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“They are thriving, and she has every reason to be very proud of them.”

“Perfect.” He started back toward the house, gently pulling her close to him. “We should probably return to the drawing room before she comes looking for us.”

Emily tilted her head and eyed him mischievously. “Mr. Henry Buckland, are you afraid of your aunt?”

“Absolutely and completely,” he said. “Culham was lucky to escape with only the likelihood of nightmares about worms tonight.”

Her laughter brought a smile to his face and resolve to his heart. He would do whatever he must do to be worthy of this incredible young woman.

They reached the pear tree, and her fingers tightened around his.

“I . . . I have something for you,” she said. “Would you wait in the drawing room while I fetch it?”

“Of course,” he said, halting outside the french door. “May I ask what it is?”

In the dimming light, he sensed her self-consciousness. “It’s nothing important, but I made it, and I would like you to have it.”

“Gladly,” he said.

She withdrew her hand from his. “It will not take me long to retrieve it, but if Aunt Millward questions you regarding more than the lily of the valley, the foxgloves will be coming on soon, and the forsythia blooms on the other side of the garden are spectacular.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Emily. I could not ask for a better confidant.”

Emily floated up the stairs. Henry had kissed her. He wished to court her. She touched her fingers to her lips, the memory of that earth-shattering moment still lingering. Somehow, over the last month, friendship had become affection, and affection had blossomed into love. She was in love with Henry. It was the only reason she could give for having spent the last week yearning to be with him, for caring so deeply about what he was going through, and for having her knees all but buckle beneath her at his kiss.

She was not sure what had prompted her to offer him the scarf she’d made. Thinking of Henry while she’d been furiously knitting was one thing; giving him the wobbly-edged, overly long final creation was something else entirely. Racked with sudden gnawing doubt, she slowed her footsteps. What had she been thinking? She released a tense breath. That was just it. She hadn’t been thinking; she’d been feeling. And now her elation was being choked by misgiving.

Reaching her bedchamber, she opened the door and stepped inside. She spotted her knitting basket immediately, on the hearth beside the fireplace, where Hannah had set it. Hurrying over to it, Emily took out the scarf. The edges really were terribly uneven. And she should have kept better track of how quickly it had grown. But she could not change either of those things now, and Henry was downstairs waiting for her. Waiting for it. Swallowing her pride, she folded the scarf into a fat square and carried it out of the bedchamber.

She heard Henry’s voice as she approached the drawing room. He was praising Aunt Millward for her forsythia bush.

“It remains spectacular, even though it is past its prime.” He paused. “I daresay your roses will be in bloom soon.”

“So the gardener tells me,” Aunt Millward replied. “But I will not have you doing anything to those either. Even if you have a sudden yen to give a rose or two to Emily.”

Emily entered the room and the conversation. “I do love roses,” she said. “My mother planted some bushes at Dunsbourne Manor that produce glorious flowers, but recently, I’ve been quite taken with red campion.”

She did not dare look at Henry, but Aunt Millward eyed her with a knowing mien.

“I grant you, the plant has quite pretty flowers,” she said. “Albeit, usually regarded as a weed.”

“Weeds are simply flowers planted by a heavenly gardener,” Henry said. “And they’re altogether underrated.”

“Perhaps I should request a bouquet of dandelions for my next birthday,” Aunt Millward said dryly.

“A splendid idea,” Henry said. “I shall see to it myself. They will be just as bright and cheerful as your forsythia blooms.”

Aunt Millward shook her head helplessly, and Emily tried not to laugh.

“He is incorrigible, Emily. Do not encourage him.”

“She’s not encouraging me,” Henry said, “but I believe she has brought me a gift.”

Aunt Millward’s attention shifted to the square of green wool in Emily’s hands. “Did you really, my dear? I did not realize you were fetching something for Henry. How very kind of you.”

Desperately wishing that this gift giving had not mushroomed into a somewhat public, overblown affair, Emily offered the lopsided neckwear to Henry. “It’s a scarf,” she said, thinking it probably needed an explanation. “Not a very well made one, I’m afraid. But Adam tells me that the one I made for him keeps his neck quite warm.”

“You knitted this for me?” There was no humor in Henry’s voice now. He’d unrolled it, and it hung all the way to the floor. “It must have taken you weeks.”