the children’s schedules.”

But Esme clearly felt just as Josie did. “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow is the day that the Ladies’ Sewing Circle is meeting. Did you forget? You promised to keep my stitches from wandering right off the bedsheet. Moreover, both Mr. Fetcham and Darby have promised to stop in and relieve our boredom.”

At that, Lady Henrietta really looked as if she were going to refuse, and Josie’s lip began to quiver. She was just warming up for a really terrific bout of tears, when Lady Henrietta gave in, and Josie danced around and around in circles instead.

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The Garden of Earthly Delights

It was impossible not to think about the garden. It drew her like steel to the true north. Sebastian was down there in the gardens. Doing . . . whatever gardeners do. What did gardeners do in January?

It was simply irresistible: the idea of the proper, stuffy Marquess of Bonnington digging holes in the frosty sod, or tying up fruit branches. Esme had brooded over it for two days, wondering where Sebastian was living. Whether he had given up and left. The whole situation seemed so unlikely. Most of their conversations during the time he was engaged to Gina had led to his admonishing her for imprudent behavior. But what could be more imprudent than what he was doing now?

What happened to the measured, thoughtful marquess, who never made a decision without consulting his conscience? Perhaps, having his reputation ruined turned him into another man. It freed him from the burden of social opinion.

She was standing at her bedchamber window—she didn’t want to think about how often she had found herself there, 156 Eloisa

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