Page 3 of The Wayward Lady (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #1)

L avender stared after Mr. Wycliffe and his adorable tan spaniel, a smile still curving her lips. She had heard stories of the reclusive writer who lived next door since she’d moved into Willoughby Hall, but this was the first time she’d caught even a glimpse of him.

He was nothing like she had expected him to be.

She had thought he was far older, a doddering old hermit who holed up in the storybook cottage of his lovely seaside estate and wrote beautiful stories of love and redemption. But she doubted he was over half a dozen years older than her own thirty-two with dark hair only slightly gray at the temples, piercing brown eyes, and a powerful body that was a symphony of toned muscle. She’d had no idea that he took care of his own garden. No wonder he was so fit.

Still smiling, she meandered back down the path, absolutely thrilled that she had been invited to return, even if he had done so begrudgingly. Though he had said not to bother him, surely if she ran into him accidentally, he might be willing to answer some of her questions about the history and design of Seacrest’s gardens.

Letting herself out the garden gate, she hurried back toward Willoughby Hall, dying to tell her friends what had happened. Mr. Wycliffe had often been the subject of speculation between them. However, when she entered the house, only Genevieve was in the drawing room, and she remembered that Daphne and Eden had gone to town.

“I met Kendrick Wycliffe,” she told Genevieve dramatically, taking the chair at her friend’s side.

Genevieve had been working on some embroidery, but she immediately put it aside, her green eyes widening. “How on earth did that happen? I’ve never met him in all the time I’ve owned this house.”

“I was trying to see the gardens,” Lavender admitted. “I climbed a tree and scooted along a branch that hung over his property. But he saw me and asked what I was doing.” She grinned, reliving the moment that had spurred her conversation with him. She should be embarrassed but found that she wasn’t. “It startled me so much that I fell into some bushes right in front of him.”

Genevieve burst into laughter. “Oh, Lavender! Truly? And you went over there like this? In your trousers?”

Lavender nodded, fighting back laughter of her own. “He was so shocked! I could tell he wanted to be angry about it, but he didn’t know quite what to make of me.”

“I imagine he has never met anyone like you, my dear,” Genevieve said fondly, reaching over to pat her hand. “What’s he like?”

Heat crept up Lavender’s throat. “Surprisingly young and handsome. I doubt he’s yet turned forty. I thought he was going to be much older.”

Genevieve gave her a knowing look but didn’t ask more about his attractiveness. “Did he show you the gardens?”

“A bit of them,” Lavender replied. “And he told me I could come back, as long as I didn’t bother him.”

“How unexpected,” Genevieve said, looking at Lavender speculatively. “He has quite a reputation in town as being absolutely unapproachable. He never lets anyone come around. I am shocked that you managed to charm him.”

Lavender felt suddenly uncomfortable. “I would not go that far. I would say he was more horrified than charmed.” But her heart warmed at the memory of the conversation they had shared. She suspected that he had been a little charmed by her. There had been a moment when they had been talking about the roses....

Genevieve laughed and then gazed out the window toward Mr. Wycliffe’s house. “Did you know that Seacrest used to be part of Willoughby Hall?”

“I didn’t.” Lavender’s eyes widened. “Does that mean the walled gardens were once yours?”

“No,” Genevieve replied. “That was a very long time ago. The original property was gifted to Gabrielle Valoy, the mistress of the Duke of Tarleton. She lived here until her death about fifty years ago, and the estate fell into disrepair for many years. Tarleton’s great-grandson sold the gardener’s cottage and the gardens to Wycliffe, who has done a remarkable job of restoring them. He didn’t want the original house, which was already falling apart by then. I bought the rest of the estate soon after, tore down the original house, and built Willoughby Hall.” She smiled fondly. “Willoughby was my maiden name. I was determined to have at least one thing that was entirely mine.”

“I’m very glad that you did,” Lavender said gratefully. “I don’t know what would have become of us all if you hadn’t asked us to come here.”

“It was meant to be,” Genevieve said kindly. “I am so glad to have good friends to share it with. The three of you have made my life so much brighter.”

“You’ve all made mine brighter as well.” Lavender pushed to her feet, giving her friend a fond smile. Sometimes, Lavender suspected Genevieve was her fairy godmother who had swooped in to save her just in the nick of time. “I’m going upstairs to sketch what I remember of the garden before I forget it completely.”

“Come down for tea,” Genevieve coaxed. “The others will be back by then, and I’m sure they will want to hear about your visit with our neighbor.”

“I will,” Lavender agreed. She left the drawing room and strode up the grand staircase to the second floor, letting herself into her large, airy bedroom at the back of the house. She drifted to the window, which framed a gorgeous view of the ocean. The waves crashing against the rocks below never ceased to bring a smile to her lips.

When she had first arrived here a little more than a year ago, she had lost the ability to smile. She’d been so brokenhearted, so lost. She had truly loved Geoffrey. The pain of losing him combined with the pain of finding out that he had not been faithful—that he’d frequented houses of ill repute where he’d engaged in all manners of disgusting behaviors—had crushed her in a soul-deep way.

She had been so incredibly grateful for Genevieve’s gracious offer. Still, she had been nervous to pack up and move to Kent with three women she barely knew. But the moment she had walked into this room and saw this view, she’d sensed it would all work out.

At Willoughby Hall, she had found a sense of peace and safety that had always been missing from her life.

Living with Genevieve, Eden, and Phoebe had ended up being the best thing that had ever happened to her. Over the past year, their friendship had grown until Lavender couldn’t imagine being without them. Together, they had felt free to put all the constraints of high society far behind them. Hence, the trousers.

She grinned as she thought about the look on Mr. Wycliffe’s face when he realized what she was wearing. Genevieve was right. He probably had no idea what to make of her.

As she stood there, lost in thought, her gaze drifted to the quaint cottage next door. It sat nestled among the tall trees and colorful flowers, its thatched roof sloping down to meet the neatly trimmed garden wall. It looked straight out of a storybook, with pointed gables and small windows. She could almost picture a witch beckoning unsuspecting children inside to partake in all manner of sweets....

Her smile faded. Kendrick Wycliffe was far from Prince Charming. She shouldn’t obsess about what he thought of her. Her position at Willoughby Hall was perfect, and the last thing she needed was to be captivated by his haunted, dark eyes.

A fter his forced interaction with his exasperating neighbor, Kendrick spent another half hour sipping at his now cold tea and staring absently at the tree she had so unceremoniously fallen from. His mind raced as he relived the moments he had spent with her.

For so long, it had just been him and Daisy rambling around his quirky seaside estate. If you had asked him an hour ago, he’d have said he preferred it that way. But he had to admit it had been rather... nice to have a conversation with someone other than his dog.

With a sigh, he stood, picked up his teacup, and headed back toward the house.

“Come on, Daisy,” he called, smiling when she scrambled to her feet and then ambled after him, wagging her bushy tail in excitement.

He had learned long ago that she was the only one in the world he could depend on. He’d do well to remember that painful lesson.

Once back inside his whimsical thatched-roof cottage, he went to his large, wood-paneled study and sat at his desk. Daisy plopped down on a braided wool rug at his feet, and he slid a piece of paper into his newfangled typewriter. The words started flowing for the first time in months, his fingers flying over the keys.

He’d written six successful novels since publishing his first eight years ago. Unfortunately, for the last few months, he’d lost the desire to write. It had once burned so brightly within him that it blocked out everything else, but lately, he had been struggling to find anything worth saying.

He’d made enough money to buy this cottage and live comfortably for the rest of his life if he chose, so the passion and desperation he’d once felt had deserted him.

In the beginning, he had thought that if he provided a beautiful home for his family, they might return to him. His wife Isabella had run away seven years ago, taking their six-year-old daughter Miranda. She hadn’t wanted to be the wife of a gardener who claimed he would someday change their lives with his writing. Even though he had sold his first book before she left, he hadn’t made that much money off it, and she’d never believed he had any talent, never even read a page of what he’d written.

Apparently, being a soldier’s whore had been more to her liking.

He’d long since stopped caring whether she ever came back, but not a day went by that he didn’t think about Miranda. She would be nearly a woman herself now. He wondered whether she even remembered him.

When he finally sat back in his chair, he realized he had written more today than he had all month. He could not deny that perhaps it had done him good to talk to Lady Lavender. Maybe he’d isolated himself here for far too long.

As he stacked his pages into a neat pile, feeling a sense of accomplishment for the first time in forever, he found himself hoping she would stop by again.

L avender managed to wait three whole days before returning to Seacrest, not wanting to seem too eager, though, of course, she was. When she stepped lightly through the wrought-iron gate into Mr. Wycliffe’s garden, she made sure to latch it behind her. Her gaze drifted across the sea of blooms that swayed gently in the mild spring breeze. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and lavender, a fragrant tapestry that seemed to weave around her.

Her skirts brushed gently against the gravel path as she moved farther into the garden, and she smiled to herself as she remembered how flabbergasted he’d been to find her wearing trousers. Would he find her more acceptable dressed like a proper lady, or had he been pleasantly surprised by her unconventional wardrobe choices? She hoped she ran into him again so she could try to decipher his reaction.

She paused beside a bed of lilies, their purple hues vibrant against the green canvas of a wide lawn, while the symphony of birdsong threaded through the quiet afternoon.

The garden was even more enchanting than she remembered. Lavender wandered the winding paths, marveling at the riot of colors and scents surrounding her. Finally, she sat on a secluded bench, took out a sketchbook, and began to capture the beauty on paper, her pencil flying across the page.

She had always had a gift for drawing what she saw and had whiled away many an afternoon lost in a sketchbook. She would not say she was an artist by any means, but she enjoyed sketching more than just about anything else other than reading.

Lost in her work, she didn’t notice Mr. Wycliffe approach until his shadow fell across the page. Startled, she looked up and found him staring down at her work with a furrowed brow. She was again struck by his good looks, the rugged features of his handsome face, and haunted dark eyes. He wore a pair of brown trousers and a white lawn shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons open to show a slice of his broad, tanned chest and even a thatch of dark hair. She swallowed dryly, then lifted her gaze to his, hoping he’d meant it when he’d said she could visit whenever she wanted.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Lavender quickly closed the sketchbook, feeling embarrassed and worried she had overstepped. “I-I was just trying to capture the beauty of your garden. It’s stunning.”

He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes inscrutable. Then, to her surprise, he sat down beside her. “Show me,” he said simply.

Heart pounding, Lavender hesitated momentarily before opening her sketchbook again. “Willoughby Hall’s gardens are very simple. The house is only a few years old, and the gardens haven’t had a chance to mature. They still need a lot of work in order to become truly lovely. I’ve been looking for something to be passionate about, and Genevieve... um, the duchess... has graciously allowed me to tackle the project. I’m supposed to develop a design and hire people to see it done.”

He leaned forward so he could better see her sketch of one of his flowerbeds. “Your drawings are lovely, but passion doesn’t come from copying something that already exists,” he chided softly. “Passion comes from finding ways to create your own beauty.”

She bit her lip, lifting her gaze to his, glad he didn’t seem angry. The loveliness of what he had created here and the wonderful worlds of his books—all of which she’d read—made her certain he knew what he was talking about. “I’m afraid I’ve never really created anything. The women I live with all have things they are passionate about, a purpose in life, and I’ve been struggling to find one of my own. I love gardening, but I know so little about it. I thought that if I could see the works of a master and learn from his brilliance, your brilliance, then perhaps I might eventually start to find my own path.”

He tilted his head, studying her intently. “I don’t think landscape design can be learned on a whim,” he said, his voice gentle. “It will take you years to gain the knowledge you’ll need to design a garden like this.”

She flushed with embarrassment. “I know it must sound silly to someone like you, who has accomplished so much.”

He frowned, his dark eyes searching hers. “I suppose I don’t really understand why someone like you feels the need to muck about in the dirt is all.”

“Someone like me?” Her embarrassment burned away in a flash of anger. “A spoiled aristocrat, you mean? A silly woman?”

He held her gaze but did not rise to her bait. “I was born a gardener’s son. I kicked and scratched to lift myself to where I am now, but in the eyes of society, I am still not fit to lick your polished little boots. The duchess could hire an established landscape architect and an army of men to work on Willoughby Hall’s gardens. Why would you want to take on such a demanding project?”

“So, I should just be content with my needlework?” Her anger continued to build, and she realized suddenly how tired she was of men telling her what she should and should not do. First, it had been her father. Then Geoffrey. Now, this perfect stranger felt he had a right to do it.

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, which enraged her even more. “You can do whatever you like. I just think you might be biting off a little more than you can chew, is all.”

She snapped her sketchbook closed, her embarrassment returning. Of course, he didn’t think she could do it. Nobody had ever expected anything of her in her entire sheltered life other than to look pretty and smile.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said tightly. “I should probably go now. Don’t worry. I won’t be back.”

She surged to her feet, but he grabbed her hand. “Wait,” he said sharply.

Tugging her hand free, she glared at him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said with a sigh, running his hand through his dark hair. The streaks of gray at his temples shimmered like threads of silver in the sunlight, not detracting from his good looks at all. He stood up and once again took her hand. “I’m sorry. Will you let me show you something before you go?”

She wanted to refuse him, but a part of her agreed with everything he had said. Was gardening really her passion? She wasn’t sure. And shouldn’t she be? If it really was the thing that would finally give her life some purpose, then she absolutely should be. Besides, his hand felt warm and solid in hers, and it had been so long since she had been touched....

“All right,” she said grudgingly.

He gave her a small smile and tugged her down a path to their right and out the far gate of the walled part of the garden.

After a few minutes, they crested a small rise, and to her surprised delight, a dozen varieties of lavender plants spread out before her. The heady, soothing scent overwhelmed her senses. “Lavender,” she breathed.

“It’s my favorite,” he admitted.

She turned to him, a soft smile playing on her lips as she realized he had meant this as an olive branch of sorts. “Thank you for showing me this, Mr. Wycliffe. It is truly beautiful.”

He met her gaze with a rare warmth in his eyes. “I am sorry if I upset you earlier. That wasn’t my intention. Please do not let my stupidity dissuade you from whatever you want to do. I cannot wait to see what you create. Plenty of people told me that a gardener’s son could never be a writer, but I somehow managed to prove them wrong.”

She ducked her head, unable to meet his gaze. She appreciated his attempt to make her feel better, but she had to admit that his words had given her food for thought. She would never learn all that he’d probably already known before he even came of age, let alone enough to design something that would live up to Genevieve’s expectations. “Thank you for saying that, but I’m afraid you see the reality of things far more clearly than I do.”

He sighed. “I wish I was less of a realist if you want to know the truth. I’ve always envied people who see things as they want them to be and not how they actually are.”

She didn’t know quite how to take that comment, so she said nothing as they turned away and headed back to where she had entered the garden. As they reached the wrought-iron gate that led back to Willoughby Hall, Lavender attempted a smile. “Thank you so much for all that you showed me today. You have given me a lot to think about.”

“You’ve given me much to think about as well,” he told her unexpectedly, a rare smile curving his gorgeous lips. “Will you come again?”

“Of course,” she told him breathlessly, knowing their conversations, no matter how frustrating, were too interesting to resist. “I’ll see you soon.”