When they reached the bookshop, Rosalind asked, “Would you like to come up for tea? We can continue singing Maud’s praises over a cuppa.” She grinned. “That lovely purple tinge on Thompson’s face is etched in my memory.”

“And mine. The old goat is unbalanced. But it’s getting late,” Sofia noted. “So thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll go home.” She had her instructions. “I might bring over my new hollyhock painting tomorrow and hang it in the gallery, though.”

“I’ll make room for it in the morning. Speaking of flowers”-Rosalind sniffed the air-“do you smell roses? ”

“No,” Sofia lied. “You’re probably smelling my perfume.”

“Ah, no doubt,” Rosalind murmured.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sofia hastily remarked, not wishing to be caught in the middle of Fitz’s enterprise. “It won’t be too early; Lyla’s coming over with my new canvas.” After a quick wave, she hurried away.

But the moment Rosalind entered her apartment, the intense scent of roses overwhelmed her. Turning on the light, she took off her straw bonnet and scanned the small parlor. Nothing was amiss. Discarding her hat, she moved through the room, walked into her bedroom, and followed her nose to the open windows, where the sweet fragrance was pungent in the air.

The moon was partially obscured by clouds or the haze that hung over the city in the summer. But even through the dimness and shadow, the contours and shapes in her small yard and garden looked different. As was the heady scent of roses and the faint outlines of a fountain that hadn’t been there when she left! Along with the sound of running water!

Her heart racing, she dashed back through her apartment, took the stairs at a run, and throwing the back door open, stood transfixed on the threshold as her backyard was suddenly flooded with light. Hundreds of fairy lights illuminated the garden, the twinkling bulbs twined through her small hawthorn tree, strung in graceful loops on the buildings rimming the garden, corded through low boxwood borders, offering up a dazzling spectacle of winding paths, symmetrical parterres, and roses by the score.

“Do you like it? ”

The deep voice came out of the shadows and a moment later, Fitz emerged from the gloom, his twill trousers and linen shirt stained and smudged with dirt, the splendor of his face and form undiminished by the grime, his smile breathtaking.

“It’s very beautiful.” Like you, she thought, when she shouldn’t think anything of the kind. When she should be embracing independent womanhood. “You shouldn’t have done it, though.” Nor should she allow herself to be captivated by him or his grand gesture.

“I wanted to make amends. And I knew you didn’t like jewelry.” He approached her slowly, uncertain of his reception. Her reply had been decidedly neutral as was her expression-not a scintilla of a smile graced her face.

“Was Sofia in on your plan?” Snippets of conversation from the evening suddenly made sense.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said to her terse query. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m surprised.”

He drew in a small breath, unable to decipher her mood, the pitch of her tone carefully modulated, minutely cool. “If you don’t like it, I’ll change it.”

“Because you can do anything you want.”

“No, because I want to please you.”

“For how long? ” Part defiant, part sardonic; she would not be so easily charmed.

“For as long as you wish.” Notwithstanding his contemplative afternoon at Mertenside, he’d not known until that very moment he aspired to the concept of forever. “I mean it.”

“Until you don’t mean it.” She softly sighed. “You just want what you want because you can’t have it. Before long-I’ll give you a week-you’ll be appalled at your rash behavior.”

He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t know how to logically or reasonably explain his feelings. He only knew he was vastly content and happy now that she was here with him. “Come, look at the garden,” he invited, wanting to avoid a contentious discussion. He held out his hand. “I’ve learned all the flower names today. Christ, sorry”-he quickly wiped the dirt off his hands on his pant’s legs and offered his hand again.

She couldn’t help but smile, the image of London’s most prodigal rake memorizing flower names and mucking in the dirt an unlikely picture. But vastly endearing. “Then you know more than I do,” she replied in a scrupulously bland tone, banishing the word endearing from her thoughts. But the moment she placed her hand in his and his fingers gently closed on hers, she was warmed heart and soul.

“At the risk of offending you,” he said with a small smile, drawing her down the flagstone path, “I could tell you didn’t know much about flowers from the state of your garden. You’ll find it much improved.”

“I see that, and apparently,” she noted, indicating his besmirched clothes with a sweep of her hand, “you did more than supervise.”

In the past that would have been his opening to suggest a shared bath, but he was walking on eggshells tonight. “Actually, I learned quite a lot today,” he politely said, carefully avoiding anything remotely suggestive of sex. “Did you know each rose plant needs a banana peel under it for fertilizer? ”

“I doubt very many people know that,” Rosalind replied with utter sincerity.

“Well, now we both do. Let’s sit here.” He pointed to a red Chinoiserie garden bench. “You can see most of the garden from this spot and I’ll point out the important roses.” While she sat and he lounged in his usual way, his long legs stretched out before him, his dusty boots planted on the flagstone, his thigh lightly touching hers, an unwanted shiver raced up her spine.

Gratified to feel her small tremor but not about to jeopardize the occasion by pressing his advantage, Fitz said with well-mannered grace, “If you’re interested, I learned in the course of the day and evening that there are what are termed important roses. And it’s not just to do with rarity or expense. It has to do with duration of flowering, size of the blooms, the intensity of fragrance, the reputation of the hybridizer-Pernet-Ducher in Lyon is the best. That white over there is one of his called Aimйe Vibert, and that pink is a bourbon rose called Souvenir de la Malmaison, and the lilac-colored cabbage rose is called Rose de la Reine.” He grinned. “Should I go on? ”

“You amaze me. I doubt your reputation will survive such humble pursuits,” she drolly said, having tamped down her treacherous desires.

“I care nothing for my reputation.” She looked like a schoolgirl in her white blouse and green-striped skirt. An enchantress despite her lack of finery.

“But then you never did, I suppose.”

“If it bothers you, I’ll begin to care,” he quietly said.

“You needn’t concern yourself with what I wish.”

“On the contrary, nothing else matters.”

“Fitz, please.” He was too close, too beautiful, too destructive to her peace of mind.

He liked that she’d spoken his name so softly; he liked the uncertainty in her tone. He particularly liked that he was with her again no matter the circumstances. This afternoon at Mertenside, he’d discovered that at least. “I’m only happy when I’m with you,” he said, husky and low. “I don’t know why; I know less why it matters, but it does. I’m sorry in every possible way for what happened to you while I was in Scotland. I want you to take me back.” Shocking words from a man who had never asked anything of a woman.

“I can’t take you back because I never had you.”

“You did.” His long lashes drifted fractionally lower. “I didn’t know it, but you did.”

“If I were so daft and reckless as to agree, I’d only be hurt in the end. You would vanish one day. You know you would.”

“I don’t think so.”

“See.” She nodded. “I rest my case.”

“I wouldn’t leave. Is that better? ”

“You’re just being accommodating now; you do that well.” She smiled wryly. “It’s your speciality, darling.”

The word darling seared itself into his brain, gave him hope. Not that he’d ever had to deal with repudiation before, and for that reason perhaps he chose to be audacious. Or maybe love made him say what he’d been loath to say before. “I’d be more than willing to accommodate you for the next fifty years or more if you’d let me,” he said, sliding upright on the bench and holding her gaze. “Marry me. I’ll make you happy, my word on it.”

“Are you drunk? ” His proposal was ludicrous.

He shook his head. “I haven’t had a drink since yesterday, and that’s a record. We spoiled, self-indulgent debauchees are rarely sober.” He smiled. “You called me that the first time we met.”

She remembered. “And now you’ve reformed.”

“I believe I have.” He grinned. “I aspire to please your every desire. Above all, I want to make you happy.” He shrugged faintly. “It’s a novel sensation, such high-minded selflessness, but there it is… my irresistible compulsion.”

“Do self-indulgent debauchees attach any significance to love? Not sex, Fitz, love.” She was insane, of course, to ask for so much when he’d promised her marriage. Any other woman would have replied with an unhesitating yes. But after a marriage that had become a casualty of disappointed hopes, she was no longer naive.

“Do you love me? ” he countered.

She looked away. Too many women had loved him, she jealously thought.

Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he gently turned her head back. “Tell me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She would not bestow her heart on a profligate’s whim. How could she even contemplate such lunacy?

“I can’t live without you,” he said, letting his hand drop. “I think of you day and night. I’d keep you in my pocket if I could. And if that’s not love, it’s something close. You’re the world to me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly restive under the unprecedented circumstances. “And I don’t say that lightly,” he admitted. “You’ve seriously disrupted my life.”