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beside him. He leaned closer before catching himself and taking a step back. Her choice of fragrance was a remarkable coincidence given that the rose garden was one of few that had survived.
    “Are we on the second floor? I must admit it is difficult to keep track. There seem to be staircases at every turn going up or down, but rarely both.”
    “It depends on which part of the room you are in.”
    She scrunched her nose. “I realize your opinion of me is not high, but surely you don’t think me a simpleton.”
    He grinned and pointed outside. “If you look out this window, you will see the lower courtyard several stories below.” Turning in the opposite direction, he led her across the room. “But out this way, you can walk directly onto the upper courtyard.” His nerves tingled at her proximity. Once again noting the fine weather, he thought it prudent to get some distance from her. “It is a beautiful afternoon. Shall we go outside and view the gardens? There is an excellent place to view the manor that will help you to better understand the layout.”
    Her face brightened. “Of course. I should love to see the gardens. My mother spoke frequently of a small footbridge where she learned to fish.”
    “I know just the place.” It happened to be one of his favorite locations on the property. He held his arm out to indicate she should precede him into the corridor. They turned to the right and exited into the upper terrace gardens.
    Clapping her hands together in delight, Ms. Malboeuf said, “It’s so lovely. I expected England to be cold and wet this time of year.”
    Though her admiration of Walsley was genuine, she seemed to have forgotten about her quest for the journal. At the very least, he had expected her to request more time to search for it. Perhaps she did not have ulterior motives as he had first thought. In retrospect, she had been straightforward about wanting the journal and her desire to purchase the estate, and she was not skilled at hiding her emotions.
    “Never fear, the weather will turn soon. The gardens are quite impressive, though there is little see this time of year.” He pointed to the wall enclosing the terrace, where a few early roses had bloomed. “The espaliered roses were one of the few plants remaining in this garden when I purchased the property.” The breeze carried the perfume of roses to him, leaving him unable to determine whether the intoxicating scent came from her or the flowers.
    “My mother mentioned a wall in the garden that looked as if it was made of roses.” She ran her fingertips across a barren stem. “She said the perfume of the roses drifted into the house while they were in bloom.”
    He nodded. “Yes, it does.” Disquiet pervaded his stomach as another feeling began to spread. Remorse? Though he was guilty of nothing, he did regret having to deny Miss Malboeuf. Her family had a legitimate attachment to Walsley, but he was the one who saved it, restored it, and made it a home again, and he would not give it up.
    Gesturing toward the river, he said, “Reaching the bridge will require a bit of hike. It’s a good thing you decided to wear your boots.”
    She shot him a grin. “The view alone is worth the effort.” Her boots crunched along the gravel path as she walked as if by instinct toward the staircase that led to the footbridge.
    He followed quietly behind, allowing her to take in the magnificent view of the river and the land spread out below them. She ran her hand over the top of the stone wall, then picked a buttercup, twirling it between her fingers as she approached the bridge. He found her more alluring than the scenery.
    She stopped and he drew up beside her. “Can you see the spire in the distance? You may want to visit the church while you are in the area. It is likely the final resting place of many of your ancestors.”
    She turned to him. “Are none of them buried at the chapel here at Walsley? Not even my grandfather?”
    He shook his