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looking over the back gardens—when she caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man making his way toward the orchard. She watched for as long as she could see him. There was something utterly different about Sebastian. She could swear he was whistling, although she couldn’t see his face or hear him. He walked differently, not with the rigidity of a marquess, but with freedom. It made her wonder about other sides of him. For example, would the kisses of a convention-bound marquess differ from the kisses of a gardener?

Not that she had disliked Sebastian’s kisses . . . not at all. But one thought led to another: would it change the way he made love, if he were living in a gardener’s hut rather than sleeping on fine linen sheets?

It still made her grin to think that she was the only woman in the world who knew how Sebastian Bonnington made love. That stiff morality of his had kept him a virgin. Sebastian had reached the orchard and seemed to be cutting various branches. It was simply too tempting. She had to go see what he was doing. A mistress should definitely show proper concern for the state of her garden, after all. She had to make her way carefully down the slope and past the rose arbor because there was a crackling frost on the dead grass. Her boots slipped more than once, and the only thing that stopped her from turning back was the realization that she probably needed someone’s arm to get back up that slope. He wasn’t whistling. He was singing—and it wasn’t even a hymn, which wouldn’t have surprised her.

“My mistress is a nightingale, So sweetly can she sing.”

He paused and slashed off another branch of the apple tree he was pruning. He had a deep, rich baritone. “She is as fair asPhilomel, The daughter of a king.”

“That’s lovely!” she said.

He swung around and a slow smile crept across his face.

“My lady.” He ducked his head in a laborer’s greeting. Fool for Love

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“Stop that,” Esme said, grinning despite herself. “You forgot to tug your cap,” she pointed out. He raised an eyebrow. “I only tug my cap for the male members of the household, I do. I don’t hold truck with women trying to interfere with my work.”

“Oh hush,” Esme said. “Do you know more of that song, Sebastian? It’s lovely.”

“It’s not a song for a lady.”

“Yes it is!” Esme had a good memory, and she sang it in a high, clear voice: “She is as fair as Philomel, The daughter ofa king. Beautiful. Is that a song from the court of Henry VIII?

It sounds a bit like one of those old ballads.”

She never would have guessed that the very proper marquess could look so wicked. He was leaning back against the apple tree, arms crossed over his chest. His voice rolled out as smooth as honey, “She is as fair as Philomel, The daugh-ter of a king. And in the darksome night so thick, She loves tolean against a prick.”

Esme gasped.

He grinned. “I would guess it’s later than Henry VIII. I learned it in the pub down in the village. Would you like to hear another verse?” Without waiting for her answer, he sang, “Mymistress is the moon so bright; I wish that I could win her.”

Esme covered her ears. “I don’t even want to know,” she moaned.

“She never walks, But in the night . . .” he left the apple tree and drifted closer, “And bears a man within her. ”

“That’s despicable!”

“What part?” he asked in a conversational kind of way.

“The place where he says he wishes he could win his mistress, or the question of what she does at night?”

“The entire verse! Haven’t you anything better to do than repeat ribald verses you learned in the pub? You never would have sung such a song before you became a gardener!” she accused.

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His eyes were bright with laughter. “True enough. And you’re right, my lady, I do have work to do.” He tugged at his cap and turned his back to cut another branch.

“Are you supposed to be pruning in the middle of winter?”

she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged. “No, but these trees haven’t been pruned in so long that I don’t think it will make much difference.” He reached up to slice a branch above his head. She watched him idly for a moment but discovered that what she was really looking at was the way his shoulders tapered down to his waist. And the way gaiters emphasized the power and strength of his thighs.

Her face grew hot as she realized, and she pulled up the hood of her pelisse, but in that instant the branch dropped to the ground and he turned.