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T ristan wandered the gardens in search of something. What it might be, he didn’t know. The sun was shining, and all of the flowers were blossoming. It was beautiful. A splendid masterpiece.

Except none of it felt right.

“How does it all still look so dull?” he asked himself, aggravated.

Up popped a head from a nearby bush, startling him.

Tristan cursed before correcting himself. “My apologies. Mr. Wagoner, good morning.”

“Fourth time this week you’ve been out here,” the gardener noted while squinting up at him. “You’ve seen every flower by now. In the rain and sun. Which particular flowers do you believe to be dull?”

“None,” Tristan hastily amended. “They are beautiful. I suppose it is I who is the problem.”

The older man grunted. His frizzy white hair hung about him like a cloud. He sniffled into a handkerchief before rising to his feet and wobbling over to Tristan.

“Seems that way. But there’s little that a garden can’t fix if you spend enough time out here. Perhaps you should dig a little, like the Duchess.”

“The Duchess?”

“Aye. Is she unwell? I’ve missed her company. No one’s mocked my mustache in days,” Mr. Wagoner snorted.

At that moment, Tristan realized he didn’t know his gardener that well.

The man had been employed by his parents, having been raised near the grounds and cared for them longer than anyone else.

There were two apprentices now, though Tristan didn’t see them about.

But the face of the strange, old man who talked to the trees was familiar enough.

Then, Tristan frowned, wondering what the gardener meant. “Why does the Duchess mock your mustache?”

“Oh, she is splendid company. A fine lady, Your Grace. A very fine lady. She’s charming and clever. Sharp tongue. I’ve always enjoyed a good jest. And she’s happy under the sun. Not like you,” the old man added, much to Tristan’s annoyance.

“It’s rather bright.”

“Aye. Helps the plants grow. Often grows a smile on folks’ faces. Can’t say the same for you, I’m afraid. If you’re not enjoying the flowers out here, then what are you doing?”

Tristan opened his mouth and then closed it, finding he didn’t have an answer. Or at least not a good one.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” Mr. Wagoner sniffed in the silence and hesitated. “I don’t talk often to nobility. I forget myself.”

“No, you asked me a good question, and you have the right of it. But I’m afraid my answer will only disappoint you.” Tristan glanced around warily. “Perhaps all of me disappoints you. Did the Duchess come out here frequently to keep you company while you worked?”

Mr. Wagoner bustled about now, moving his bucket and weeds and things.

Tristan only recognized a few of the tools.

“Aye. Good company she is. She has the most intriguing stories. And she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

Took some convincing, I tell you, letting her touch anything.

But she’s a natural. Said she loved managing her own garden before marriage.

After all, once you start gardening, it’s difficult to stop. ”

Verity has to return. She must. I keep thinking this, and yet she hasn’t come back. Will I ever see her again? The servants are aligned with her, refusing to tell me where she went. I don’t even know if I would follow her if I knew.

Except he did know. So he pushed the thought away to focus on the gardener.

“Why is that?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“Because we are all in search of growth. I myself like to think I’m growing like these plants.” The gardener tapped the side of his nose. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

Judging by the fact that he didn’t even reach Tristan’s shoulder, it wasn’t working. But the old man spoke jovially, like he enjoyed the story and conversation more than the false potential of growth.

Tristan nodded and glanced around, wondering what it must have been like for Verity out here. He thought he had known most of her schedule. When had she made time for the gardener?

Seeing the damp brown dirt and the lush greenery, Tristan found himself asking, “I may not be a gardener like the Duchess, but perhaps I can join you today. If you don’t mind giving instructions?”

The very notion made the old man chuckle with glee and rub his hands together. “Putting a duke to work! What would my wife say about that? Do come along. Let’s find you some gloves, and then I’ll show you the poppies. They’re just darling.”

So, this was what Verity liked to do. I wish I asked her more questions. If only we had more time. If only I found a way to talk to her.

Mr. Wagoner and the gardens were a welcome distraction.

Tristan found himself enjoying hearing the odd tales and learning about the plants. It was easy to see why someone like Verity loved the friendly authenticity of the world in her hands.

Time passed, and he hardly realized it until a footman came, gaping before informing him that he had a guest.

“I must be on my way,” he told the gardener, rising to his feet.

His back ached as he returned the gloves. It was hard work; indeed, the man probably needed a raise he would have to find a way to provide.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Wagoner.”

“Do join me anytime,” the old man said cheerfully with a wink. “I can always use the extra help.”

Making his way back to the house, Tristan found his hands covered in filth even under his fingernails. His face was warm, and his body was drenched in sweat. He could hardly believe his state. A bath would be needed before he presented himself to anyone.

“What the devil is going on?”

He jerked his head up. “Julian? It’s early for you to be awake.”

His friend waved a missive in the air before slipping it into his pocket. “Your servants think you’ve gone mad.”

“Blast it. Who told you?”

“I will not give up my secrets, nor will they. Don’t you dare let go of a single soul. Instead, you’re going to tell me exactly… well.” Julian stopped in front of him and wrinkled his nose. “What have you done? Rolled around in the dirt?”

Tristan shot him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You don’t always smell this bad.”

“I smell like the garden,” he said defensively, only to earn a snort from Julian. “It cannot be so dreadful. We were not among the manure.”

Still, his friend stepped back. “I don’t care. Fine. Have your servants draw you a bath, and in the meantime, you can tell me what the devil is going on. You look filthy and exhausted and awful. Are you even alive?”

Tristan glared at him. “You said you were leaving town.”

“Did I? My cousin needed me in town a little longer. This visit isn’t about me. Go on, do tell. Is it the Duchess?”

Huffing, Tristan stalked down the hall. He motioned for a footman to draw him a bath and then entered his study, sensing Julian behind him. After moving to the sideboard, he poured two glasses of brandy and offered one to his friend. Though he held the other, he didn’t drink.

“She left,” he said in what he thought was a remarkably even tone.

Julian paused and then drained his glass.

He cursed low under his breath. “I’m sorry to hear that.

Another wife. But you don’t seem the better for it this time.

You said little about Cassandra,” he pointed out, to Tristan’s mild surprise.

“Except I could see the furrow in your brow fade when she was out of the way. It’s not the same here. ”

“It… is not,” Tristan grudgingly agreed.

Another huff. “We shouldn’t even be comparing them.

It’s a devilish thing to do. Women are not like bottles of brandy you can compare and trade and track their value.

They’re remarkable and pretty things with fires built into them.

” Julian leaned back with a groan. “Noisy, too, but it’s because they have twice the brains we do. ”

“Twice? Really?” Tristan asked dryly.

“For all the talking they do, yes. You don’t spend enough time with them.

My cousin is absolutely devious. She’s only had a short Season but has already received three proposals.

Uncle is in an uproar that she rejected them all, claiming she knows just what she is doing. Women are controlling beasts.”

As Julian rambled, Tristan nodded along and stared into his brandy. He supposed his friend had a few points. Women were incredible things. They were daring and bold and dangerous.

But not all of them.

A loud bang made him jump.

Julian set down the brandy and leaned forward. “I won’t be distracted any longer. Here I am, talking without you saying a word. Speak up, Tristan. You cannot hide from me any longer.”

“I’m not hiding?—”

“Are you afraid of me or yourself?”

Tristan scoffed. “I have nothing to be afraid of!”

“Then be honest!” Julian raised his voice, to Tristan’s surprise, giving him a hard look. “Tell me everything.”

“Everything?” Tristan rose from his seat. He rubbed his hands together, filthy as they were. “There is nothing to say.”

“Liar.”

“You don’t get to call me that,” he snapped.

But Julian did not give him so much as an inch. He rose to his feet as well, squaring his shoulders as if he meant to block the path to the door, trapping him there. The room shrank, and unease crackled in the air.

“Then talk to me. For once, be true to yourself and what you feel.”

The very notion had Tristan slamming his glass down so hard that it cracked. When Julian glanced down in surprise, Tristan glared at him.

“What am I supposed to say? That I cannot stop thinking about her? About both of them? Cassandra cursed me, Julian. That harlot. She was the liar. She was the fraud!” he said vehemently.

“I have protected her in order to protect myself, my brother. We despised each other. I have tried to mourn her and cannot bear to do so. And yet, now it’s Verity who haunts me. ”

The words spilled out, at last. Tristan couldn’t help it. He opened his mouth and told Julian everything before collapsing back in his chair.

“That’s a devil of a tale,” his friend muttered after a long pause.