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“You may see it as a pattern, Lord Stewart, but I see it for what it is.Youare a Scotsman, the only man of yourheritageI have ever met. Both times, I have had the unfortunate experience of conversing with you privately, you have talked to me as if I were that maid with whom you had carnal relations in the garden!” She let go of my arm several steps back and has turned to me now, eyes again blazing with anger, yet glossy with hurt. “So don’t act as if I am somehow prejudiced or insulting your integrity when you have done nothing but insult my station as the daughter of a duke, not to mention my status as an unmarried woman! No Englishman—or even a Frenchman, for that matter—has ever disrespected me the way you have. Therefore, I’m left with no choice but to question your background. For heaven’s sake! You’re the heir to an earldom and a captain in the Royal Navy.Youshould know better!”
I can’t discern if she realizes the emotion she has exposed during her tirade. Regardless, it’s making my chest feel like I’ve dropped fifty feet untethered. She is the most fascinating woman I have ever met, and she stirs something in me that is foreign yet familiar all at once.
“Well, ye certainly have a way wi’ words. There’ll be no denying that.” She wasn’t expecting such a cavalier retort, and the look of exasperation on her face has me throwing back my head as a hearty laugh escapes. “Look at ye! If ye were a cat, I fear ye’d claw my eyes out!” I see the slightest upturn of a smile as her demeanor softens, offering me a chance to put another crack in her armor.
“I believe I’d like to do just that, regardless,” she agrees with one raised eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Ella. Yer right,” I say with sincerity through my mirth. “I will ask for yer forgiveness as I have never been a conventional man. I’ve never been one to abide by the rules of society, rules created by hypocrites and impostors. You’ll find I am neither.” I pause as understanding releases the tension across her creased forehead. “I can be brutally honest, and I’m sure that isn’t what ye are accustomed to. I would’na blame Scotland, though.” I offer her a smile and my arm, gesturing for us to continue down the path. Our time out of sight of her mother has lingered long enough. “’Tis simply the way I am.”
We walk in silence as I ponder what to say next. There is so much that I want her to know, but she is not ready to hear it. Perhaps I will put it to verse and see if it pleases her. But I have to do something to break through her defenses. “May I tell ye something, Ella? May I be honest?”
She doesn’t answer right away, looking down at the path. I do the same, watching the toes of her slippers peeking out from under her flowing skirts with each step, waiting patiently for her to respond.
“I am afraid your simple question is more of a conundrum than I care to admit. I have the urge to tell you not to speak another word for the entirety of our walk so I may enjoy the peaceful sounds of the garden. Also, I would like to ask Donovan to prepare us a picnic down by the pond to appease my curiosity of whatever inappropriate nonsense your mind is conjuring.” There is no hiding the mischief behind her admission, and it also has my heart racing with an excitement I have never known.
Just ahead, there is a bench next to what appears to be a butterfly garden situated in the middle of the path with a stone wall around it—a perfect circle overflowing with flowers of all sizes and colors, brightly lit by the sun, highlighting the beautiful artwork of butterfly wings as they flutter around, then pause to drink the flower’s sweetness. Gesturing with my hand, I ask, “Would ye like to sit? ’Tis a beautiful presentation, and the sunlight will warm us from the chill of the shade trees.”
“Yes, I would like that.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that this is the first thing she’s said to me that isn’t laced with venom or vinegar, at the very least.
We take our seats and pause to enjoy the circus before us. From this angle, the sunlight has brightened the color of every flower and highlighted every flying insect beyond the swarm of butterflies flitting about in numbers I have truly never seen. “This is quite an impressive display,” I say, somewhat in awe.
“Yes, it turned out better than I had imagined.”
I turn to her then and see that glorious smile mingling with pride. “Oh? This was yer idea?”
“It is my one contribution to my mother’s garden. I told the head gardener what I wanted, and he delivered more than I could have ever asked. I helped him plant many of the flowers, and he gives them special food to keep their blooms abundant.” Her face lights up with joy so pure I can only stare and hope the image is locked permanently in my mind. “Notice there is no pattern; nothing is manicured. It’s simply perfect disarray.” Ella turns to me, mischief apparent in her eyes. “Perhaps I have attracted one of your faerie friends from the book. They could be watching us right now, debating on which one of us to eat first.” A bubble of laughter escapes as she freely pokes fun at me, shattering my resolve to maintain proper etiquette.
The urge to kiss her is so powerful that I forget to breathe.
“Ella.” My voice is gravelly and deep. Her smile evaporates as she senses the shift, uncomfortable under its heady weight. “I will speak the truth, and ye may not like it, but I know no other way.” I take a deep breath and watch her beautiful eyes dilate with anticipation she doesn’t fully understand. “I have thought of nothing but you since last we met. That is no’ an exaggeration.” I can see the flush of heat as it brightens her color. Her eyes drop from mine to focus on my mouth. She wants me to kiss her, so she bites down on her swollen bottom lip to distract her desire. It’s enough to drive me mad. “Ye can’na do that to me,” I say as I reach up to gently set it free. “Yer testing my strength and nourishing my weakness.”
“I don’t understand,” she admits through a whisper.
“Aye, I know ye don’t. It is another reason I find ye so bloody appealing.”
“Lord Stewart!” she admonishes.
“Forgive me. I should have left that thought inside my head.”
“Well, at least your choice of words.”
I study her face as the sun highlights every detail. Her skin is not as pale as most women of her station. She clearly enjoys the outdoors, and the added color gives her a warm glow that compliments her light hair and eyes. And those eyes…my God, I could stare at them for days and never get bored. They remind me of the ocean at midday, when the sun is shining directly above, allowing you to see past the surface and into the depths where the varying shades of blue and green shift and flow with the currents.
Her beauty is classic only in the perfect symmetry of her face and the elegant line of her neck and shoulders. Otherwise, her lips are a touch too full, slightly out of proportion with her small nose. Then her high cheekbones, strong brow, and square jawline are almost masculine in their proud structure. My eyes see her as exquisite.
A cooling breeze passes over us, lifting a lock of hair to sweep across her face. On instinct, I reach up to tuck it behind her delicate ear. “Ye are a masterpiece, Ella Seymour. Quite an extraordinary one at that.”
Her breath hitches just slightly. “Your poem.”
“Aye. Did ye like it?” I ask, noticing the shyness in my tone.
“I did. Quite a lot, I’m afraid.” She turns to look back at the garden.
“Ye sound disappointed. Were ye hoping for something offensive?”
“I was hoping for nothing at all, you know that!” she snaps. “But you didn’t listen. Instead, you send me a gift of tremendous value and wrote a poem so lovely; that I could not comprehend that the words came from the man I wanted to hate.”
The truth within her words is like a kick in the gut. “Ye wanted to hate me, aye?”
