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they carried a light.
    She hurried to the back sitting room and fussed with a lantern while he dealt with his horse again. He probably did not like doing that himself, but they did not have a groom or any male servant here. She handled her gig’s horse herself, after all. It had not been too much to expect him to do the same.
    She heard his boot steps enter the house and come toward her. Measured. Firm. Confident. This house so rarely had men inside it that his footfalls seemed to make it shake. Much like she was shaking, she realized.
    She sat and pretended to read by the lantern, feeling nervous and unsteady and more fearful than her mind believed was warranted. It embarrassed her to admit that a rare excitement permeated her fluster, one that provoked sensations that were not unpleasant. It had been years since she had felt that kind of stimulation. Forever.
    Perhaps he would just forget about his turn in the garden and leave her to her book, and she could—
    “I expect we will need that lantern soon enough on our stroll, but there is the slightest bit of twilight left now, Mrs. Joyes.”
    She managed to maintain her mask of disinterest despite the way he looked. The lantern’s illumination barely reached him where he filled the doorway, but the way it did made her pulse pound.
    Shadows and highlights cast his form and coat into an assemblage of crisp planes. Even his smile appeared hard. His ride had mussed his hair, so he looked more reckless than before. His eyes told the worst part of the story, however. Teasing glints revealed more interest in this stroll than she wanted to see.
    Dear heavens. She was out of her depths. This man was a notorious libertine and she was—well, she was hardly an expert in these matters.
    She stood. She swung a knitted shawl around her shoulders. Whatever games he hoped to play, nothing would happen unless she permitted it, and she intended to permit nothing at all.
     
     
    “I t is impressive,” Castleford said, while he surveyed the plants in the greenhouse. “It is clearly not a decorative appendage to the house but a place of business.”
    Daphne heard no mockery in his voice. Her pride glowed at his praise.
    She had been stupid to be so worried. He had been a perfect gentleman while they strolled the paths outside. He had even held the lantern in a way that made them very visible from the house’s back windows. It appeared that he truly wanted to see how she was using the property and supporting the household with The Rarest Blooms.
    Now the lantern rested on the stones in front of the fireplace used to warm the greenhouse on the coldest nights. Castleford poked at some planting pots and admired the largest orange tree. The open glass panes in the walls and the ceiling allowed a sweet breeze to flow around them.
    “It is all very fragrant here. A little intoxicating,” he said.
    “One gets used to it.” She pointed to a massing of plants in a corner. “Those will be taken to town in two days. Wagons bring them to a friend who then will deliver them to homes that have ordered them. A good number of cut flowers from outside will go too. And look here—we are experimenting with plum trees, and this cherry. If they thrive, we intend to build another greenhouse just for fruit. One of the new kind, with pipes underneath to bring steam to heat the space evenly.”
    “Did Lady Hawkeswell begin her horticultural experiments while she lived here, or did you learn from her?”
    He referred to Verity, the Earl of Hawkeswell’s wife, who had stayed two years in this house. Daphne had not thought Castleford would bother to notice or remember the histories of the women married to his friends. “She began here. We all help with the plants, but Verity developed a passion for them.”
    “When did you develop your own passion?”
    “It is not the same. I enjoy this labor, but it was always a means to an end for me, not a fascination as it became with her. One of the first women to