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the long dinner, barely aware of Ella’s bright chatter or his father’s occasional response. Instead he silently absorbed the sight and scent of Mercy as she delicately tasted the dishes set before her.
    It was not until dinner came to an end and his father made a hurried retreat to his conservatory that Ian returned to his senses. Devil take him. He was not here to moon over some innocent chit.
    A pity, but there it was.
    There was only one person who knew the secret that Lord Norrington harbored. And that was Lord Norrington.
    Escorting his aunt and Mercy to a small parlor, he kissed their hands and forced himself to make his way through the marble hallways until he at last reached the connecting passageway that led to the conservatory.
    Reaching the glass doors, he found himself pausing.
    As a child this room had been forbidden territory. His father had claimed that he was concerned that a young Ian might cause devastation among his precious blooms, but Ian knew even then that it was merely an excuse to escape his unwelcome presence.
    So, of course, once his father had retreated to his bedchamber, he had nightly slipped from his bed to sneak into the sacred space.
    Not only because he was just stubborn enough to prove (if only to himself) that there was no place he could not enter, but because he had some ridiculous notion that he might discover some key to his father’s heart amidst the fragrant beauty.
    Ridiculous, indeed.
    Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Ian reached out and thrust the door open. The scent of rich, black earth and flowers in bloom hit him as he stepped inside and carefully made his way down the path. It was a scent that he detested, he acknowledged as he continued to the back of the glass-lined room, at last discovering his father carefully repotting a strange orange plant.
    At his approach, the older man turned, his expression far from pleased.
    Welcome home, Ian Breckford, he thought wryly.
    â€œThis is quite a collection,” he murmured, well aware that his father would never speak first. He pointed toward the orange flower. “Very exotic.”
    With an awkward motion, Lord Norrington returned his attention to his plant.
    â€œLord Walford traveled to Africa last year and was kind enough to acquire several rare species for me. I am attempting to make them a sturdier plant to endure our English climate.”
    Ian hid his start of surprise. His father had not only spoken, but, wonder of wonders, it was not in a voice of dismissal.
    Could the old man at last feel some guilt for treating his son as an unwanted bit of rubbish?
    Whatever the cause, Ian knew that he could not waste the opportunity.
    â€œCan you do that?” he demanded. “Actually alter them?”
    â€œPerhaps someday.”
    Careful not to stray too close to Norrington, Ian moved to lean against the heavy wooden table, watching as his father deftly handled the fragile plant.
    â€œHow did you become interested in flowers?” he asked, hoping if he could just get his father into a conversation, he might reveal something. Anything.
    There was a long, awkward silence before Norrington at last cleared his throat.
    â€œMy mother. She loved to spend her days in the garden, and she taught me everything she knew.” His profile tightened as he reached for a rag to roughly wipe his fingers. “My father disapproved, of course.”
    â€œDisapproved?” Ian studied the older man in confusion. “Why?”
    â€œHe thought his heir should be more interested in hunting and drinking with the other fribbles who lived in the neighborhood. It did not matter that my skills were increasing our crop yield and returning a profit he could never hope to achieve on his own.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I was a disappointment, to say the least.”
    Ian felt a familiar sharp pang in the region of his heart. He knew all about being a disappointment. There was not a day of his