Page 100 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

“Very well.” She shrugged. “You may share my towel—otherwise it becomes quite brutal on one’s knees.”

James was secretly delighted with her suggestion—the towel was perhaps only a few feet long.

Which was how, for several hours, James found himself working side by side and chatting with Candace in her garden, every so often brushing her shoulder or bumping her elbow not-quite-by-accident. He laughed with her, teased her, and felt something bloom between them that had very little to do with the garden itself.

The following day, James returned home from a ride down to the village, having posted a letter—one so important he felt the need to deliver it to the innkeeper’s hand himself.

He entered the front parlor and found Candace and Arthur focused on a puzzle on a round table, Seamus snoring at their feet. Their heads were bent close together, and as James watched, Candace pointed at something and murmured to Arthur.

The sight was so like the scenes he’d painted in his own mind that James stopped and stared. He resisted the urge to pinch himself to see if he’d wandered too far into one of his own daydreams. Candace smiled down at Arthur, but it was James who was left breathless.

“Father!” Arthur called, glancing up and noticing him lurking in the doorway. “Lady Candace brought me a present!”

“Did she?” James walked to the table, pretending that he hadn’t paused at all. “That was very kind of her.”

Candace smiled up at him. “It’s a small trinket, nothing more. It finally arrived from London and we couldn’t wait for you to start it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

James fought the inclination to smooth a stray curl at the nape of her neck. He settled for staring at the red wisp instead, imagining what the silk would feel like against his fingers.

“It’s like a dissected map,” Arthur said, “but it’s a painting instead.”

His son pointed toward a piece of paperboard that showed what the puzzle would look like when it was finished. It was a ship upon the sea—sky and clouds, white sails and rigging, and frothing ocean.

“Five hundred pieces, Father!”

Arthur’s eyes were bright with the challenge. He offered Candace one of the pieces.

“No,” Candace murmured, sliding it into a different pile. “This is one of the clouds. See the variation? It’s not a sail.”

“What about this one?”

She canted her head, scrunched her nose. “Maybe it’s a bit of both? See that line?”

Arthur nodded and placed it between the two distinct piles they’d made.

“Have we found all the edge pieces?” As she asked the question, Candace looked up and smiled at James.

He felt it all the way to his toes, that smile. It wasn’t the one she offered when she was in a ballroom, where anyone and everyone might be watching her. It was a different sort of smile—free and simple. It stunned him even more for the relaxation behind it. James wondered if any man had ever seen that smile. Probably her brother—she undoubtedly felt comfortable around Percy.

The idea made him frown. Much like her puzzle pieces, perhaps she’d sorted James into a pile with her brother. Maybe she felt no more for James than for Percy—a comfortable, safe, well-worn friendship that would never be anything more than what it was.

“Join us.” She still smiled at him, unaware of his internal struggle. “We’re just starting to sort things into piles.”

And because he’d be hard-pressed to deny her anything—least of all a simple request for his presence and help—he pulled up another chair and helped his son and the most beautiful woman in all of England sort sails from clouds.

“It’s all arranged.” Candace bustled in, tugging at her gloves and giving Seamus a welcoming pat on the head.

“What is?” James glanced up from his ledger.

Since Candace started coming over every afternoon to help Arthur with the intricate puzzle, James had found reasons to bring his work into the front parlor instead of closing himself in his study.

Candace looked particularly fetching today, in a lavender walking dress topped with one of her ridiculous, fashionable hats. Her ruffled sleeves ended just below the elbow, in deference to the weather, which had been growing steadily warmer the past week. It was as if the rainstorm they’d been caught in had been the last, desperate heave of winter. With the delicate purple hue of her gown and the riot of ribbons and feathers atop her head, Candace resembled one of the many flowers bursting into bloom in Devon Manor’s gardens.

“The picnic. For the villagers. I’ve set a date and invited everyone. It’s to take place in two weeks’ time, on Sunday afternoon. The local vicar is even going to announce it at the end of services.”

“Do you know how many people to expect?”