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Speak for yourself, rogue. “Lord Harrow might object.”
“I doubt it,” he replied, stunning her with the blunt answer. “He and I have become acquainted, and I now consider him a friend. Why, just yesterday he told me he was looking forward to bringing you to my ball so he could show you my garden. I’ve done a great deal to improve it.”
Acquainted? When had that happened? And why hadn’t Harrow informed her of it? She’d thought he’d forgotten about their discussion. Blackthorn was staring at her, awaiting her response. “I…I had no idea you were such an enthusiastic horticulturist,” she replied brightly, her mind racing to find a way to extricate herself from this conversation so she could run back inside her house, lock the door behind her, and hide. Coward.
“I adore gardening such that I hardly need to employ any hands but my own,” he said with a smug little smile. “Now you can come and see what I’ve done without having to wait.”
What? No! “I really ought not to—”
“Ah, Harrow!” called Blackthorn, his gaze fixing on something behind her.
Whirling, she turned to see her protector strolling toward them, a quizzical look on his face.
As Harrow neared, his eyes took in the disheveled greenery, the open gate, and her neighbor’s smiling visage. He returned it with a smile of his own. “The bill of sale neglected to include this charming detail,” he said, gesturing to the gate.
“Indeed, I had no idea this existed,” answered Blackthorn with a chuckle. “I was cutting the dead blooms off the rose bushes on my side and nearly dropped my clippers when it rattled. My surprise was complete upon discovering a door beneath the vines and this lovely vision beyond,” he added, gesturing at Diana.
Harrow laughed. “A fortuitous find any day,” said he, bending to drop a quick kiss on her mouth.
A courtesan would be accustomed to such open displays of affection, so she strove for cool indifference. She looked Harrow straight in the eye. “Lord Blackthorn is of a mind to have the vines trimmed away and the gate repaired,” she said, careful to make it sound as if she thought it a fine idea in contrast to her unspoken protest.
Harrow’s smile turned indulgent. “I don’t see why not. After all, we are friends. Now we need not take the carriage around when we wish to visit.”
Oh, bloody hell! She’d wring his neck later. For now, she had to play along. “Yes, indeed. I foresee many chats over evening pipes and brandy in this garden.”
A thoroughly impish expression took over Blackthorn’s features. “I had no idea ladies indulged in such things, but I shall be sure to make accommodation.” She barely had time to register the joke and feel indignant before he went on. “You will of course be invited, as well, Harrow.”
…
Damned if baiting her wasn’t the most entertaining occupation in which Lucas had ever engaged! Her blushes and thinly veiled outrage were a delight.
He discussed the restoration of the gate with Harrow for a few more minutes before inviting them both to take a turn in his garden. He hadn’t lied about improving the grounds. The garden had been in a shameful state when he’d taken ownership, and it had been one of the first things he’d set in order.
It had been necessary to take the entire area down to the dirt for a complete redesign. Now there were raised beds planted with tulips and other blooming plants, graveled walkways, ornamental trees and shrubbery, and rose bushes. He’d even had a small hothouse built in one corner for cultivating more exotic flora like orchids. In fact, ironically, the only thing he hadn’t changed…were the vines covering the back wall.
He watched Lady Diana and Harrow as they admired his handiwork, his mind cataloguing their every word and action.
The mystery surrounding these two deepened with every encounter.
That chaste peck the fellow had given her in greeting had been all but brotherly, and he might as well have kissed a marble statue for all her response to it. Her sea-green eyes had lit upon seeing him, but there had been nothing more than pleased surprise in them. And now the man was advocating for an unguarded entry point into his mistress’s garden. Certainly, no jealous lover would permit such a thing.
But if they are not lovers, then what are they to each other? Why would a man like Harrow keep such a beautiful woman in luxury if not to warm his sheets? From the vantage of his bedchamber window, he’d chanced to observe the lady several times over the previous fortnight. As far as he could tell, she lived quietly and maintained a proper household. As proper as any respectable lady.
At first he’d felt a stab of envy every time Harrow had come to visit her, but that had quickly faded once Lucas had become acquainted with the gentleman. It had come as a bit of a shock, really, Harrow extending the hand of friendship. He attributed the gesture as owing to the need to be on friendly terms with one’s neighbor. Or one’s mistress’s neighbor, to be precise.
He’d developed a genuine liking for the fellow. Harrow carried himself with utmost confidence, yet he was unassuming. Humble, even, and far less intimidating than he’d been led to anticipate. Certainly not the taciturn, short-tempered figure people like Westie had painted him.
The musician who’d taken up residence in Lady Diana’s household had given him pause, but he’d witnessed no late-night rendezvous, and they’d observed every propriety during their occasional walks in her garden. There were no furtive glances between them, no stolen kisses or impassioned embraces beneath the arbor.
It hit him suddenly that there’d been none of that during her garden strolls with Harrow, either. The instinctual doubt that had nagged him when they’d first met now spoke more strongly than ever—there was no way this woman was in an intimate relationship with Harrow. He’d be willing to wager good money on it.
Again, he wondered what they were to each other.
Their discussion with Liverpool rose to the fore of his memory. Her interest in her uncle’s doings notwithstanding, the lady was awfully well informed with regard to both domestic and foreign politics.
Or is she? What if Harrow had merely fed her the information to give to Liverpool under the pretense of a personal vendetta? Was the marquess more ambitious than he appeared? More importantly: Is she his cat’s paw?
But no. She’d been a shy little mouse when he’d first met her. The sophistication he saw now could only be a thin veneer, surely? He wondered what he’d find beneath if he scratched the surface…
