Page 210 of Dukes for Dessert

It had taken Gabriel the better part of the morning to locate a pasteboard. Finally, with the child’s toy in hand, he was ready to face Margaret.

He didn’t know why he needed to relive this moment, but somehow, it seemed to promise closure—whatever that meant, he didn’t know, but, once upon a time, he’d had such high hopes for the two of them.

It took some searching, but he found Maggie in the garden, kneeling over a an exceptionally unsightly rose bush, her back to him. The sight of her on her knees, with the pruning shears in hand, took him slightly aback.

So, too, did the appearance of the rose garden. Gad, but it wasn’t at all the way he remembered it, and his brow furrowed as he surveyed the garden in which he and Margaret had spent so many hours as children.

It was the most pitiful excuse for a rose arbor that Gabriel had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon in all his life. In his father’s day, the bushes had been lush and vivid, every color of flower peeping out from behind leaves so green they hurt one’s eyes. How many times had he forgotten the thorns behind their shining facades and leapt into the midst of them to hide from Maggie, only to leap back out, howling in pain?

The memory alone made him grin, for then as now, he suspected Margaret had more to do with his embarrassing lack of judgement than did those bloody bushes. She’d always had a way of turning his thoughts inside out.

Armed with props, and with a singleness of purpose, he made his way toward his wife, sidestepping overgrown, leafless, thorn-filled vines that sprawled across his path like writhing garden snakes. He sensed she was close to a revelation last night, and, for some reason she’d tucked her memories away so deep, ignoring the truth that was staring her straight in the face. But Gabriel couldn’t play this game any longer, and it surprised him that he ever thought he could.

The truth would set them free.

* * *

For as long as Margaret could recall, the rose garden had been a haven. As a child, any time she’d felt herself a bit unhinged, this was the place she’d come.

With over fifty species of roses in bloom, it was the loveliest early summer. The most delightful fragrances filled the air, soothing her troubled soul.

Today, she surveyed the garden with a critical eye.

Of course, it wasn’t what it was meant to be, but she had tended it the best she knew how to. She could get the roses to bloom, but she couldn’t keep leaves on the stems. Just now, she glowered down at the bush she was pruning. Drat thing. No matter that she gave it so much time and love, it didn’t seem to wish to thrive. Not merely for the sake of the garden, she wished George were here, and if he were, what would she say?

Your son is a fool. What in heaven could he have been thinking?

Alas, no one had been able to keep these roses flourishing the way Gabriel’s father had. He was a master with them, and he could coax them into blooming even against all odds.

Her shoulders slumped as she inspected the naked, thorny limbs surrounding her, trying to remember them when they’d worn more verdant attire. They’d never been the same since George abandoned them. It was, she thought, as though they were grieving, as well.

After George retired, they’d gone through a procession of gardeners, and not one of them had resurrected her fine roses. Finally, about four years ago—thinking, how hard could it be?—Margaret had taken them into hand, after dismissing the last gardener her father had hired.

She wondered if George had gotten her letter—wondered, too, if he would consider returning if she were to beg. After all, Gabriel was back now as well…

“Margaret?”

Startled from her musings, Margaret turned to see her husband standing behind her, but she gasped in surprise at the sight of him.

At least she thought it was her husband.

Her brows drew together in dismay. The man standing before her didn’t look like the man she remembered from last night. Were it not for those singular blue eyes, she might not have recognized him. He had mud streaked all over his face—as though he’d fallen flat on his face or washed his cheeks in a puddle. And those trousers! They were shredded at the knees and too short besides. She looked closely and saw that the hems had been rent and she wrinkled her nose, lifting her gaze to his shirt to find the sleeves too short as well. Grass and dirt stains adorned the material, and those gentle hands that had roamed her body so wickedly were now caked with dirt.

“Gracious,” she said in horror over his appearance. “What happened to you?” She thought he must surely have been assaulted by brigands. “Gabriel?”

He grinned, looking so like the boy she recalled.

“You look ghastly!”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Then I should make a perfect addition to this garden,” he told her. “Tis a nasty piece of work.” He drew his muddy brows together into a frown, and it was all Margaret could do not to giggle as muddy flakes sprinkled from the pair. “What happened here?”

Margaret tipped her chin in indignation. “Tis a fabulous garden, I’ll have you know. I’ve been tending it myself.”

“You?” The single word was filled with as much incredulity as awe.

“Yes, of course. Why should that surprise you?”

* * *