Page 47 of The Courtship Dance

“No. As I remember, she told me it was exactly what I should have expected. And she assured me that it was the best thing that could have happened to me, that it would allow me to ask for Carborough’s younger sister.”

“Lady Alspaugh?” Francesca asked in astonishment.

“Well, she was not married to Lord Alspaugh at the time, but yes, Lady Katherine.”

Francesca continued to stare at him, slack-jawed, until he burst into laughter. “Oh!” she exclaimed then, playfully slapping his arm. “You are telling me a Banbury tale.”

“No, indeed, I am not. She was my grandmother’s choice. It had to do with her lineage and her dowry, primarily. A sizeable portion of land, which she was to inherit on her grandmother’s death, also played into it. The land in question abutted my acres in Cornwall and would have made it a very nice estate.”

“But she is buck-toothed and hasn’t a humorous bone in her body,” Francesca protested. “And she is several years older than you.”

“Four,” he admitted. “Still, duty called.”

Francesca let out an inelegant snort. “Not a clarion call, I presume.”

“No. It was a very soft whisper, indeed, as far as I was concerned. Grandmother took it hard, but she rebounded with another choice in a few months—and after that, another. The past few years, however, she has grown rather silent on the matter, except for the occasional sigh and significant look, especially when she reads the news of some heir or other being born.”

“I suppose I am to blame for it all.” Francesca let out a martyred sigh.

“No, not at all,” Rochford answered. “She is quite happy to lay the entire blame in my lap. Indeed, in recent years, she likes to remind me that I was quite foolish to let you go.”

“Sinclair, I’m so sorry….”

“No, do not be.” He covered her hand on his arm with his other hand. “I made my own mistakes. I let my damnable pride stand in my way. I should have—” He broke off, shrugging. “It does not matter now. But I do not want you to feel responsible. We were both young, and it was a long time ago. It is long past time to forget.”

His hand was warm on hers, and Francesca was aware of a strong urge to lean her head against his arm. She could imagine him sliding his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and she would lay her head upon his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear. Something flickered deep in his dark eyes, and Francesca suddenly feared that he had guessed her thoughts.

She turned away quickly, dropping her hand from his arm and starting forward again. Rochford moved along with her, and after a moment, he asked, “Would you like to see Mother’s garden?”

Francesca turned back to him. “I thought this was her garden.”

“It is, but not her own private one. It’s a secret garden.”

Francesca glanced around the yard curiously, intrigued. Rochford smiled and took her hand in his.

“Come. I’ll show you.”

He led her toward the rear of the garden, where a row of beeches lined the aged brick wall. At the end of them, the wall jutted forward, then continued east for a time before meeting the side wall of the estate. Both the side wall and the short wall beyond the beech trees were covered with ivy, green and vibrant. A slight breeze rustled the leaves, creating a soft whispering.

Rochford walked around the corner, and there, between the wall and the last beech tree, was a narrow, low wooden door with a metal ring set into it. Rochford tugged on the ring, and the door opened with a reluctant creak. He stepped aside, motioning for Francesca to enter, then followed her in, closing the door behind them.

“Oh!” She let out a happy cry.

The small garden was centered by a calm pond upon which water lilies floated. In the far corner, a stone face spilled water from his mouth into a basin below, from whence it trickled down onto artistically placed rocks. The soothing sound permeated the garden, joined now and then by the stir of leaves from the trees and ivy beyond the wall. A willow tree graced another corner of the garden, and an ornate wrought-iron bench was set near the pond.

Everywhere else, flowers bloomed in a riot of colors and scents. In some places they grew up the walls along carefully delineated paths, and in other areas, they spilled downward like a box of jewels overturned. They stretched upward on tall stalks, their heads bobbing heavily, or spread like a carpet across the ground, or mounded up in bright clumps.

It was clear, Francesca thought, that the garden was carefully tended. No weed dared show its head. Yet there were seemingly no constraints upon the flowers, which spread and bloomed and mingled with each other in glorious abandon.

“It’s beautiful….” she breathed, turning around to take it all in. “And so wonderfully…”

“Excessive?” Rochford guessed.

“No, not at all,” she protested. “Sumptuous is the word I would use. I love it.”

“So did my mother.” He followed her as she trailed through the flowers, stopping to admire first one plant and then another. “My father had this part of the garden walled and filled with plants just for her. It was a gift to her on their second anniversary. She always missed the gardens at Marcastle when they came to London for the Season, so he had all her favorites planted here. She could come here and lock herself away whenever she wanted.”

“It locks? I did not see a key.”