normally agreeable mouth formed into a tight pout that made him want to smooth a thumb over it to iron the wrinkles away.
Naturally, he held back from such an intimacy. They weren’t friends enough for that sort of action to pass without rebuke, even if she weren’t as skittish as a hare over the mere press of a fingertip.
Although, all said, he still had only Lyle’s word that that was how she’d react.
‘An amphitheatre is an atypical garden attribute,’ he observed.
Her expression brightened immediately. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather had it built as a fernery, but it fell out of favour once the Orangery was completed. He was prone to momentary passions. He owned three hundred coats when he died. Not a single one had ever been given away. His valet positively despaired.’
‘I’m surprised only one valet sufficed.’ Darleston swung his cane and knocked aside an arch of thorns. ‘Ah, but the ferns remain,’ he observed.
They had reached a sheer drop, so that they looked down into a bowl in the earth, with concentric stone-edged tiers cut into the sides. Ferns grew in patches upon the banks, long stems reaching for the sun. It was the most perfect space for all manner of indiscretions, which he suspected was its primary purpose, not the growth of ferns.
Steep steps, worn and lined with cracks, led to the various layers of the amphitheatre and down to the circular base, where sandbags and ropes already marked the extent of the prize-fighters’ ring. Darleston jogged down to the base and strolled the perimeter.
Directly opposite the steps, a tree lay fallen across the entrance to a stone tunnel. The huge trunk formed a solid bridge between several of the tiers. ‘That’s not recently come down?’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s been there since before I was born. There are dates carved into the bark.’ She wound her way around one tier and traced her hand across what he presumed to be one of the carvings. ‘The tunnel leads through to the promenade in the walled garden, but it’s rather damp and in ill repair. It’ll be hideous if Father traipses all the spectators through that way.’
Lyle ought to have brought him here last night, where they’d truly have been shielded from the house and the chance of discovery, although it would have been a good deal colder than the Orangery. Still, personally he preferred the natural shield formed by the high banks, undergrowth and woodland to walls of transparent glass.
Emma followed him down into the basin. They stood awhile in companionable silence. He liked that quality in a woman. So many of the silly chits in town saw silence as their downfall and chattered on inanely without pause. Of course, she was older than most of the maids out seeking a husband. He guessed her to be a good ten years older than her sister.
‘What are your passions?’ he asked. When she turned and looked at him he qualified the statement: ‘As you’re not one for boxing.’ He imagined she’d list the normal rote of womanly accomplishments, but instead she simply shrugged. Only after a significant pause did she answer.
‘I pickle things.’
‘Cabbages, beetroot, that sort of thing?’
She laughed at his seriousness. ‘What else? You didn’t think me an amateur naturalist, did you?’
‘Well, I confess the thought of pickled mice did cross my mind. You’re clearly not a great lover of crowds, so something else must entertain you, and I’ve come across a few rather eccentric recluses.’
Outrage briefly flared in her eyes. ‘I’m hardly that.’
‘No. No, of course not. You’re far too pretty to be a hermit.’
Emma blushed a little, his ill-chosen words forgotten in the wake of the compliment. She turned away from him still smiling and found herself a perch upon the fallen log. ‘Do you have one on your estate?’ she asked a moment later. Her fingers worked over whatever names were carved into the tree bark.
‘Me? I have neither a hermitage nor an estate. I
Naturally, he held back from such an intimacy. They weren’t friends enough for that sort of action to pass without rebuke, even if she weren’t as skittish as a hare over the mere press of a fingertip.
Although, all said, he still had only Lyle’s word that that was how she’d react.
‘An amphitheatre is an atypical garden attribute,’ he observed.
Her expression brightened immediately. ‘Yes. My great-grandfather had it built as a fernery, but it fell out of favour once the Orangery was completed. He was prone to momentary passions. He owned three hundred coats when he died. Not a single one had ever been given away. His valet positively despaired.’
‘I’m surprised only one valet sufficed.’ Darleston swung his cane and knocked aside an arch of thorns. ‘Ah, but the ferns remain,’ he observed.
They had reached a sheer drop, so that they looked down into a bowl in the earth, with concentric stone-edged tiers cut into the sides. Ferns grew in patches upon the banks, long stems reaching for the sun. It was the most perfect space for all manner of indiscretions, which he suspected was its primary purpose, not the growth of ferns.
Steep steps, worn and lined with cracks, led to the various layers of the amphitheatre and down to the circular base, where sandbags and ropes already marked the extent of the prize-fighters’ ring. Darleston jogged down to the base and strolled the perimeter.
Directly opposite the steps, a tree lay fallen across the entrance to a stone tunnel. The huge trunk formed a solid bridge between several of the tiers. ‘That’s not recently come down?’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s been there since before I was born. There are dates carved into the bark.’ She wound her way around one tier and traced her hand across what he presumed to be one of the carvings. ‘The tunnel leads through to the promenade in the walled garden, but it’s rather damp and in ill repair. It’ll be hideous if Father traipses all the spectators through that way.’
Lyle ought to have brought him here last night, where they’d truly have been shielded from the house and the chance of discovery, although it would have been a good deal colder than the Orangery. Still, personally he preferred the natural shield formed by the high banks, undergrowth and woodland to walls of transparent glass.
Emma followed him down into the basin. They stood awhile in companionable silence. He liked that quality in a woman. So many of the silly chits in town saw silence as their downfall and chattered on inanely without pause. Of course, she was older than most of the maids out seeking a husband. He guessed her to be a good ten years older than her sister.
‘What are your passions?’ he asked. When she turned and looked at him he qualified the statement: ‘As you’re not one for boxing.’ He imagined she’d list the normal rote of womanly accomplishments, but instead she simply shrugged. Only after a significant pause did she answer.
‘I pickle things.’
‘Cabbages, beetroot, that sort of thing?’
She laughed at his seriousness. ‘What else? You didn’t think me an amateur naturalist, did you?’
‘Well, I confess the thought of pickled mice did cross my mind. You’re clearly not a great lover of crowds, so something else must entertain you, and I’ve come across a few rather eccentric recluses.’
Outrage briefly flared in her eyes. ‘I’m hardly that.’
‘No. No, of course not. You’re far too pretty to be a hermit.’
Emma blushed a little, his ill-chosen words forgotten in the wake of the compliment. She turned away from him still smiling and found herself a perch upon the fallen log. ‘Do you have one on your estate?’ she asked a moment later. Her fingers worked over whatever names were carved into the tree bark.
‘Me? I have neither a hermitage nor an estate. I
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