Chapter 1

“Penelope… we must go inside. Do try to look interested?” Mama asked, her voice imploring.

Penelope turned towards her, green eyes wide from where her gaze had been locked on the distant greenhouse. She tucked a strand of dark auburn hair back from where it had fallen across her brow.

“It is the finest collection of orchids outside London, Mama. I have to see it.” Her voice was distant and dreamy. She could think of little else. If she was truthful with herself—something she was not sure she wished to be at that moment—then it was the only thing that she wanted to think about. She had no desire to contemplate the house party at Thornewood Manor, nor the tense, uncomfortable world of socialising with the local noble families.

Just ahead, her mother turned, disapproval and disbelief etched on her face.

“Penelope! We are not here to stare at orchids! This is important. The Earl of Thornewood is well-connected and well-placed. We must do our utmost to make a good impression.”

Penelope looked away, unsure of what to say. At twenty years old, she supposed that perhaps she should be worried about the same things her mother worried about. After all, she was approaching her third Season, and her mother certainly seemed to feel some sense of urgency about crafting her a better reputation in society. Penelope had stopped caring overly much. She had to stop caring. If she thought about it—if she allowed herself to worry about it—the pain and humiliation would be too much for her. 

She had heard the whispers at parties—that she was dull and awkward, that she had more knowledge than sense. She could either ignore the rumours and enjoy her life managing her father’s botanical collection, or she could cause herself a great deal of pain and wasted time trying to change herself fundamentally—which would not work, anyway. She had sufficient sense to know that much.

She turned at the sound of footsteps on the path. Thomas, her brother, older than herself by two years, was just behind. He smiled at her, doing his best to be reassuring. 

“We had best go in. The faster we can get to our chambers, the faster we can get out again. And mayhap investigate the greenhouse.” He grinned, hazel eyes twinkling brightly.

Penelope inclined her head. “Perhaps.”

She tried to appear happy and composed, but calm and joy eluded her. The prospect of three weeks at Lord Thornewood’s estate, mingling with twenty other people—none of whom she knew—was tedious at best, and daunting at worst. Her palms sweated just thinking about it.

Her mother ascended the stairs leading to the manor door, and Penelope followed close behind. Up ahead, a tall man with blond hair streaked with white at the temples and a thin, lined face waited on the steps. Beside him stood a woman with brown hair that had streaks of grey in it, and a heart-shaped, pretty face. As Mama approached, the woman dipped into a graceful curtsey. Penelope hastily followed suit, lowering herself into a deep curtsey, her knees trembling as she straightened.

Society’s rules were senseless and bewildering. In her workroom, surrounded by the plants she and Father collected, she felt at home—reading, painting specimens, and following simple, predictable rules she understood.

“Good evening, Lady Albury. Delighted to have you with us.”

“Good evening,” Mama murmured lightly. “We are grateful to have received an invitation. May I introduce my daughter, Miss Penelope Ainsworth, and my son, Mr Thomas Ainsworth?” Mama smiled, a picture of poise with her greying honey-blonde hair half-hidden beneath a brown bonnet. Her dark red pelisse complemented her brown velvet gown in fashionable harmony. Somehow, she always managed to appear elegant and stylish without spending a fortune—which was fortunate, as they had no fortune to spend. 

“Good evening,” Penelope said softly. She made herself look at their hosts even though she felt shy. Lady Thornewood smiled at her.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she replied. Her brown eyes sparkled like she genuinely meant it, and Penelope could not help smiling back. She liked the older woman instantly. Lady Thornewood turned to welcome Thomas, and then the three of them entered the manor, escorted by the butler.

“I will show you to your chamber, my lady,” he murmured respectfully.

Mama followed him, while Penelope and Thomas trailed a little behind. Penelope glanced around, taking in the house. It was far grander than Albury Manor—which was perhaps older, but nowhere near as large. That was only to be expected; Papa was a baron, while Lord Thornewood was an earl with far greater landholdings and considerably more profitable estates. The stairs were faced in marble, and the upper hallway was lined with paintings and tall windows that bathed the corridor in the soft glow of twilight. 

Penelope’s stomach twisted with unease. In just a few hours, she would be in the ballroom—a place she very much wished to avoid.

“Ah! This is pleasant,” Mama exclaimed as the butler opened a door. Penelope stood back until Thomas cleared his throat, reminding her to go in.

Penelope stepped inside and glanced around. The room was a small parlour with a single window, a modest fireplace, and a table surrounded by four chairs. Three doors opened off the space. Mama gestured to one.

“None of the rooms face north, which is a blessing. I will take the west-facing room,” she said, walking toward it. “Our luggage will be delivered shortly.”

“I am happy with the east-facing room,” Penelope replied quickly. She preferred any excuse to avoid spending hours preparing for balls and parties.

Her mother sighed.

“Very well. The sooner we decide, the sooner our gowns can be unpacked. They will need at least half an hour to hang and lose the creases.”

Penelope turned to the room on her left, relieved to escape. She opened the door and went in, shutting it softly once she was inside. She looked around, blinking in the half-light. The room was illuminated with two oil-lamps and a few candles, the muted light augmented by the glow of a fire in the grate. It was pleasantly warm, and Penelope sat down on the bed, suddenly aware of how tired she was. She looked around, curious despite her exhaustion. 

The bed was draped with a butter-yellow silk coverlet, and the chair by the fire was upholstered in a silky fabric with pale yellow stripes. The curtains, from what she could see, were a rich golden hue, while the washstand and wardrobe—the only other furnishings—were crafted from dark-stained wood. It was a comfortable, well-appointed room.

Penelope resisted the urge to lie down and sleep. In an hour, the ball would begin, and her mother would expect her to be dressed and ready.  

“Miss Ainsworth?” A female voice called through the door. “Your luggage has been brought up. I will assist you to unpack and to dress for the evening’s event, if you wish?”

Penelope swallowed hard. “Yes, thank you. Please have the luggage brought in.”

A young woman in a dark uniform stepped in, standing aside for an extremely shy-looking youth with Penelope’s heavy box of clothing in his arms. He set it down with as little noise as possible, then shut the door behind him. Penelope watched as the young woman opened the box and began to unpack it. She was perhaps a decade older than Penelope herself, with brown curly hair under her spotless white cloth bonnet and a heart-shaped face. She smiled in a friendly manner.

“I am Miss Potts,” she introduced herself. “I’ll be your maid for the evening. What gown shall you wear, miss?”

Penelope looked away. “The blue gown,” she murmured. “The silk one.” She knew that it was a little too demure, with a higher neckline than was usual for an evening dress, and mid-length sleeves. Her mother did not approve of it, saying it was not of a fashionable style. Penelope knew that Mama would argue, but if she could not wear a dress in which she felt comfortable, she could not make herself attend the ball. 

“Very good, miss.” 

Penelope sat down at the dressing table, not discomforted by the familiar routine of having her hair styled. While she usually did it herself, drawing it back in a tight bun secured with a ribbon, whenever she had to attend any social gathering, her mother’s lady’s maid would style it for her. She glanced at herself in the looking glass as the woman began her work.

Her own face gazed back at her, its smooth oval shape pale in the lamplight. Her nose was a charming little snub, her large green eyes framed by pale lashes. Her lips, in her opinion, were too full—though she had to admit that thinner lips were hardly in fashion. At the thought, she pulled a wry face.

Her reflection was not something she often studied. She supposed she was not ugly; the evidence before her suggested nothing hideous. But appearances mattered so much to her mother that she preferred not to dwell on her own. Obsessing over it would change nothing.

They had just fastened the buttons of the blue gown when someone knocked on the door.

“Daughter? May I enter?”

Penelope sighed. It was her mother. “Yes, Mama,” she called back. 

Mama breezed in wearing a navy-blue dress. 

“You cannot wear that! And your hair! Such a plain style will not do. And we barely have time to correct it… the ball is going to begin at eight o’clock!” Her mother sounded distressed.

“Mama…” Penelope began. She was about to argue when Thomas appeared in the doorway.

“Beg your pardon,” he said, his face flushing scarlet with embarrassment. “But has anyone got any idea where I put my coat?”

Penelope smiled, relieved, as Mama turned to face him. He was dressed in a high-collared shirt and brown knee-breeches—respectable eveningwear, though lacking his tailcoat.

“You are impossible! Both of you,” Mama said tiredly, though she was grinning at Thomas. “You left it in the parlour. Now, come on. We have to go down. Punctuality is important.”

Penelope sighed, relieved by the reprieve. She fell into step beside Thomas as they went down the hallway towards the stairs.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what? Losing my coat is easy enough.” 

At the doorway to the ballroom, Penelope curtseyed and offered thanks to their hosts, then followed her mother down the stairs into the vast, candlelit space.

A wash of conversation met her, making her heart thump and sweat prickle at the back of her neck. Thomas nearly walked into her, and she stepped forward, crossing into the ballroom.

The room was crowded, and the chandeliers overhead blazed with bright light. She blinked, the harsh glare and overwhelming noise making her heart race and her breath catch. She glanced at Thomas. He stood at her side, his pale blond hair standing out even amid the sea of guests. Instinctively, Penelope edged closer, feeling safer with him nearby.

“Penelope! Thomas! Oh! How delightful!” a female voice gushed from behind them. Penelope turned around, her surprise turning to joy as her widening gaze took in her best friend, The Honourable Miss Lucy Harwell.

“Lucy!” she exclaimed in delight. Lucy beamed, her long, angular face lighting up with the grin. Her thick red hair was drawn back from her face, her brown eyes sparkling as she studied Penelope. Her countenance was delicate and fine-boned, her eyes dark and wide. She embraced Penelope, a faintly spicy perfume surrounding her as they hugged.

“Penelope. I am so pleased to see you. And Thomas.” Lucy dropped a slight curtsey, her gaze lifting to Thomas’s face as she rose. Thomas went a little pink under her keen gaze. Penelope frowned, a little flustered by the strange charge in the atmosphere as the two of them studied each other.

“Good evening, Miss Harwell,” Thomas murmured. 

“I did not know you would attend this gathering,” Penelope said to Lucy in surprise. Lucy shook her head, grinning. A thick lock of hair fell from the broad burgundy ribbon that drew it back from her face, and she tucked it absently behind one ear. 

“I was not certain if I should tell you, because I was not sure myself if I would attend. I came with my aunt, and I was not certain if she would feel well enough to attend the house party. And without my aunt, I would have no chaperone.” She looked down demurely.

“Yes, of course,” Penelope agreed at once. “I understand.”

“Well! Now I am here, and I am delighted to see you!” Lucy exclaimed again. “Come on! There are refreshments over there. I am sure you are as parched as I am.” She gestured to a table, around which a small group had gathered. Penelope hung back a little uncertainly, hesitant to join a large group. Thomas bowed.

“I would be happy to fetch refreshments for you,” he said, looking at Lucy more than at Penelope herself. “May I inquire what you would like…?”

“How gallant!” Lucy exclaimed. Thomas went red. 

Penelope looked away, feeling a touch unsettled. Thomas and Lucy had known each other for nearly as long as she and Lucy had been friends. She couldn’t quite fathom the strange new current of tension between them, and the confusion it stirred within her. 

Thomas was still waiting expectantly, and Penelope cleared her throat. “If you could fetch a lemonade, please, Thomas?” she asked softly.

“Of course, dear sister!” He beamed. “And for you, miss?” he asked Lucy.

“Lemonade too, please, Thomas. That is so dear of you.”

Thomas was both glowing and blushing as he crossed the room. Penelope turned to Lucy, intending to ask about this strange new development, but Lucy spoke first.

“Such a gathering! So many people from all sorts of London circles are here. Lord Thornewood must be a most interesting fellow.” 

Penelope followed Lucy’s gaze. She noticed a woman perhaps ten years older than herself, perhaps a little more; tall and slim, with black hair, dressed in a striking red silk gown. The woman’s face was a slender oval, her build slight, her posture graceful. She carried herself with elegant poise, and Penelope could easily imagine her at the forefront of fashion. Yet Lucy’s excitement seemed to stem from more than a simple interest in Lady Langley’s attire.

Lucy had an unfortunate tendency to read the scandal sheets—something Penelope would never do herself. However, her friend was nowhere close to an empty-headed socialite, and her interest was almost as measured as Penelope’s would be when studying a botanical journal. She seemed to be genuinely fascinated by society as a whole, the way Penelope was fascinated by distant lands and the plant life they supported. Penelope saw the tall, elegant older woman approach a broad-shouldered man with greying hair, offering him a charming smile.

“That is Lord Harlington,” Lucy explained swiftly. “He…”

Before she could explain any further, Thomas appeared, carrying two glasses of lemonade. He grinned at them both, bowing low. 

“Lemonade, ladies,” he declared.

“Thank you,” Penelope murmured. She looked over at Lord Harlington and Lady Langley, noticing that they were talking. Lady Langley seemed very tense, though she was laughing and joking in a way that was clearly meant to flatter the man she talked to.

“Good evening!” a loud voice interrupted her musing. She glanced up and was surprised to see two young men of around Thomas’s age standing beside him. 

The one who addressed her was very tall, with auburn hair and a strong scent of spirits clinging to him. His companion, equally tall, had black hair and a more serious expression, though the same telltale scent lingered about him.

Penelope glanced at Thomas, who smiled faintly, his embarrassment plainly visible.

“I did not know that my friends, Mr Hawkfield and Mr Tremayne, would be here this evening,” he said uncomfortably. “They are visiting from a nearby estate.”

“My uncle’s estate,” the first man with the auburn hair interrupted his introduction, smiling at Penelope. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, miss.” He bowed low.

“Pleased to meet you,” Penelope murmured, dropping a brief curtsey. She straightened up to find Thomas looking rather apologetic. 

“Fellows, perhaps we should continue our discussion elsewhere. I do not wish to bore my sister and her companion,” he said awkwardly to his friends. “They are at the Royal College with me,” he explained to Penelope. Penelope inclined her head, showing she understood. Thomas was a medical student at the Royal College of Physicians, and these two young men were evidently attending the same college, though they seemed somewhat less serious than her brother.

“We would be pleased to talk about something else,” Mr Hawkfield, the red-haired young man, told Penelope with a grin. “Thomas, it is frightfully boring to talk about the best way to tie a tourniquet—we are here to enjoy ourselves.”

Penelope saw Thomas’s evidently upset look and she cleared her throat, ready to spring to his defence. She knew how hurtful it was to be considered tedious simply because other people did not share the same interests. Before she could say anything, Mr Hawkfield gestured to the door.

“Perhaps we could all go there?” he suggested. His arm swung wildly as he turned to face Thomas, and Penelope gasped as it collided rather sharply with her shoulder.

“Miss! I…” Mr Hawkfield began, whirling round, clearly upset at having hurt her. He was trying to apologise, but a low growl interrupted him from just behind them.

“You could look where you swing your arms, young man. You could have injured this young lady.”

The young man in question whipped round. He looked as though he would argue, but the stranger who had growled the accusation adjusted his posture slightly, and whatever Mr Hawkfield had intended to say was replaced with a mumbled apology.

“Sorry. Sorry, miss.”

Thomas was looking from his university classmate to the intruder with an expression of absolute shock on his face. Before he could say anything, the man who had spoken so harshly continued. He ignored Thomas and the two young men, addressing Penelope as though she were the only person present.

“Miss, I apologise for interrupting. I trust you are unharmed?” 

His eyes met hers, and Penelope’s heart thumped. His tone was gruff, almost abrupt, but the intensity of his gaze was not disinterested. Her heart thudded fast. His sapphire-blue eyes seemed to stare right into her. Heat flooded her body, and she looked hastily down, the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch.

“Yes, I am unharmed. Thank you,” she murmured, dropping a brief curtsey.

“Good. Good.” 

The man was standing an arm’s length away; his brow creased with a frown. He was, Penelope thought, at least eight years her senior, perhaps a decade. He had thick black hair that had not been cropped short, as was fashionable, but which was long enough to have a slight wave to it, and it was going grey at the temples. His face was slim and narrow, with high cheekbones and lines carved beside his eyes as though he had spent a great deal of time staring into the sunlight. His form was tall and angular; slightly taller than Thomas and with broader shoulders. He wore a sombre dark tailcoat in a plain style that struck her as unfashionable, but the plain attire did nothing to hide what a striking man he was. He was muscled and lithe, his movements abrupt but graceful.

Penelope realised she was staring and looked down, cheeks flaring. When she looked up, the man was still looking at her. He glanced sideways as if he, too, had noticed that he was staring.

“Excuse me, miss,” he murmured softly. “Excuse me,” he added, inclining his head to Thomas and Lucy.

Mr Hawkfield and Mr Tremayne had taken advantage of the silence to slip away.

Penelope was not sure what to say, and before she could think, he had melted into the crowd again. She glanced after him, speechless. She turned back to Lucy and Thomas. Thomas was standing silently, his hazel eyes wide and a little strained.

“Well. Um, yes.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “What an interesting fellow.” He looked around the room. “Shall we take the air?” he suggested brightly, his attempt to change the subject and lighten the tension practically beaming forth from him like the gleam of a lighthouse.

“Yes. That would be pleasant,” Lucy murmured.

They all walked across the ballroom towards the back doors. Lucy turned to Penelope.

“That was, unless I truly am confused, Viscount Redfield.”

“Oh,” Penelope replied softly. She had no idea what that meant—she had never heard of the gentleman. All she knew was that his disconcerting eyes—so intense, so blue—had left her feeling confused, uneasy, and delighted all at once. The strange mix of emotions was so bewildering that, despite herself, she found she wished to cross paths with him again.

Chapter 2

James Ridley, Viscount Redfield, stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched the guests moving back and forth. The green eyes of the young lady he had just encountered lingered in his thoughts, haunting him. He narrowed his gaze, the combination of bright lights and ceaseless chatter wearing on his nerves. Loud noise troubled him greatly. After two years in Portugal on the front lines of the war, he found crowds and commotion deeply unsettling.

A man walked past quite close to him, and James tensed, then shot him a sharp glance—more irritated with himself for his reflexive reaction than with the man, who had done nothing beyond stepping innocently too near.

I should go outside, he thought, biting his lip. Indoors, amid the jostling, noisy throng, was not a wise place for him to remain. He could feel the familiar haze building in his mind—a warning sign of some violent reaction soon to follow.

He began walking toward the doors, then paused. The young lady with the green eyes had stepped out that way, and he was not at all certain he was ready to encounter her again just yet.

She must think I am a complete fool, he thought sadly.

He had noticed her a few minutes before the rude, uncouth young man had so callously bumped her with his arm. Her posture and the observant look in her eyes had marked her instantly as different. Having spent a great deal of time spying on enemy camps and watching their movements added to one’s talent at reading the gestures and postures of others. The young woman in the blue dress was tense, but not afraid. 

She did not like balls and parties—one could see it at once from the slow, halting way she walked as if she did not want to be in the room, and by the rigidity of her stance. Yet, she was not frightened, because she was gazing out across the hall, observing the other guests; not too shy to make eye contact. And she had talked happily with the red-haired young lady, who was clearly a friend. The tall blonde young man must be a brother, he thought—his protective manner and the similarity of their features suggested it. The two loutish individuals were, he presumed, friends of her brother.

I should not have sprung to her defence so impulsively, he thought bitterly. It had been rude, and he was certain it had left a poor impression. Strangely, that mattered to him. His instinct to step in had been reflexive, something he could not control. She had appeared so vulnerable, despite the quiet confidence in her gaze.

Heat rose in him at the memory of those green eyes. Her gaze had held his, and in that moment, a wave of warmth had swept through him, rendering him unable to look away.

He recalled her face—a softened oval, with a graceful forehead, smooth skin and a sweet snub of a nose. Her eyes were fringed with pale lashes, her hair thick and straight, its dark auburn hue striking against her pale complexion. She was beautiful, he thought, biting his lip in irritation with himself. It was unlike him to notice something like that.

No, he corrected himself. It was not unlike me to notice. It was unlike me to allow myself to. The last thing he wanted was any sort of romance. Love brought pain—he had learned that the hard way. Not only on the battlefield, where dear friends and comrades had fallen around him, but also at home. He swiftly pushed aside the haunting image of Redfield Hall in ashes, his parents lost as they tried to escape the burning manor. 

At least they were spared suffering, he reminded himself. He had repeated those words to himself countless times upon his return—it was the only thought that had kept him from losing his sanity. 

His parents had perished in a carriage accident, his father taking the reins and driving desperately through the storm to bring them to safety. They had struck a fallen tree across the road, and both had been lost instantly.

Yet the thought that never fully released him was that he should have been there. His friends, among them his cousin Edward, had tried time and again to assure him that he bore no blame—that he was thousands of miles away, engaged at the front lines of battle. And still, the thought persisted: if only he had been there, perhaps he could have made a difference.

“How are you enjoying the evening, old chap?” a voice spoke beside him, too loudly.

James whipped around, his temper flaring, only to find himself staring into the mild brown eyes of his cousin Edward, the Earl of Thornewood. His anger slowly ebbed, softened by his cousin’s unshakable calm.

“Not very,” James admitted sorrowfully. He wished that Edward had not invited him. He hated parties. He had no idea how he had been convinced to agree to attend. It was better than being shut away in the townhouse by himself, and that was all to recommend it. It was the least he could do, he supposed, to be polite. He just couldn’t quite manage it. 

Edward chuckled. “Well, mayhap a dance would cheer you up,” he suggested. The musicians had started playing, James noticed distantly, and he tensed. He had never been keen on dancing, even before the war and the terrible tragedy that had befallen Redfield. He paused, allowing himself a moment to gather a polite reply.

“I believe I would prefer some air,” he said. “It is rather warm in here.”

Edward nodded. “It is, old chap. I’ll order the windows opened. But, of course, the terrace is always open—I do like to keep things informal.” 

“As do I,” James agreed stiffly. He bowed, excusing himself. He winced inwardly as he crossed the room, feeling awkward and annoyed with himself for his abrupt departure. Edward was not only his cousin but also a long-standing friend and steady support; being discourteous toward him was never his intent. But at that moment, escaping the ballroom took precedence over maintaining proper manners.

He went outside to the terrace.

Stepping outside brought one into a new atmosphere instantly. The conversation around him was hushed, the breeze cooling him. The night air smelled of dew and wet grass, and he breathed it in, the scent like balm to his soul. The peace of the space soothed him— the only sound beside the murmur of conversation was the rustle of the leaves in a slight wind. He leaned back against a pillar and closed his eyes, enjoying the peace.

“But you are so amusing,” a female voice murmured.

James opened his eyes. He could see the woman who was talking, her pale skin gilded in the light from the ballroom window. She wore a dark-coloured dress, and she had thick dark brown—mayhap black—hair and a slim oval face. Her lips were thin, her brows dark, and her eyes big and black in the muted candlelight. She was very beautiful, and he knew that he had seen her before at other gatherings at his cousin’s home, prior to his travels with the army. 

Caroline, Lady Langley, he reminded himself.

The tall man standing beside her had his back to James, and though he could not immediately place him, he was certain they had crossed paths at one of Edward’s house parties. The man’s thick, greying blond hair and broad, powerful shoulders set him apart from the others, most of whom were neither as tall nor as solidly built. His manner was not relaxed and easy, despite the light laugh from Lady Langley. James narrowed his eyes, watching them. Something about the interaction drew his attention. 

Lady Langley is afraid of him, he thought instantly.

He kept his gaze on them, but Edward’s voice spoke from beside him, making him whip round again, startled.

“Fifteen minutes before we go inside to dinner, old chap. Just thought you’d wish to know.”

“Dash it,” James said crossly. “Please do not speak so suddenly.” 

He hated having to ask. He wished people might remember—or at least understand—the effects of two years spent in brutal war. But they never did, not even Edward, who had known him all his life. 

“Sorry, old chap.” Edward looked down, clearly understanding. “I should not have startled you.” 

“No harm was done.”

Edward did not say anything in reply, and James’s gaze moved to the people on the terrace. Lady Langley had gone inside; the tall, blonde man with her. He was not sorry that they had departed—their presence unsettled him. The sight of anyone seeming fearful in the company of another was something he found deeply troubling.

For just a moment, he could have sworn that the young lady in the blue dress was there, too, watching the guests. He had thought that he caught sight of her slight form clad in blue, standing by the door, but when he looked again, there was a young lady in a red gown there, and, if the blue-clad young lady had been there, she must have gone indoors quite swiftly.

“Dinner in fifteen minutes’ time, you say?” he murmured, remembering that he had sworn to himself to be polite to Edward.

“Yes. Not a long dinner. I decided three courses would suffice. Four, actually. Dear Adeline insisted.” He beamed. Adeline was Edward’s wife, whom Edward adored, and at the mention of her, James’s mood softened.

“I can endure four courses, if Adeline insists.” He grinned.

“She did.” Edward smiled fondly.

They stood silently for a while. 

“I should go in,” Edward murmured beside him. James blinked. He had almost forgotten that Edward was there. That was something Edward did well when he remembered—being present without intruding. 

“Adeline will be looking for you, I suppose.” James tried to smile. The closeness between Lord and Lady Thornewood had never brought him anything but joy, but, oddly, seeing them together hurt him suddenly in a way it never had before. Seeing their easy affection stirred a quiet ache within him—a longing for something similar.

Dash it, he told himself crossly. Is this because of those green eyes that I saw?

The young lady in the blue dress had somehow awakened those thoughts in him. It was unexpected, and he tried to dismiss it. After all, one glance ought not to have such an effect. And yet, somehow, it lingered.

Beside him, Edward spoke. “I promised her that I would go in fifteen minutes before dinnertime, so that I can help her organise things.”

“Of course. Of course, old chap,” James murmured.

Edward inclined his head in farewell and wandered off toward the large doorway. James remained where he was, hesitating to go inside. After ten minutes, the chill in the air prompted him to return indoors.

The heat of the ballroom struck him at once, the noise and bright lights pressing in, almost suffocating. A lively waltz was playing, and he sighed in relief as the music finally softened and the guests began filing toward the doors.

Though Edward never insisted on strict adherence to precedence, the guests nonetheless tended to follow custom, departing in order of rank—the highest titled, a duke if present, leading the way.

The tall, broad-shouldered man was approaching one of the doors, and James raised a brow in mild surprise. He must be at least an earl to be leaving so early in the order, and yet James couldn’t recall a single detail about him.

Lady Langley followed a short distance behind. Behind her stood another man, one with thick dark hair with a slightly reddish glint. He was around Lady Langley’s own height, perhaps an inch taller, and he wore a fashionable coat in a dark sombre blue. Lady Langley still looked tense as she talked to him, but differently tense. James was still musing on how it might be different when a realisation struck him. He was almost alone in the ballroom. He hurried to the door, walking behind the remaining guests.

The dining room was even noisier than the ballroom, and he went rigid as he entered the space. It was smaller, the press of bodies and conversation louder in the confined space. He went rigid as he stepped inside, fighting the urge to turn and leave.

He forced his focus toward the tables—two of them, each set for ten guests. He made his way to the one furthest from the door. Three seats remained—two near the top and one at the far end. Choosing one of the upper seats, he sat down quickly, his cheeks warming as several heads turned to glance at him. 

 James glanced to his left. And kept on staring. 

Beside him, her gaze demurely downcast, her auburn hair glowing softly in the light, was the young lady in the blue gown. 

She was looking at her plate, her gaze slightly unfocused so that he guessed at once that her thoughts were elsewhere. Her lovely reddish hair glinted in the candlelight, a beautiful contrast to the soft blue of her silk gown. He watched her, unable to look away. As a footman approached, asking if he should pour her wine, she looked up dreamily and then her gaze caught on James’s own. She stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Good evening,” he murmured. 

As soon as he had spoken, he winced inwardly, seeing her lips form a small moue of surprise. He was a fool. Perhaps she was scared—and he could imagine that she was, given how oddly he had behaved earlier.

He looked down at his plate. He expected that she would not return his greeting, but as he nodded to the footman to fill his glass, he heard something.

“Good evening.”

Her voice was low and melodious, and the sound of it seemed to reach somewhere deep within him. He swallowed, caught off guard by the unexpected effect.

“I…” He hesitated. Conversation was so difficult—after two years at war and another two spent avoiding every social engagement he could, he was badly out of practice. “I must apologise for my conduct earlier. It was remiss of me to behave as I did.”

He looked down, not wanting to see the amused scorn in her eyes. He had not always wanted to avoid people, following the war, but the few times that he had attended a ball and been met with sneers if he winced at loud music or if he suddenly went quiet had succeeded in putting him off completely.

The lady beside him did not reply, and he risked a glance upwards. She was looking at him in surprise. It was not scorn, and the novelty of it made him pause.

“I did not find it remiss,” she murmured. Her eyes were wide and round and surprised. “I wished to thank you. You helped me a great deal.”

James smiled, delight flooding him. He had not expected thanks. It was the last thing he had thought. 

“Thank you,” he said softly.

In the dazzling candlelight, her smile was a brief, delicate brightness—beautiful, yet fleeting. He longed to say something, anything, that might bring it back.

But nothing came to mind. He searched his thoughts, grasping for a topic. As the footmen served the soup course, he stared down at the table, willing some subject to present itself. The sight of a nearby flower arrangement offered a small reprieve.

“The garden at Thornewood Manor is very beautiful,” he began, seizing on the topic. “I hope that you have an opportunity to peruse it.”

Beside him, the green-eyed young lady beamed. “I love gardens,” she said shyly. “I love plants a great deal. Are you familiar with the greenhouse here at Thornewood?” Her voice was hushed, speaking with quiet respect for Edward’s collection.

“I am.” He could not help feeling a little proud as her eyes widened. “The earl is my cousin,” he added. “I have been fortunate in having seen the collection of plants here many times.”

“Oh!” The young lady’s eyes were sparkling. “I would love to see it!” she sighed, her expression rapturous. “Forgive me. Perhaps I should explain—I have a particular interest in plants,” she added, her voice prim. She looked tense, almost as if she expected to be mocked for this information.

“I am pleased to hear that somebody does,” James said with a smile. “Edward will be delighted. The rest of us find his enthusiasm for the subject rather mystifying.”

The young lady giggled. Beside her, her brother turned around, shooting her a concerned look. She straightened up, sitting primly, her grin turning into a more serious expression.

“Apologies,” she said quickly. “I only found your remark amusing because my own interest in plants is so great. It is difficult to imagine anyone not being interested in them.”

James grinned. “I quite understand. I suspect Edward feels much the same way when faced with my indifference.” He chuckled lightly. “May I ask what you find so very captivating about them?” 

She nodded. The soup had arrived, and she swallowed a mouthful, then dabbed her lips with the napkin. 

“Yes, of course. But how can I even begin to answer that question?” she asked, her eyes wide and dreamy again. “I find absolutely everything about plants rather fascinating. Though perhaps the most interesting thing—for me at the current time, at least—is the properties of medicinal plants. My brother and I investigate and catalogue them together. I paint,” she added swiftly.

“Oh?” James frowned. It seemed an odd comment, but she explained hastily.

“I paint pictures of plants. The ones we catalogue. We are trying to make an inventory of new tropical plants that may have healing properties. Thomas is studying medicine,” she added, before diving into an awkward silence as though afraid she had talked too much.

“Oh?” James repeated. He stared at her in awe. That was interesting. After having seen war injuries and infections, medicinal plants held a certain fascination for him as well. He had tried to learn a little from those he knew who had some knowledge, but he was always pleased to know more. “Have you discovered any interesting ones?” he asked her.

“Oh, yes!” The young lady sighed dreamily. “So many. What I find most interesting, if I may say so, is how plants that are actually poisonous may carry healing properties—taken in small doses, of course.” She leaned closer, clearly involved in the discussion. “There are many plants from the Americas that we have catalogued which, if misused, are powerful poisons, but when administered in the correct doses, may offer remarkable healing properties for certain conditions.”

“That is very interesting,” James admitted. She was leaning quite close to him; close enough for him to smell the floral scent of her perfume. It was sweet and light, and he wondered briefly what was in it. His cheeks flushed redly as he realised how close he must be to her, and he straightened up. “I thank you for telling me. I am remiss—I should introduce myself,” he added, looking to his left and wishing that Edward was sitting at their table. He might be prevailed upon to make the introductions. “I am James Ridley, Viscount Redfield.” He swallowed, cheeks heating. He had never felt comfortable introducing himself. 

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” the young lady said politely. “And I am likewise remiss.” She smiled, reaching to tuck a strand of reddish hair behind one ear. “I am Penelope Ainsworth, the daughter of Baron Albury.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ainsworth,” James said sincerely.

He sat silently, unsure of what to say, his gaze drifting across the table while he tried to think of something. He caught sight of an older woman who appeared to be watching him sternly, and he straightened up. She looked sufficiently like Miss Ainsworth’s brother for him to assume they were related, and he flushed, embarrassed lest she think his attention inappropriate.

It occurred to him to ask her something more about the plants that she and her brother had catalogued, but when he turned towards her, she was engaged in conversation with her brother. 

“…and tomorrow, I believe, a ride is planned. I do not know if you wish to attend it?” her brother was saying.

“I will consider it. I am not averse to riding,” Miss Ainsworth said, though she sounded sufficiently hesitant for him to think that she was possibly afraid of riding. 

He listened a little longer, but it seemed as though her brother was purposely keeping her attention elsewhere, and he sighed and turned away. Perhaps her family already considered him too strange, and they would not allow her to talk to him anymore.

He lifted his soup spoon from its place among the silver cutlery and began to eat, feeling oddly downcast and wishing that he might have another chance to talk to her again.

Chapter 3

Penelope slipped out of bed, heading to the windows where the gauzy curtains let in early morning light. She stared out into the garden.

It had rained the previous night, though she had barely heard the rain; too tired to stay awake more than a few seconds after she had got into bed. The raindrops sparkled in the muted sunshine, the clouds still low on the horizon. Penelope felt a tremor of excitement run through her. Though the clock on the mantel showed the eighth hour, it would be another hour at least before breakfast was served, and she was sure that most of the guests would not rise before ten o’clock, the ball having ended at around one o’clock the previous night.

“That gives me plenty of time,” she murmured. She planned to sneak into the greenhouse to study the plants. 

She rinsed her face and mouth in the bowl of water on the nightstand and went to the wardrobe, choosing a plain muslin day-dress in white patterned with little sprigs in black. It was a pretty gown, though not elaborate, well-suited for a morning that would be spent largely away from the public eye. 

Penelope was practised in dressing herself—while she had a lady’s maid, named Amy, at home, they did not have a large household staff, and Amy could not always be spared from other duties to assist. Besides, Penelope was an early riser, accustomed to getting ready on her own.

She unbuttoned the gown and stepped into it, then fastened it behind herself and sat down at the dressing table. A brief comb-through and careful rolling was all she needed to create her usual style. She tied a ribbon around the bun of hair she had created, then tucked some hairpins in discreetly, holding it in place. She blinked at her reflection, studying it with some interest. The gentlemen at the ball had looked at her in a particular way; one that made her feel unusually beautiful.

“I still look the same,” she told herself firmly. She had always regarded herself as plain, and imagining otherwise felt like too great a stretch. Though Lucy often insisted she had stunningly lovely eyes, Penelope dismissed such comments as friendly flattery, choosing instead to focus on her soft oval face and the shape of her mouth.

It was difficult to fathom what the handsome gentleman had found worth staring at.

“Was he handsome?” she asked herself aloud, surprised that she had even thought of him as attractive. She blushed furiously, admitting that he actually was. With those intense blue eyes, that slim, well-defined face and curling black hair, he was extremely handsome.

“Don’t be silly,” she told herself firmly. She was certainly not there to meet eligible young lords, no matter what her mother thought. Penelope already knew no one would find her particularly interesting. She was here to see the greenhouse and, if the earl permitted, to collect a few cuttings of interesting specimens she might attempt to cultivate at Albury Manor. That was all.

She fastened on some white ankle-length boots, suitable for outdoor wear, and walked briskly down the hallway and down to the garden.

Thomas was in the hallway. He turned around, startled, when he saw her.

“Sister! I did not expect you until another hour, at least.” He smiled at her a little distractedly. He had dark rings around his eyes, and his face was pale, as though he was exhausted.

“I woke early,” Penelope said softly. “Might we go down to the greenhouse now?” 

“Now?” Thomas’s gaze widened, but he nodded. “If you wish. Take a pelisse,” he added as they walked down the stairs to the front door.

Penelope nodded, pausing at the door to fasten on her white pelisse that she had been wearing when they arrived the previous day. She lifted her reticule—a white one with a strap of white ribbon—from the hook and hung it over her shoulder. Thomas donned a greatcoat, and they went outside into the garden.

It was cold, but not unpleasant, and they crossed the lawn in silence. The greenhouse loomed ahead of them, and Thomas opened the door, then stood back for Penelope. She drew a breath, heart soaring as she stepped in. She had imagined what it would be like to see one of the biggest private collections in England, and stepping into the greenhouse exceeded everything that she had imagined.

“Brother… it is remarkable,” she murmured.

Her gaze moved from the domed ceiling, made entirely of panels of glass, down the glass walls, and to the long rows of benches that lined the well-lit, warm and humid space. Plants of every description flourished there, their foliage ranging from soft, pale green to the deepest emerald. She studied them in wonder, her heart swelling with delight and admiration. The air was rich with the loamy scent of damp soil, mingled with the exotic sweetness of wild, unfamiliar blooms. The fragrance stirred her imagination—intoxicating, alluring.

“Oh, Thomas,” she murmured. “I barely even know where to start.”

“Start over there,” Thomas said, gesturing to a corner randomly. Penelope glared at him.

“You know what I mean,” she said a little crossly, but she was already grinning. That was typical of her brother, who was always practical—all the more so if she was overwhelmed by something. It was a trait she deeply valued since it balanced her own romantic nature.

Not that Thomas is not rather romantic himself, she thought with a smile. He was sensitive, sometimes imaginative and dreamy, and she could not fail to notice the new way he looked at Lucy. She smiled, confused and pleased by the new depth between the two of them.

She went over to the corner that Thomas had indicated, intending to begin her studies there. The corner in question was populated by small tropical fern-like plants. She gazed at them, mentally cataloguing species. The orchids occupied the two main benches that stretched from the front to the back of the space; a length of perhaps ten yards. It was vast. She itched to begin there; the beautiful blooms with their wild, alluring fragrance beckoning to her. All the same, she knew she had to be systematic, and so she stayed where she was, studying the ferns.

She reached into her reticule for a notebook and a pencil and began taking notes. 

A particular fern held her interest. She was sure that she had never seen anything like it—not that, she reminded herself smilingly, ferns were her particular interest. There were few enough species that she had seen with her own eyes, some known to her only from illustrations in books. She squinted at it, then decided to make her own sketch to assist her so that she could learn more about it later. The fern was labelled with its genus and species name, as were all the plants in the collection, and she wrote it down on the page and began to sketch. 

She frowned, biting her lip in concentration as she focused. Making a botanical sketch was something she had learned from her father, who had always shared her interest and supported it. He had been delighted to discover her skill in sketching, and he had taught her how to use it to record plant species, focusing on which details would be important to record. Sometimes she made paintings with watercolour to record the hues, but those were less important than the small structural differences when classifying a specimen.

The sound of a footfall interrupted her concentration, and she looked up, quickly taking stock of her surroundings. Thomas had crossed the room and now stood by the window, watching with quiet fascination as a groom led a horse across the grounds. She smiled to herself. His interest in plants was not quite as consuming as her own; for Thomas, it was their usefulness in preserving health that captured his attention.

She bent over the page, frowning in concentration. 

Then, a soft voice broke the stillness.

“Good morning, Miss Ainsworth.”

Startled, Penelope looked up sharply—and found herself staring in amazement. Standing just inside the doorway was Lord Redfield, the blue-eyed gentleman from the ball the evening before. Her cheeks heated instantly, her pulse quickening for reasons she could not entirely explain.

She opened her mouth to respond but caught herself staring, and hastily dropped her gaze.

“Good morning, my lord,” she managed at last, her voice quieter than she intended.

His blue eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer, his gaze clear and steady. Though his complexion was pale, he appeared well-rested, as composed as he had been the previous evening. His dark hair had been neatly brushed, and he wore a plain shirt with a high collar and a simply tied cravat. Without a tailcoat, dressed in long riding breeches that fit snugly over his muscled legs, he looked far less formal than the man she had first encountered.

Seeing him so informally attired felt oddly intimate. In the quiet, secluded atmosphere of the greenhouse, the effect was even more pronounced, making her heart thud in a way she would have struggled to explain.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Lord Redfield continued in a softer tone. “I thought that I might take the opportunity to revisit my cousin’s collection. Our discussion yesterday reminded me of it.”

“I was desperate to see it,” Penelope said quickly, beaming at him. “I decided to come down early, before the rest of the house party awakens. I trust that your cousin… that the earl won’t mind?” she blushed. She had not considered that perhaps the earl did not wish just any guest to wander about his private collection. She gazed at Lord Redfield worriedly.

Lord Redfield smiled. The image brought instant heat to her cheeks. He had a pleasant smile, friendly and open. The effect of it on herself—the sudden heat, the racing pulse—made no sense and made her feel uneasy. She looked briefly away, trying to regain her composure.

“I can assure you that my cousin would be delighted,” Lord Redfield said, making her shoulders unknot with sudden relief. “He is very proud of his collection, but he is also not averse to people investigating it. I trust we can rely on you not to steal anything?” he grinned, brow raised teasingly.

“Oh, yes, my lord,” she said swiftly. “Well… I do admit I am tempted. But as I have my own collection, I would not wish to deprive another of theirs.” She glanced at him, unsure if she should be that direct. 

He grinned. “You are an honest thief, then. A pleasant contradiction.”

“A would-be thief only, my lord,” Penelope reminded.

“An honest would-be thief.” He chuckled.

Penelope smiled, heat flooding through her. It was impossible to tear her gaze from his blue-eyed stare. His laugh was rich and warm and sent warmth spiralling all the way down to her toes. She swallowed hard, feeling confused and a little annoyed. Why was he in the greenhouse, disconcerting her and making it harder for her to explore the collection? She could not focus. Blushing hotly, she bent down over her book.

She heard footsteps and she looked up to see Lord Redfield heading to where she was sitting. She bit her lip, her heart thudding, and took refuge in annoyance. Why was he bothering her? Surely, he could see that she was busy? She looked down at her work, determined to pay him no attention. The effect he had on her unsettled her, and in response, she found herself irritated with him—or perhaps it only felt like irritation.

“You are very accomplished in drawing,” he murmured.

Penelope looked up, surprised by the choice of wording.

“I do not consider it an accomplishment. It is a necessary part of my work. But thank you,” she murmured, not wanting to offend him. He had complimented her, after all, and she was still blushing from the compliment.

She held his gaze, seeing him smile. 

“You are modest, I think. Though I admit my choice of words was poor. It is clearly not some affectation meant to impress society.” His grin widened at her soft chuckle.

“No, it is certainly not that.” She couldn’t help a faintly bitter smile. Her interest in plants had never been a quality likely to impress society.

“I have upset you,” Lord Redfield murmured.

“No. No, not at all,” she said quickly, eager to reassure him. “It is simply that my love of plants is not exactly viewed as suitable for a young lady.”

He grinned. “Good. The range of suitable accomplishments seems far too limited. We must broaden it, and you are something of a pioneer, it seems.”

Penelope giggled, delighted. “Perhaps,” she replied.

His gaze was serious as he held her own. “Truly, I believe that there is no such thing as an unsuitable pastime. If it is wholesome and interesting, then how can it be unsuitable?”

“True,” she murmured.

Across the room, Thomas seemed to notice the presence of the viscount and strode over to join them. 

“Good morning, my lord.” He inclined his head. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did,” Lord Redfield agreed mildly. He gazed at Thomas with detached interest, and Penelope cleared her throat.

“My lord? If I might have the honour of introducing my brother?” she said hastily. “I present Mr Thomas Ainsworth. Thomas, may I introduce James Ridley, Viscount Redfield?” She swallowed hard. She was not accustomed to making introductions in society.

“I am delighted to meet you,” Thomas murmured, inclining his head.

“Delighted, Mr Ainsworth,” the viscount said lightly.

Penelope looked from one of them to the other, sensing some subtle tension, as if Thomas felt protective of her. She focused on the page in front of her, aware that she was making his duty as chaperone more difficult. 

“I believe the earl is a relation of yours?” Thomas asked the viscount interestedly.

“Yes. A cousin,” Lord Redfield agreed firmly. 

“He has a terrific collection here,” Thomas murmured.

“Thank you. I would inform him, but I do not wish to be shown around it for a fourth time,” Lord Redfield teased.

Penelope giggled. Thomas was laughing and, in that moment, the tension evaporated. Penelope smiled at her brother, happy to see him being himself.

“I am certain he is very proud of it,” Thomas assured him.

“I would say his pride is exceeded by his enthusiasm,” the earl’s cousin replied warmly.

They all laughed.

Penelope watched her brother talking to Lord Redfield in such an easy, direct way, smiling warmly. Thomas tended to remain aloof at gatherings, too reluctant to talk about his interests because so many people found them uninteresting. It was a pleasure to see him so quickly at ease with someone.

She looked down at her work, then looked up as someone appeared in the doorway. She tensed as she recognised the livery of Thornewood. The man had clearly been sent to summon them.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered uncomfortably from the doorway. “But breakfast has begun to be served upstairs, if you would like to attend…?”

Penelope blinked in surprise. Had they truly spent an hour in the greenhouse? She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Thomas inclined his head.

“A grand notion. I am famished! My stomach is turning itself inside out, and were it not attached on either end, it would be firmly tied up by now.” He chuckled.

Lord Redfield laughed too, and Penelope was smiling as she walked with them to the door of the greenhouse and into the garden. She glanced sideways at Lord Redfield, surprised and confused by his easy, friendly presence and its effect, and surprised by how pleased she was by his intrusion and the fact that he was accompanying them. Breakfast with the house party would certainly be less tedious with him and Thomas to talk with.