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“His garden was left untouched for nearly a year after he became ill. By the time I began tending it again, what hadn’t withered from neglect was destroyed by pests and disease. It’s gone, aside from a few of my father’s hybrid roses, and I don’t hold out much hope for them.”

His throat tightened at the grief on her face, and he might have done something improper, like take her into his arms and press her sweet, lovely face to his chest, but then she added in a whisper, “The garden is only one of many ruins my mother left behind, Lord Melrose. A trail of wreckage followed in her wake.”

Emmeline didn’t seem to expect a reply, and indeed, there was little he could say, but he pressed her hand, desperate to reassure her somehow, to ease the sadness in her eyes.

She remained quiet as they wandered on, until they turned a corner and she came to a halt in the middle of the pathway with a gasp. “Oh, look, my lord! Aren’t they lovely?”

Johnathan had been gazing down at the fingertips of her gloved hand resting on his sleeve and recalling the curl of slender fingers around the windowsill in Lady Fosberry’s library, but when he glanced up his eyes widened.

They’d somehow stumbled upon a private corner that surpassed every beauty that had come before, a tiny oasis tucked inside the sprawling garden.

A graceful, white stone temple stood at its center, and inside Johnathan glimpsed a sculpture of a lady in a flowing Grecian dress with a crown of white stone roses nestled on her head.

A pair of benches flanked the temple, each carefully placed so the shadows cast by the columns protected them from the sun.

But the temple wasn’t what had made Emmeline gasp.

It was the roses. Dozens upon dozens of them spilling from stone pots and trellises in a dazzling cascade of blooms. They were all of the same species, all of them such a faint, delicate pink the sunlight turned them translucent, as if the petals had been fashioned from the thinnest pearl white shells.

Emmeline seemed to be frozen in place, so Johnathan urged her forward until they were standing amidst the riotous tumble of roses. She turned in a circle, her smoky blue eyes wide, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, watching her.

The roses, the sunlight, the pure white stone—none of it could compare to her. She was the most beautiful thing in any garden, the most beautiful lady he’d ever seen.

“Do you…” Johnathan began, but he was obliged to clear the sudden hoarseness from his throat. “Do you know these roses?”

She turned to him, her lips curving in a smile of such pure delight he thought might fall to his knees for her.

Then, on the heels of that thought…

I already have .

“I’ve only seen them in a book, but I believe they’re Baronet Hume’s Blush Tea-Scented China roses. I’ve read about them, but they only bloomed in England for the first time about a decade ago, and I’ve never seen them growing in a garden before.”

Her pleasure in the roses was contagious, and Johnathan found himself grinning like a fool. “And their scent? My guess is that it’s reminiscent of tea.”

“Yes, strongly of black tea. Come, shall we see for ourselves?” She grasped his hand, her long fingers tucked into his palm, and Johnathan followed after her, scolding his heart for beating with such wild hope at her touch when she didn’t even seem aware she’d taken his hand.

She led him along behind her until they reached the two benches, where a particularly lush spill of blooms nestled among a bed of bright green leaves. “Oh! They have a lovely scent, do they not?”

“A lovely scent, and wicked thorns.” Johnathan cautiously fingered one of the stems. “Are the blooms very heavy? The head of the rose is bent, as if it’s nodding off to sleep.”

“Sleeping, or weeping, yes. See how thin the canes are? They’re too weak to fully support the large, dense blooms, and so they weep.”

Johnathan tipped up one of the nodding blooms, as if he were tipping up its chin, then let it nod again, a smile drifting across his lips. “Well, I can’t say I approve of pouting, but they’re charming this way, aren’t they?”

“I can’t imagine them any other way. What a joy, to have a chance to see them! The plates in my books don’t do them justice.” Emmeline traced a reverent finger around the edges of one of the blooms. “I’d love to have one to press. I don’t imagine I’ll get the chance to see one again.”

“I’m certain Lady Hammond wouldn’t mind sharing one of her roses with you.” Johnathan waved a hand at the thick curtain of blossoms surrounding them. “She has plenty, as you can see.”

“What, steal one of Lady Hammond’s roses? I couldn’t possibly do such a thing, and anyway, I couldn’t bear to ruin one by cutting it.”

“We don’t need to cut one. There must be a few that have fallen…ah, yes.” Johnathan bent and retrieved several blooms that had dropped from the trellis to the ground. “Here, you may have your choice.”

Emmeline bit her lip. “Is it truly all right, do you suppose?”

“Yes, I do.” Johnathan held out the roses, and after a little hesitation, she plucked one from his palm.

He raised the other to his nose, inhaling deeply, and the spicy scent of black tea filled his head. “There’s another scent there, but I can’t identify it. Is it some sort of fruit?”

He brought the rose close to her face, holding it steady while her pert little nose—which was quite the most adorable nose he’d ever seen—twitched delicately.

Her cheeks were flushed with sunshine and pleasure, and her lips parted as the scent of black tea filled the air between them, as if she were tasting the scent on her tongue.

Desire pooled in his belly, his stomach muscles tightening at the warm pulse of it, his limbs going heavy and lazy as he watched her from under half-lowered lids.

“Citrus, I think, or perhaps…” She trailed off as her eyes met his. A blush colored her cheeks and rushed down the long line of her neck.

“Perhaps?” Johnathan’s gaze followed that bewitching blush, and settled on the pulse fluttering in the soft, tempting hollow of her throat.

Dear God, he could become obsessed with her neck, her throat?—

“Perhaps…raspberry?” she whispered, swiping her tongue across her bottom lip.

Gently, he brushed the delicate petals of the rose in his hand across her lips, and stifled a groan as they parted further.

“Raspberry?” Yes . Plump, sweet red raspberries.

Was it the hint of raspberries that stole his reason, or the dainty pucker of her lips as they formed the word, or the scent of the roses, black tea and raspberry and some exotic spice he couldn’t name spiraling through his veins?

Or was it simply her , her blue eyes touched with silvery gray like a winter sea, widening as he drew closer, the uncertain flutter of her dark lashes as they lowered, then lifted again, holding his gaze as he cradled her cheeks in his palms.

My hands are shaking…

It was all of these things, or perhaps none of them, but in the next breath it no longer mattered, because he was kissing her, and she was opening for him, her mouth soft and giving, one small, gloved hand reaching for him, her fingers warm through the thin cotton as they rested against his neck.

The innocent touch nearly undid him. “ Emmeline .”

Her only reply was a soft sigh, the warm drift of her breath teasing his senses and stealing his own breath, and he knew—in an instant, he knew it was her kiss that had been haunting him since that night in Lady Fosberry’s library.

Her kiss that had transformed him, because he was no longer the same man he’d been before he found her.

He would never be that man again—never wanted to be that man who’d believed he could live a lifetime without knowing what it felt like to kiss Emmeline Templeton.

She shifted closer, turning toward him, her skirts brushing his legs, and he slid his palm down her shoulder, his thumb dragging over her collarbones, until he settled it at her waist, so he might keep her close.

All Emmeline could see was Johnathan—because yes, he was Johnathan to her now, had ceased to be Lord Melrose days ago—and all she could feel was the tickle of rose petals against her lips, his mouth hovering over hers before he took it a kiss that flooded her with warmth, from her spinning head to her curling toes.

Every thought in her brain fled, but for one.

I want to dive into that warmth, press my face into his chest, and remain there forever.

He kissed her tenderly, but with an insistence that hinted at restrained passion, his tongue teasing at the seam of her lips until she opened for him with a soft moan.

A low, fierce growl rumbled in his chest as he plunged inside, his tongue stroking hers until the garden spun around Emmeline in a whirl of dizzying desire.

When he drew away, they were both breathless. “Look at me, Emmeline.”

Emmeline shook her head, her eyes squeezed tightly closed, like a child trying to escape a scolding, because if she looked at him, if she looked into those devastating blue eyes and found that same tenderness with which he’d gazed at her in the garden yesterday, she’d be lost to him forever.

“Yes.” He touched a gentle finger to her chin, raising her face to his so he could look into her eyes. “Look at me.”

Oh, she didn’t want to! She was afraid of him, and of herself and everything she felt when she was with him, but his voice was so soft and coaxing, his fingers stroking her skin so gently, she could refuse him nothing.

“Your eyes were the first thing I noticed about you. Beautiful. I should have known it at once, as soon as I saw your eyes.”

A trembling began deep in Emmeline’s belly. “Known, my lord?”

Johnathan’s eyes darkened. “Are you cold, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. Dear God. Words felt too difficult just then, so she shook her head.

He rested his hand on her waist, the warmth seeping through his glove and leaving an imprint of his palm against her ribs. “I can feel you shivering.”

“I…not from the cold.” It wasn’t what she meant to say—it was much too honest, much more than she’d intended to reveal, but he’d disarmed her somehow, her natural wariness no match for him.

Perhaps it was his eyes, the kindness in them.

“Do I make you shiver, Emmeline?” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers.

Emmeline’s lips parted, but all that emerged was a soft sigh.

His gaze darted to her lips, “Have you ever kissed a gentleman before?”

“No. I—I don’t know any gentlemen.”

But she had kissed a gentleman— this gentleman, and everything inside her urged her to tell him, to confess she was the lady he’d kissed in the library, that she was the Lady in Lavender.

He knows. He already knows…

“Ah. You may not realize, then, how much a kiss can reveal. Secrets, truths one might wish to keep hidden all disintegrate in the wake of a truly breathtaking kiss.” He dragged his thumb gently over her bottom lip, a flush rising in his cheeks when she parted for him.

“Do you know what I learned from your kiss, Emmeline?”

“No,” she whispered.

“That I’ve kissed you once before.” He urged her closer, so close he was cradling her against the firm, muscular wall of his chest. “This isn’t our first kiss, is it, sweetheart?”

Emmeline tried to look away, ashamed of the secrets she’d kept, the lies she’d told.

Ashamed of her cowardice.

But Johnathan wouldn’t allow it. He kept her face tipped up to his with a nudge of his fingertips as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bit of violet silk. “This belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

“My ribbon.” Emmeline cast him a shy look from under her lashes. “I thought it was lost forever.”

“I’ve kept this ribbon in my pocket since that night in Lady Fosberry’s library.

When I saw you at Floris with that bit of linen with the same lingering scent, I thought the Lady in Lavender must be either you or your sister.

I, ah…haven’t conducted myself as a gentleman ought to, but you must believe me, Emmeline, when I say I not only believed you were the lady I’d kissed, but wished it with all my heart. ”

Emmeline gazed down at the ribbon between his fingers for a long time before raising her eyes once again to his face, losing herself in blue eyes the color of cornflowers.

His dear, handsome face.

Weeks ago, Lady Fosberry had told her he was just the gentleman to surprise them all, and he had surprised her. He hadn’t behaved in a way she could possibly have predicted, but that wasn’t what truly stunned Emmeline.

It was that she hadn’t.

Her last fleeting thought before his lips took hers again was how strange it was that she —shy, dull Emmeline, a spinster in the making in her dusty pinafores, the bluestocking with her nose forever pressed between the pages of a book…

That she , of all people, would prove to be the most unpredictable of them all.