A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Unwillingly, unexpectedly, Jack was impressed. Having heard of the role Boadicea had assumed in the community, he’d expected her to appear, to attempt to take the reins even though he was there now. However, despite being at some level aware of Connimore’s concerns, he hadn’t drawn them from her, hadn’t soothed them.

Boadicea accomplished both with calm serenity, rocklike, unshakable, reliable. By implication hers was a shoulder Connimore could be certain would be there to lean on. By the time she and Connimore ended their discussion, Connimore was heartened, and Boadicea was in possession of every last snippet of information they’d gleaned about the young man and his injuries.

In light of the former, Jack couldn’t begrudge her the latter. Yet still he waited, and she knew it.

He was due an apology, and had every intention of extracting maximum enjoyment from receiving it. He doubted Boadicea apologized all that often.

At last, with no alternative offering, she turned to him; he stood between her and the door. Her dark eyes bored into his—in warning?

> “If I could have a word with you, my lord?” Her voice was even, her tones clear.

He smiled, stepped back, and waved her to the door. “Of course, Lady Clarice.” She swept past him; as he followed he murmured, voice low so only she could hear, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing your thoughts.”

She shot him a glance sharp enough to slice ice, then sailed down the corridor. He followed; with most women, he’d have to amble slowly, but to keep up with Boadicea he had to stride along, if not briskly, then at least without dawdling.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she paused. Joining her, he was about to suggest they repair to his study. Chin firm, she glanced at him. “The rose garden.” Looking forward, she started down the stairs. “I should take a look at it while I’m here.”

His mother’s rose garden? Jack remembered it as a wilderness. It had been his mother’s especial place; after her death, his father had turned from it, ordering it be left undisturbed. Jack had never understoood that decision, but everyone had obeyed; the rose garden had bloomed fabulously for a few more years, a vivid and scented reminder of his mother, but neglect had taken its toll, the paths and the arches in the enclosing stone walls had become overgrown, and it had become an area into which nobody any longer ventured.

Distracted by memories, not sure what awaited him, he trailed close behind as Clarice led the way through his morning room, onto the terrace, down the steps, and across the lawn…to the now neat, stone archway leading into the rose garden.

Slowing, he followed her through, pausing under the archway. For one instant, he thought he’d stepped back in time.

The garden was exactly as his seven-year-old eyes had seen it, a shifting sea of colors and textures, of rampantly arching canes and bright green leaves, of sharp thorns and the unfurling bronze of new growth.

Clarice had sailed on, down the central path heading for the alcove at the far end of the garden, with its stone bench overlooking a small pond and fountain. He stepped down to the path; transported by memories, he slowly followed.

His mind conjured visions from his childhood, of him, blond hair flopping over his eyes as he raced down the paths. All the paths led to the alcove where his mother would be waiting, laughing and smiling as he pelted toward her to tell her of the best bloom in the garden, of the dark, blood-red rose he’d liked best, of the rich, almost overpowering perfume that wafted in waves from the deep pink rose that had been her favorite.

Without conscious thought, he looked for it, and found it there, covered with fat buds.

Eventually, he reached the end of the path. Eshewing the stone bench, Boadicea had paused by the pond; she was idly examining buds on a cascading bush, patiently waiting for him to join her.

Drawing in a deep breath, savoring the almost forgotten scents that came with it, he relutantly drew his mind from the past and focused on her. “Did you do this?”

She blinked. “Not personally. I did suggest Warren, the gardener Griggs found after Hedgemore left, tidy the place and get it back in order.”

Jack translated easily; tidy and back in order meant restored to the most exacting standards—Lady Clarice Altwood’s standards. He glanced around; obviously Warren had understood her, too.

“Did they—Griggs and the others—tell you why the garden had been left to go to seed?” He brought his gaze back to her face.

Far from coloring, as many might have done, she merely raised a brow. “They told me your father had ordered it be shut up, but he was gone by then, and, frankly, I’ve never seen the point in celebrating a death rather than celebrating the life.”

He held her dark gaze; it didn’t waver in the least. She was, at least over the garden and its present state, as calm and assured as she outwardly appeared. For all she knew, she might have trampled his toes and be in for a nasty altercation…he glanced around again, unable to help himself. She couldn’t know she’d given him back something he hadn’t realized he’d mourned, and had just put into simple adult words exactly what he, as a boy, had always felt but been unable to express.

“It’s as I remember it.” That was all he could find to say, that he could easily say.

He looked back at her. To his surprise, faint color had now risen to her alabaster cheeks. Aware of it, and of his gaze, she shifted, then admitted, “I found a notebook of your mother’s, with a detailed plan of the garden. I didn’t think you’d mind me consulting it to bring the garden back to what it was.”

He studied her face, then glanced around. “I don’t mind.”

He sensed a certain relief ripple through her; her stance—her stiffness—eased a fraction. But then she drew breath, and drew herself up, and faced him. “Now—I believe I owe you an apology, my lord.”

The words were brisk, even. They effectively drew him back from the past, into the present.

He smiled at her. Intently. “You perceive me all ears, my lady.”

She didn’t frown, but her gaze sharpened. For a moment, she studied him, as if debating whether to inform him gloating was uncouth, then she raised her chin and fixed him with a challengingly direct gaze. “When we first met I misjudged you, my lord. Pray accept my apologies.”