Fredericks climbed into the carriage, and a moment later, the vehicle drove off.
Seb occasionally practiced pugilism, but the invisible fist that now rammed him in his gut struck far harder than any of the other men at the boxing academy. He fought to keep from doubling over and gasping aloud.
Somehow, he managed to stay upright. But as he turned around to head home, he knew with certainty that if life was a pugilism match, he’d just been knocked flat on his back.
Chapter 22
“We’ll have a fine day for it,” Mason said as they drove toward the garden.
At his words, Grace snapped back to attention. “It will be lovely.”
“Mr. Fredericks,” her mother said brightly, “is it true that you dined with Wellington himself?”
“I did, my lady,” Mason said. “He invited myself and several men from the Royal Society to his home for a very lively discussion.”
“And what was he like, the duke?”
“Well, he . . .”
Grace’s thoughts drifted away again as her mother and Mason chatted.
She’d spent most of the carriage ride to Campbell’s garden swathed in restless contemplation. She ought to pay more notice to Mason as he engaged her and her mother in conversation, but how could she, when she kept revisiting that village barn, kept seeing the scorching passion on Sebastian’s face as he pleasured her, kept hearing his refrain again and again. “It was a onetime madness. An error in judgment.”
At least this jaunt to the private garden might distract her for a while. Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to join the conversation.
When the carriage stopped outside a tall iron gate on George Street, and Mason climbed down from the vehicle to wait for her, she forced herself to look animated and pleased. This was an exceptional opportunity to see plants she might never have the chance to observe. She ought to pay attention and bring herself into the present moment.
Once she and her mother had gotten down from the carriage, Mason approached the iron gate. A servant in livery waited on the other side.
“Fredericks,” Mason said to the man. He shot an excited look at Grace. “And two guests.”
The servant consulted a sheet of paper before penciling a check mark next to what Grace presumed was Mason’s name. With the paper stowed in his pocket, the servant opened the gate. “Welcome, Mr. Fredericks. Ladies.”
Mason held out his arms for Grace and her mother, and they both took them. She felt the solid bunch of his arm’s muscle beneath layers of fabric—yet to touch him only made her think of how thrilling it was to touch Sebastian, how his body had felt against and inside hers.
“You are invited to sketch or look at anything you see here,” the servant continued. “However, you may not touch anything without one of the gardeners in attendance. Picking any plant is also forbidden. Do you accept these directives?”
“We do,” Grace said after glancing at her mother and Mason.
“Then please, enjoy yourselves.” The servant waved them into the walled garden.
They walked down a path of crushed shells, passing plantings that were enclosed by low metal fences. The garden itself was less than half an acre, but even that size in the middle of urban London was remarkable. There were tall trees as well as a wide number of bushes and plants, some of which were in full flower. Small groups of people as well as a handful of lone individuals wandered up and down the paths. Many of them carried sketchbooks and positioned themselves near plants as they drew.
Birdsong trilled over the garden, and the sun had peeked out just enough to filter through the tree branches, casting pale purple shadows onto the ground. The air carried a fresh, green scent, and the walls dampened much of the sounds of traffic.
“Beautiful,” Grace said sincerely.
“I thought you’d like it.” Shy pride filled Mason’s voice. “Shall I take you to see the Spondias mombin?”
The ostensible reason for being here. “Please do.”
“Go on ahead, children.” Her mother released her hold on Mason’s arm. “I’m keen on speaking with the gardener over there about how to tend roses. I do have the worst luck with my roses, you know.”