by Darcy Burke
Kate shivered. “It’s empty now, the parlor. Save for a single portrait upon the wall.”
Lady Amelia nodded. “That portrait was painted in that very room, and is the sole extant memory of how the parlor used to look. The missing pieces were sold, or broken, or lost. There’s no chance of ever having them back again. Of recreating the room that housed our happiest childhood memories. Ravenwood has spent the past many years restoring the rest of the manor to the exact condition it was when our parents were still alive, but the thing he wants the most is the one thing he cannot have.”
“To restore your family’s sitting room.”
“To be happy. He thinks the only way to create happiness in the future is by resurrecting the past. It doesn’t work. I tried it. The only way to be happy in the future, is to be happy now.”
“How?” Kate asked dully. Her stomach sank. Their problems weren’t as simple as her having a horror of childbirth and him needing an heir. He didn’t want just any family. He wanted the one he used to have. He wanted to rewrite time. “For better or worse, he’s stuck with me.”
“For better or worse,” Lady Amelia agreed and took a sip of tea. “When I set out to get a husband, Lord Sheffield was the furthest candidate from my mind. Just because you didn’t plan to end up with each other doesn’t mean you’re wrong for each other.”
Kate smiled as if this advice had bolstered her spirits, and thanked Lady Amelia for her time.
After she climbed back into the coach, she stared blankly out of the side window for a long moment before remembering to give the driver directions for the next stop.
When she had set out that afternoon, her initial idea had been to start visiting artists and performers in order to develop interest in participating in her upcoming patronage event. Her passion for the arts was the one thing capable of keeping her mind off her husband, or what they were going to do about their marriage.
And yet, she was no longer thinking about opera singers or classical violinists, but rather how she might do the impossible and bring Ravenwood’s empty room back to life.
Perhaps if she could do the impossible, the one thing even he had been unable to achieve, he would finally realize how much she yearned to please him.
She realized she was not part of his past. That she might never matter half as much to him as the portrait hanging in the empty parlor.
But if she could give him back his memories, perhaps he would no longer need to long for the past. Perhaps then they could work together toward their future.
Her theatre connections that society so disparaged meant that Kate personally knew a set designer so talented, she had no doubt he would be able to recreate furniture from a painting.
The problem was the painting itself.
She had been forbidden from entering the sitting room. Allowing Mr. Devonshire to use the parlor as his workroom while he carved each piece was likewise not a possibility.
Besides, she suspected such an unusual gift would be much better received as a surprise. If she asked Ravenwood outright, he might say no. That recreation was not the same as restoration. That if his mother had never sat on that precise chair, it simply wasn’t good enough.
Just like Kate wasn’t good enough.
As soon as they arrived back home, she trudged back up to her escritoire and resumed studying the journals. Tomorrow, she would take a break for a moment. Play a game with her aunt.
Tonight, she would concentrate on Ravenwood.
Chapter 12
Ravenwood stalked the corridors of his estate in a temper.
From the moment he’d realized he was going to have to wed a stranger, his life had been destined to change. He understood that. He accepted it.
What he hadn’t fully comprehended was the scope and severity of said change. Or the possibility that he would lose not only the inherent freedom of bachelorhood, but his grasp on all the things he held most dear.
Like his right to peace in his own household. The sanctity of the happy memories he cherished in his past. Or the possibility of building a peaceful, predictable future.
Laughter spilled from an open doorway down the hall. His wife was undoubtedly playing whist with her aunt again. And trading betting fish. His lips pinched together at the impropriety.
Katherine was chaos. Ravenwood preferred order.
He had also been rather partial to the idea of a loving, doting wife. Someone who would wish to spend her evenings with him. And her nights. Someone he felt happier with than without.
He’d tried to be understanding of Katherine’s viewpoint. To give her the space and freedom to get to know Ravenwood House. To get to know him. Perhaps even to miss him.
He’d also begun to know her.
Whilst he might yearn for a family of his own, she had no need for such fantasies. She’d brought her family with her. What did she want with a baby, when her aunt was often a child herself?
Katherine’s life had already been full, long before she’d married Ravenwood. She collected friends the way some people collected gloves. Juggled more cultural projects in one year than most people attended in a lifetime.
She wasn’t looking for an “other half.” She had an excess of followers. And a hectic schedule. Her life and heart were more than full. There was no need—or room—for Ravenwood.
These were facts. Some men might accept them. But Ravenwood hated feeling superfluous in his own home. It ought to be a haven. His haven.
He strode into the yellow parlor intending to command Katherine to cease being so disruptive. There was work to be done. They had an image to uphold.
He hadn’t expected to catch her trying to teach his butler to dance.
“Ravenwood!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Splendid. Aunt Havens is finding it difficult to waltz by her lonesome. Be her partner, won’t you? I daresay she’s the most experienced of us all.”
If glares could smite, Ravenwood would no longer have had a wife to worry about.
As it happened, Simmons was so flustered by his master’s arrival that he trod upon his mistress’s toe, thus distracting the both of them from noticing whether or not Ravenwood’s stony visage remotely indicated a desire to waltz in a sitting room at half ten in the morning.
Very well.
With an exaggerated sigh that went completely unnoticed, he strode forward and led Mrs. Havens into a waltz.
Despite the lack of orchestra or bared floorboards, she surprised him by matching him with perfect fluidity and grace.
At his raised eyebrow, she let out a cackle. “Just because I married a parson doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to…dance.”
Ravenwood tried his best to maintain a blank expression.
“It’s true,” Katherine called out gaily. “Great-Uncle Havens was my very first dance instructor. I credit him fully with the success of my season.”
Success? By what standard?
“You failed to bring a single suitor up to scratch,” he pointed out dryly.
“That’s what made it a success,” she said with a grin. “I was not in the market for fools. I managed to avoid leg-shackling myself to one. Thus, a resounding success.”
Ravenwood considered her words. His wife had avoided marrying a fool, which meant she did not consider him to be one.
He, on the other hand, felt every bit the fool. Dancing in the parlor without music or good sense. His ears heated and he gritted his teeth. It wasn’t quite as dreadful as making a public spectacle of himself, but it was uncomfortable enough for him to ease the elderly Mrs. Havens from his arms and put a stop to this madness. He was a duke, and ought to act like one.
“Simmons,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.
His butler flushed scarlet and released Katherine from their waltz with almost comical haste. “Your grace.”
Ravenwood inclined his head. “You may resume your post.”
Simmons all but fled out the door.
Ravenwood had half a mind to do the same
. Waltzing in the parlor in the middle of the morning? Katherine had him at sixes and sevens. He abhorred being at sixes and sevens.
His mind ached. What he needed was a visit to his garden to collect himself. A retreat into peaceful solitude never failed to restore his equilibrium.
Then again… He slanted a sidelong look at his wife.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing her in warm morning light. Her color was still high from the excitement of the moment, giving her cheeks a rosy flush. The earlier carefree smile was no longer upon her lips, but her clear blue eyes watched him with open interest, rather than petulance for having ruined her fun.
That was her nature, he realized. Open to anything. Happy with everything. Passionate. Always ready for life’s next adventure.
That was not at all who Ravenwood was. Yet he could not help but admire her spirit. Solitude might be his preferred escape, but it was likely to bring Katherine more pain than peace. He could not have that.
“It is a beautiful day,” he said gruffly. “Care to take a turn about the grounds with me?”
Her eyes shone, and a smile blossomed on her face once more. “I would love to.”
He turned to Mrs. Havens. “Madam—”
She shook her head. “My old legs are too tired for more exercise. You two enjoy yourselves. I have plenty of needlework to entertain me.”
“As you wish.” He offered his arm to Katherine. “Shall we?”
She looped her fingers about the crook of his elbow. “Absolutely.”
After sending a servant to fetch a bonnet and pelisse for Katherine, Ravenwood returned her hand to his arm and led her down one of the many walking paths.
The trimmed hedges and squared corners lacked the wild beauty of his secret garden, but their artificial perfection made Ravenwood House famous for being one of the loveliest walking estates in London. The grounds were frequently visited by spectators seeking to stroll the famed paths firsthand.
He chided himself. He shouldn’t have allowed his natural reticence to prevent him from enjoying Katherine’s company out-of-doors.
Come to think of it, he was surprised she wasn’t out here every day herself, entertaining her friends. Perhaps she did not realize she was free to do so.
“Do you like the walking paths?” he asked.
“Very much,” she replied, sending him a smile that warmed him as much as the sun. “Everything I see is magnificent.”
His neck heated in pleasure. She was not looking at the garden, but at him.
He had to fight a powerful desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her. The paths were far too public for such a spectacle.
“I cannot help but notice you have not yet had any visitors,” he said instead. “Please know that you are welcome to invite whomever you wish at any time.”
Surprise flitted across her eyes. “I would have expected you to prohibit such a thing. Or did you forget my friends are as likely to be actors and violinists as they are to be barons and countesses? I’m sure you’ve read the papers.”
“This is your home,” he said simply. “You will forgive me if I choose not to entertain even the Regent himself, but you are every bit as free to fill your schedule with as many guests as you like.”
She was silent for a long moment, then shook her head. “I believe my theatre acquaintances are as unlikely to drop by for tea as Lady Jersey would be. Everyone is more comfortable in their own environment. I like mad crushes of people. I cannot recall the last time I went for a stroll with a single person. Except for you and Aunt Havens, of course.” She lifted a shoulder. “I may know half of London, but I would consider none a bosom friend.”
His eyes widened. Although he himself could count his friends on one hand, they were as dear to him as siblings, and had known him for almost as long as his own sister.
That an introverted gentleman should often find himself lonely, he accepted as fact. That Katherine should feel alone despite thousands of acquaintances stunned him. He slanted her a closer look.
Perhaps when she’d said that everyone felt most comfortable in their own environment, she was not speaking of barons and actresses, but herself.
She had not visited her museum since becoming his wife. He had taken her away from her townhouse. Upbraided her for daring to claim a single room as her own. This was not her home, as he so frequently claimed. This was his home. His environment.
It was up to him to let her in.
“You may have the east wing,” he said suddenly. This was her environment now. He would make it so.
“What?” She blinked up at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“You deserve not a single room, but rather half of all that is mine. With the exception of the family parlor, you may do with the east wing as you please.”
She stared at him. “Even if I were to fill every inch with mummies and scarabs?”
“Ravenwood House is ours to share. If you wish your half to be a showcase for antiquities, that is your prerogative.”
“My half,” she repeated, her voice faraway. “All right.”
His brow furrowed. He had meant the gesture to be inclusive, expansive. To make her feel at home. To show he cared. But by splitting the estate into wholly separate halves, had he only succeeded in dividing them further?
His temples pounded in frustration. He was not good at knowing what to say. Especially not whilst in the moment.
With his journal open and an entire afternoon before him, he could craft poetry that expressed his innermost thoughts with every syllable. But with the sun at his back and his wife on his arm, the best he could do to welcome her to her new home was to blurt nonsense about delineating the divide between them even further.
No. It was not the best he could do. There was one place that was so private, so sacred, so his, that he did not even allow his servants within its walls. It was his paradise. His heart. His secret.
It was time to invite Katherine into his private garden.
Chapter 13
Ravenwood forced his shoulders to relax so as not to betray how deeply he feared the risk he was about to take.
His garden was more than a secret. It was the one place he could truly be himself. A place that belonged only to him. Inside its walls, both he and nature were free from society’s stringent rules and disapproving gaze.
There were no neatly trimmed hedges, no manicured corners, no painted walking paths.
The great stone wall surrounding the garden was as tall and imposing as Ravenwood House itself, but inside was a wonderland of delicate scents and untamed beauty.
The trees grew as tall as they wished, in any direction they pleased. The flowers were not segregated in this section or that, but rather allowed to grow wild, flourishing in an ocean of riotous color rather than each species confined to small, defined squares.
This was where Ravenwood felt most alive. Where he was most vulnerable.
The one place he was truly himself.
He kept his eyes on the pebbled path before them. “I…have a garden.”
She nodded. “In the rear of the property.”
Surprise drew him up short. “You knew?”
But of course she did. He had personally instructed his staff to deny her nothing. He was the only one who hadn’t followed his own directive.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you have no pressing engagements, perhaps you would like to visit it now?”
Her face lit with surprise and pleasure. “I would love to.”
His mouth dried. “Then it would be my great pleasure to take you there.”
That, of course, was a blatant falsehood. He didn’t want to take anyone there.
Yet Katherine, of all people, was the most likely to understand why he found it beautiful and peaceful.
If for some reason she did not, if she found it silly and gauche, her derision would haunt the walls. Every time he thought of his secret garden, his sacred place, he would remember her rejection and no
longer be able to find peace within.
Even if she liked the garden, she might not understand it. Might not understand him. And his tongue would be too tied to convey how he felt.
He searched for something, anything, to erase his growing nervousness as they neared his private garden.
“I notice you have not visited your museum of late.”
She bit her lip. “You’re correct. I’ve relinquished all daily duties to a competent overseer whilst I focus on my next project.”
“Introducing artists to patrons?”
“It’s more than that.” A bounce of excitement crept into her step. “Yes, patronage is important, but so is developing an environment where one needn’t hide their artistic inclinations. Scholars of both genders have the Bluestocking Society. Why shouldn’t there also be a Performing and Creative Arts Society, open to everyone?”
“You’re not planning an event,” he said with sudden clarity. “You’re hoping to start a movement. Create a community.”
She touched her fingers to her chest. “My dream is not only to spread awareness and interest in the arts, but to foster them. Improve them. Strengthen them. Anyone can sponsor anyone else. A place where poets can chat with earls and marchionesses can talk to actresses without their economic backgrounds preventing a connection—that is a community.”
“Poets?” he echoed, as casually as he could.
Until this moment, he hadn’t believed she would hold such a solitary endeavor in as high esteem as she held acting and music.
She waved a hand. “I just said that as an example. Every third dandy believes himself the next Lord Byron.” She rolled her eyes with a laugh. “None of them would know good poetry if it bit them in the nose.”
His chest tightened. He was careful to betray nothing.
“In order to make the inaugural event the greatest success possible, what I really need are stunning entertainers. Actors, acrobats, jugglers, musicians, dancers. Astonishing, visceral performances that cannot help but open hearts or purses.”