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“Just as women don’t write books that might go against the mores of the day,” Avis replied.
Jennette patted Avis’s hand. “Your book will be published. And one of my oils will end up in a museum.”
“Lady Jennette, might I have a word?”
Jennette moved to Lady Aston’s seat. “Of course.”
After Jennette sat on the sofa next to her, Lady Aston began, “My husband’s mother is getting on in years and Aston believes she should live with us. Personally, I won’t have that woman in my house. So I have decided to refurbish the dowager house on the property.”
“That sounds like a fine idea.” Jennette had no idea why Lady Aston was telling her this tale.
“I know you decorated your sister-in-law’s home. I would very much appreciate if you would take a look at the dowager’s house and make some recommendations.”
“I would be happy to.” A little thrill of excitement rushed through her. If she couldn’t paint, she loved to decorate rooms. “I will go out there first thing in the morning to have a look.”
Lady Aston gave her a condescending smile. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Jennette brushed aside the nagging sensation that something wasn’t right about her request. Instead, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room. After taking care of her business, she started to head back to the main salon. But as she passed a large window, her gaze landed on the greenhouse. A small light flickered from behind the glass.
She should not go to him.
And yet, even as she had that thought, she walked away from the salon and toward the exterior door.
Matthew paced the long gravel path of the greenhouse, passing the fall vegetables and the flowers forced to bloom out of season. All he had to do was wait for her to arrive, talk to her, and kiss her, until her mother and Somerton walked in on them.
Simple enough.
So why did his heart constrict every time he thought about compromising her?
She’d paid a heavy price for her actions five years ago. She had watched her fiancé die before her eyes. An action she’d caused. Her suffering ate at him.
And now he was going to cause her more pain.
He stopped and stared at a small red tulip almost ready to bloom. The color reminded him of John’s blood. John would despise him for even thinking about compromising her. Matthew had promised to protect her name. Ruining her would be breaking his pledge to John.
John was dead, he reminded himself.
Nonetheless, guilt washed over him. How could he do this to her? He touched the silky petal of the flower and thought about the texture of her raven hair. He yanked the bud off its stem and threw it across the room.
Why couldn’t he be the scoundrel? Why couldn’t he hurt her?
“Matthew?” her whispered voice sounded from the door.
He turned and stared at her, immediately comprehending the reason he could never see
her hurt. And more importantly, why he could never be the one to wound her. The wind had whipped strands of her black hair out of its upswept style and caused them to fall upon her delicate face. Her blue eyes sparkled in the dim light of the greenhouse.
He loved her.
He could not do this to her. He wanted her willingly, not because she’d been forced out of duty to keep her name secure.
“Get out of here.”
“You asked me to come here,” she replied, slowly walking into the room. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”
“Get out, now!” Couldn’t she sense the urgency in his voice? He had to make her leave.
“Matthew…”
