She wore a white lawn shirt and dark riding breeches.

Breeches? What the hell sort of woman wore breeches? His gaze traveled down the length of her, taking in every curve and hollow accentuated by the skintight pants. In all his experience he could not recall a more erotic, scandalous sight than Hayley encased in breeches. The way those pants clung to her, she might as well have been naked.

Jesus! Why couldn't this woman follow simple rules of fashion? In fact, it seemed her entire household operated without benefit of rules of any kind, a fact that was incredibly glaring to him-a man whose entire existence was based on the dictates of Society. She threw him off balance and he didn't like it.

A dimpling grin curved her lips. "I didn't realize 'shall we walk together' was a query of such dire, serious proportions."

A frown bunched his brows. The damn woman was teasing him again, in that light, breezy way that made his heart speed up. As if it weren't already thumping along due to her damn breeches.

His expression must have mirrored his thoughts for she followed his gaze and looked down at herself. And gasped.

"Good heavens! My breeches! I'd forgotten I was wearing them." She hugged her arms around her slim waist and took two steps backward, her expression stricken. "Oh my. Please excuse my attire. I sometimes wear these when I walk at night so as not to trip on my skirts. It never occurred to me that I would run into anyone this late. I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't offended you."

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Damn it, if only he were offended. Instead he was aroused. And fascinated. "I'm not offended. Just surprised."

"I imagine you are. Please forgive me." She retreated another step. "If you'll excuse me…"

"You no longer wish to walk?"

His question clearly surprised her. "Do you?"

He shrugged with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. "I can't see the harm in taking a stroll together." He was, after all, perfectly capable of controlling himself for the duration of a stroll. Without a doubt. Most likely.

He extended his elbow and ignored the warning bells clanging in his brain. After a moment's hesitation, she took his arm and slowly led him down a narrow path.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, glancing over at him.

Unsettled. Frustrated. Amused as hell. "Fine."

"No more throbbing pain?"

Stephen looked skyward. Hell yes, he had throbbing pain, thanks to her. But not the sort she meant. "No."

"I am glad to hear it."

"As am I." If only it were true.

They strolled along in silence for several minutes until she stopped beside a grouping of flowers. Slipping her hand from his elbow, she bent and touched a delicate bloom.

Looking up at him from her crouched position, she asked, "Do you like flowers, Mr. Barrettson?"

Flowers? Other than something he sent to his various mistresses on occasion, Stephen never thought about them. "I suppose."

She picked the flower and stood, holding the yellow and purple bloom up to the moonlight. "Do you know what sort of flower this is?"

He glanced at it. "A rose?"

Laughing, she tucked the bloom through the top buttonhole of her linen shirt. "It is a pansy."

"I'm afraid all flowers are roses to me."

"Pansies were my mother's favorite flowers. She planted them every year." Slipping her hand back through his arm, she led him farther down the path. "Mama's name was Chloe, which means 'blooming.' It suited her perfectly. She loved flowers, and this garden thrived under her hands. She knew what each and every flower stood for."

"Each flower stands for something?" he asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes. Just as people's names have meanings, each different flower symbolizes a feeling or emotion. The language of flowers dates back hundreds of years, gathering contributions from mythology, religion, medicine, and from the emblematic use of flowers in heraldry during the sixteenth century."

She picked a stem with small white bell-shaped flowers clinging to it. Extending the bloom to him, she said, "Smell this."

Stephen gingerly pinched the stem between his fingers and brought it to his nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance.

"Do you know what flower that is?" she asked, watching him.

Stephen inhaled again. "Small roses?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Lily of the valley. It symbolizes 'purity.'"

They continued walking slowly down the path. Hayley pointed out at least a dozen different flowers along the way, telling Stephen their various meanings. It amazed him that she was able to tell one from the other, for in spite of the full moonlight, it was still quite dark. He watched her bouncing hand indicate the fragrant blooms, and tried to remember what they all meant, but he was soon hopelessly confused. It was damned near impossible to concentrate on her words when she was smiling at him, her scent surrounding him, and as hard as he tried, he could neither forget nor ignore those damn breeches. Her hip bumped his and his own breeches suddenly felt too tight.

After several moments, they approached a large grouping of roses. "Now these are roses," he said, proud of himself, and relieved to think of something besides her.

"Correct," she said, smiling. "They're my personal favorite."

"What do they mean?" he asked, curious in spite of himself. If someone had told him a week ago that he'd be wandering through a garden in the middle of the night discussing flowers with a virginal country spinster who somehow inspired a wealth of lustful urges, he would have laughed himself into a seizure. Yet here he was. And most amazing of all, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Roses have many meanings, depending on their color and how in bloom the buds are."

Reaching out, she snapped a yellow bud from a tall bush. She stripped its small stem of thorns, inhaled its sweet fragrance, and handed it to him.

"For you," she said with a smile.

"Me?" he asked in surprise, accepting the stem. To the best of his memory, no one had ever given him a flower before. He lowered his head to the bloom and inhaled. The bright yellow flower smelled exactly like Hayley. "What does a yellow rose stand for?"

"Friendship."

Stephen raised his head and their gazes locked. "Friendship?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes. We're friends, are we not?"

He stared at her for several long seconds, transfixed by the sight of her. Shiny waves of chestnut hair rippled over her shoulders, falling down her back in a silken mass. Several tendrils escaped the simple ribbon holding the curls away from the loveliest face he had ever seen. Her expressive eyes gazed at him in an open, warm, and artless manner. When was the last time a woman had looked at him in such a way? Never. No one had ever looked at the Marquess of Glenfield like that.

The women he knew, the shallow females of the ton, looked at him with calculated interest, plotting ways to lure him into buying expensive baubles, scheming to become his marchioness, and offering him their charms in the bedchamber in exchange. No woman had ever offered him friendship.

He cleared his throat. "Considering the fact that you saved my life, and have kindly opened your home to me during my recuperation, I would certainly have to agree that you are my friend," he finally said. "I hope someday I may repay you for all your kindness."

"Oh, that's not in the least bit necessary. I greatly enjoy your company. It's so nice to have another adult to talk to." She cast him a grinning sidelong glance. "Besides, I've grown quite attached to Pericles. You realize your horse is the real reason we allowed you to stay."

"Then I shall have to thank him," he responded with a smile.

They stood for a moment, simply looking at each other, and Stephen found himself entranced. With the moonlight gleaming against her hair, highlighting her creamy skin, it almost appeared as if a halo surrounded her. She looked like an aqua-eyed angel dressed in a linen shirt and breeches.

She reached out and touched his sleeve. "Are you all right, Mr. Barrettson? You look disturbed."

Stephen glanced down, his gaze riveted on her hand resting against his forearm. A warm shiver rippled through him, setting his blood to humming. Why did this woman's slightest touch have such a disturbing, profound effect on his senses?

"Mr. Barrettson?"

The concerned note in her voice yanked Stephen out of his reverie. He raised his eyes, all but mesmerized by the young woman in front of him. Her brow was furrowed in obvious concern for his well-being.

"I'm fine, Miss Albright," he replied softly, his gaze wandering slowly downward until it settled on the flower tucked in her buttonhole. Reaching out, he touched a petal with one finger. "What flower did you say this was?"

"A pansy."

"And what do pansies stand for?"

"They mean 'you occupy my thoughts.'"

"'You occupy my thoughts…'" he repeated. Seemingly of their own volition, his feet moved, drawing him a step closer to her, and then another, until only several inches separated them. He'd half expected her to retreat, but she didn't move; only stared at him with wide eyes.

The tips of her breasts brushed his shirt every time she inhaled. An image of her crushed against his length flashed through his mind, and his entire body quickened in response. He needed to step away from her. Immediately.

Instead, he gently brushed a wayward curl from her cheek and discovered that his fingers were not quite steady. "You're occupying my thoughts right now," he said, his voice coming out in a husky rasp.

"I… I am?"

"Yes." Stephen's gaze probed hers. He wanted very much to kiss her, but to his utter amazement he was experiencing an unprecedented battle with his conscience, an inner voice he'd thought long dead.