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“ R omeo and Juliet isn’t a romance , Miss Juliet. It’s a tragedy .”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Cross, but the entire play is about love and lovers, and the grief that befalls those who attempt to stand in the way of true love.” Juliet Templeton grinned, enjoying every moment of Cross’s irritation. “What could be more romantic than that?”

Johnathan cast a sidelong glance at Emmeline, as he now thought of her. She was seated on the carriage bench beside him, her bemused gaze focused on her sister’s animated face as Juliet teased Cross.

She seemed hardly aware Johnathan was there, while he, meanwhile, was painfully aware of her. He was going mad, the warmth of her body so close beside his driving him to distraction.

It had been five days. Five days, a half-dozen calls, and two visits to private rose gardens near London, and neither of the Templeton sisters had given themselves away. He had no definitive proof that either Emmeline or Juliet was the Lady in Lavender.

But his heart, the same heart that had been turned inside out, told him the lady who’d walked with him in Lady Fosberry’s garden yesterday, who’d spoken with such enthusiasm about her botanical work, who touched the roses with care and reverence must be the same lady who’d kissed him with such sweet passion.

He fingered the violet ribbon tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He’d carried it with him everywhere since that night in Lady Fosberry’s library, but now with Emmeline here, tucked into the carriage beside him, he realized the ribbon didn’t matter.

The ribbon, that bewitching perfume, the color of a ball gown—none of it mattered. They were distractions, meaningless in the face of what he felt merely by looking at her.

She was the lady he’d kissed that night.

He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

Not because she’d confessed it, or because he’d learned anything new about the Lady in Lavender, but because his heart had only ever leapt from his chest for one lady; his knees had only ever weakened over one kiss.

He’d only ever felt the same desire and tenderness he did for Emmeline Templeton one time before: five nights ago, when he’d kissed a lady with a scent that belonged to her alone, the magical result of a subtle, elusive rose, mingled with the unique fragrance of her skin.

“ Hopeless love, Miss Templeton.” Cross rapped his walking stick on the floor of the carriage, recalling Johnathan’s wandering attention. “A star-crossed love which leads to unspeakable tragedy. I’d as soon call Othello a romance as I would Romeo and Juliet .”

“Don’t be absurd, Lord Cross. Othello isn’t about love at all, but jealousy. Why, I can’t think of anything less romantic than a jealous husband.”

“My dear Juliet.” Lady Fosberry looked up from settling her skirts. “A lady does not speak of jealous husbands to a gentleman.”

“Next you’ll try and persuade me Macbeth isn’t a tragedy, despite the blood, murder, and death on every page.” Cross’s fingers twitched on the head of his walking stick as he gazed at Juliet Templeton in annoyance and grudging admiration.

“No, indeed.” Juliet tossed her head. “It’s certainly a tragedy, but not because of the blood or murders. It’s a domestic tragedy, my lord, about man’s impotence.”

“ Juliet! ” Lady Fosberry gasped. “My dear, a lady certainly does not speak about anything having to do with a gentleman’s potency?—”

“ Impotency , my lady?—”

“Impotence!” Cross looked as if he were torn between horror and laughter, neither of which seemed as if it would do much to quell Juliet’s high spirits. “Your contention, Miss Juliet, is that the tragedy arises not from Lady Macbeth’s consuming ambition, but from Macbeth’s impotence?”

“Oh, dear,” Lady Fosberry muttered. “Perhaps I should have taken my own carriage.”

“Of course, impotence.” Juliet spoke as if she couldn’t imagine what the fuss was about, given how perfectly obvious it was. “Well, that and the slow disintegration of a marriage as a metaphor for the disintegration of morality into lawlessness and evil.”

Cross gaped at her as if she were some rare, exotic creature he’d never encountered before. “I fear Shakespeare would disagree with?—”

“What can you tell us about Lady Hammond’s roses, my lord?” Lady Fosberry turned to Johnathan with a bright smile. “Is her garden as impressive as it’s said to be?”

“I believe so, yes, but I’m no judge of gardens. Her collection of damask roses is considered one of the finest in England, but I’ll await Miss Templeton’s opinion on that.”

Johnathan glanced down at Emmeline. She’d been worrying her lower lip ever since Cross and Juliet began bickering, turning it a plump, distracting red.

He smothered a groan, and shifted slightly away from the slender curve of her thigh, which was pressed so snugly against his in the close confines of the carriage a shift in any direction on her part would make this drive a good deal more…potent.

“What a lovely day for a drive!” Juliet Templeton’s lips curved in a winning smile. “Don’t you agree, Lord Cross? Or are sunny days also a harbinger of tragedy?”

Cross merely grunted in reply, but he never took his eyes off Juliet for the remainder of the drive.

When they arrived at Hammond Park and descended from the chaise, she took his arm with a playful smile.

“Come, Lord Cross. Surely, you won’t waste such a day as this?

I’ve been longing to see Lady Hammond’s climbing roses. ”

Cross’s only reply was another grunt, but he allowed Juliet to lead him down one of the walkways.

Lady Fosberry found a comfortable bench and focused her attention on keeping her skirts free of dust, while Johnathan drew Emmeline’s hand through his arm and took her in the other direction, into a quiet corner of the grounds where the damask roses took pride of place.

They walked along in silence for a while, the only sound the birds and the crunch of their feet on the graveled pathway, until Emmeline paused to run her fingers over the ruffled edges of the petals of a bold, scarlet rose.

“Portland roses.” She turned to him with a smile. “The Duchess of Portland brought this species back from the Continent. She was a botanist, and an avid collector. These are repeat-flowering roses, meaning they don’t just bloom once, but multiple times before the frost.”

“Does it have a scent?” Johnathan asked, drawing closer, hypnotized by the motion of her slender fingers caressing the delicate bloom.

“Oh, yes. Damask roses are wonderfully fragrant.” Emmeline leaned down and brought her nose close to the tight cluster of roses.

Johnathan drew nearer still, until he was right beside her, his gaze on her bent head. “How would you describe this rose’s scent?”

“Sweet, and feminine, and…flowery, though I suppose one could say the same of any flower.” She let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “This one has a hint of lemon to it.”

“Does it?” Johnathan leaned down, so their cheeks were mere inches apart, and inhaled. “Do you detect a touch of orange?”

Emmeline colored at his nearness, but she didn’t shift away from him. Instead, she sampled the rose again, a faint crease appearing in her brow as she considered it. “It’s subtle, but yes, I think so. You have a sensitive nose, my lord.”

It was an odd compliment, but it gave him far more pleasure than being called the Nonesuch ever had. “No one’s ever praised my nose before.”

That coaxed a laugh from her, and she chattered about the diversity in scent among the various damask roses as they wandered through the garden.

“Lady Hammond’s rose gardens have been arranged with an eye to appearance, which is common among large, formal gardens, but if I had my own rose garden, I’d organize them by complimentary scent. ”

Johnathan smiled. “What, and allow a riot of competing colors? Pink roses next to red, and red next to orange? Shocking, Miss Templeton.”

“I daresay it would be chaos, but beautiful still. Have you ever seen an ugly rose, my lord?” she asked, returning his easy grin.

“No, but have you ever smelled a rose that isn’t sweet, Miss Templeton?”

“I have, in fact. Some roses have sharp, unpleasant fragrances, and others have an earthy, woody smell like moss, that many find offensive.”

“But you don’t?”

“I prefer some scents over others, but every rose has its place. Now, I don’t say I wouldn’t tuck the mossy roses into a more remote corner of my own garden.”

Johnathan chuckled. “Some accommodation must be made for them, certainly, but surely you have no reason to wish for your own garden? When we visited Lady Finchley’s roses, you mentioned a walled garden at your home in Buckinghamshire. Is it not yours to do with as you please?”

“It’s…yes, I suppose it is mine now, as much as it is anyone’s, but it was my father’s garden, and a part of me will always regard it as his.” She was quiet for some moments before murmuring, “It’s greatly reduced from what it once was, I’m afraid.”

“What happened to it?” He could guess, but he wanted to give her a chance to talk about it, if she chose.

“My father was ill for some time, after the—that is, before he died.”

After…

Had she been about to say something about her mother’s scandal? “Lady Christine, during her call yesterday…I never imagined she could be so cruel. I beg your pardon for her?—”

“You have no need to beg my pardon for anything Lady Christine says, my lord. You were…what you said to her was…well, no one other than Lady Fosberry has ever spoken up on our behalf before.” Emmeline cast him a look that made the breath catch in Johnathan’s throat.

“I never realized how much I’d always hoped someone would, until you did. ”

Johnathan tried to read her expression, but she’d turned her face up to the sky, and he could only gaze at her as patches of sunlight caressed her forehead and cheeks, her soft red lips, as lush and tempting as any rose.