Page 92 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Arthur darted out the back archway, seemingly already tired of the interior. Seamus lumbered after him.

“Keep him away from the lake,” James called. “Seamus sinks like a rock.”

“I will!”

Candace moved to study the statue of the woman. The man was a warrior, but the woman was all softness and grace. The sculptor had somehow managed to achieve a sheerness to the fabric in certain places—Candace felt she could see through the marble at the arm and leg and glimpse the limbs beneath.

The woman’s hair was held back by a jewelled headband. One leg was bare to the midthigh, her foot encased in a sandal with detailed chains around her ankle. One arm held a sheaf of roses; some of the blooms fell from her grip and dropped to the floor below.

“The flowers look so real, I almost expect them to have a scent,” Candace murmured.

The woman’s gaze was no less focused than that of the man across from her. But where he was strong, she was tender.

“It must have cost a fortune.” Candace frowned, glancing in the direction of Devon Manor. “I can’t fathom the original man of the house allowing such a frivolous expense. By all reports, he was a strict military man.”

“Ah, but you’re missing one small factor that changes everything.” James tore at a climbing vine that had snuck inside the rotunda.

“What is that?”

“Love.” He tossed the remnants of the vine away and brushed off a brass plaque inlaid into the stones. Then he read, “For my dearest Margaret, whose presence made these lands more beautiful than this monument ever could. ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields.’”

“Poetry?” Candace kept her voice even to hide the fierce longing she felt at hearing James's deep voice recite the lines. It was like the dinner party all over again, but a thousand times worse, as the poetry was much more moving than some lines from a penny novel.

“Marlowe, I think.” James dusted his hands off.

“He must have loved his wife very much.” Even she could hear how wistful her voice sounded, and she cleared her throat and changed the subject swiftly to draw attention from it. “Vera likes poetry, I think.”

“What about you?” He studied her face as if she were far more interesting than the lovely marble carvings surrounding them.

“In the right setting and the right amount, perhaps.”

Right then, James was unbearably handsome, with one foot propped upon the marble moulding, his hat held down at his side, the wind ruffling his thick dark hair. She wanted to add that this was precisely the right setting for poetry—whispering vines, gorgeous statues amidst the wilds of nature, a man reading from the memorial plaque of a long-lost love. It was all dreadfully romantic, actually.

Too bad James held affection for Vera, not her.

Vera should be the one wandering hill and dale with a handsome explorer reading poetry to her. She should be the one listening to James's deep voice talking about love and the pleasures of nature. Vera should be the one being wooed despite herself, not Candace.

Candace especially shouldn’t be feeling these emotions toward one of her very closest friends...the friend who was interested in her other very closest friend. What a mess her mind was! What a mess her heart always made of everything!

She tore her eyes from his, hoping that he hadn’t read the last few moments of thought in her eyes, on her face. “It’s a wonder these things are so well preserved, considering how long they’ve been left to the elements.”

“They’re made of stone.” He slapped the knee of the warrior who held the spear. “They aren’t going anywhere.”

“I can’t believe Percy never mentioned them. I wonder if he even knows they’re here.”

“I’m not sure anyone does. Maybe some of the locals, though the folly is well within your brother’s property, so most of them wouldn’t have a reason to travel past it.”

She trailed over to the far open archway, more to have a reason to turn her back to him than to stare at the small lake.

“It’s stunning here. The perfect place for a garden party, if it were cleaned up a bit.”

“And who would you invite to this garden party?” He came to stand next to her, close enough that her shoulder brushed his upper arm.

“I don’t know yet. I guess it can’t be considered a garden party if there are only four people in attendance.”

“I’ve been thinking of writing a few of my friends to visit, getting a hunting party together.”

She turned and blinked up at him in surprise. “Really?”