Love and the Single Heiress

Catherine forced herself to nod and smile. And accept but yet another step in her son’s need for self-reliance. “Sleep well.”

“I always do.” He kissed Catherine’s cheek, shook Andrew’s hand, then quit the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Andrew’s gaze met hers, and his eyes were filled with quiet understanding. “The closer to adulthood we get,” he said, “the more we want to do things for ourselves.”

“I know. Deep down, I’m very proud of his emerging independence, but there’s also that part of me that misses the little boy who needed me for everything.”

“He’ll always need you, Catherine. Not in the same way he did when he was a baby, of course, but the need for your love and support will always be there.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. And I’m glad.” She smiled. “Being needed is a very nice feeling.”

“It is indeed.”

Something in the way he said the words made her suddenly wonder if they were still talking about Spencer. Before she could decide, he asked, “Would you like to take our stroll? Or…”He indicated the backgammon board with a tilt of his head. “Perhaps you’d first prefer to receive a trouncing, er, engage in a game of chance?”

She raised her brows. “With a man who has already demonstrated that he can toss double sixes at will? Thank you, but no.”

He inclined his head before extending his elbow with a courtly flourish. “Then to the gardens we go.”

Catherine rested her hand very properly on the crook of his elbow, knowing that if she had her way, it was the last proper gesture she would make for the remainder of the evening.

They exited the house through the French windows leading to the terrace. They walked slowly across the flagstones, and Catherine drew a deep breath, absorbing the welcome cool air on her heated skin and the comforting outdoor scents of grass, leaves, and flowers, mixed with the intriguing, subtle hint of sandalwood that belonged to Andrew. The full moon glowed in the dark sky, a gleaming pearl against black velvet, blanketing the landscape with a shimmering silvery illumination.

After walking down the curved steps, they headed toward the garden. The path branched off in several directions, but Catherine veered toward the right.

“Would you mind if we took the left fork?” Andrew asked. “There’s something I want to show you.”

A frown pulled down her brows at tins cog in the wheel of her perfectly laid plans. “What is it?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Confound it, the man vexed her at every crossroads- literally, in this case. There was nothing to the left except a few marble statues, while to the right was the gazebo. And the gazebo was where she intended to lure him. She wanted to insist they walk to the right, indeed she wanted to gallop to the blasted gazebo, but in light of his polite request, she couldn’t think of a way to deny him without appearing churlish. Or blurting out the truth of her plans.

“Very well,” she agreed, hoping she did not sound as disgruntled as she felt. Humph. Well, she’d politely stare at whatever this thing was he wanted to show her, then turn him around. Or she could just continue him along the same path, which would eventually curve around and lead to the back of the gazebo, albeit by a more circuitous route.

Anxious to get on with things, she started down the left path, barely resisting the urge to grab his sleeve and tug him along.

“Do you normally walk so fast, Catherine?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Do you normally walk so slow?”

“Well, this is supposed to be a stroll. Sadly, I did not remember to bring a dictionary, and it appears we are once again in need of one. You seem to have confused the meaning of stroll with that of sprint.”

“I do not require a dictionary. I am simply not a woman who likes to dawdle.”

“Ah. An admirable quality,” he said, slowing his steps even more. Good Lord, snails moved more quickly than this. “However, there are certain things that should be dawdled over.”

“Such as?” She wasn’t particularly interested, but perhaps if she kept him talking, he’d be distracted enough to move along a little faster.

“The sound of a night breeze rustling the leaves. The lingering scent of the day’s blooms…”

She barely suppressed a sigh of impatience. Heaven help her, here he was, waxing poetic about breezes and blooms, while she grew more frustrated by the minute. Could the man not see that she was dying to be held in his arms and kissed until her knees turned to mush?

Ohhh, she inwardly fumed. What sort of miserable luck had fallen upon her to curse her with an attraction to a man who was clearly as thick as fog? And who moved no faster than a sleeping turtle?

“… scent of a woman’s neck.”

That phrase yanked her from her brown study with a jerk. Scent of a woman’s neck? That sounded… interesting. Promising. Damnation, what had she missed? Before she could ask him, he paused, then stepped around to face her. She took note of their surroundings and realized they stood in her favorite spot in the garden, a small, secluded semicircle she fondly referred to as Angel’s Smile. He must have stumbled upon it accidentally, as it was hidden from the main path by tall hedges. A casual walker would pass it by unless they knew to look for it.

“This is your favorite part of the garden,” he said.

Her brows shot upwards. “How did you know that?”

“Fritzborne told me.”

“Indeed? I did not know you two were so… well acquainted.”

“We shared a lengthy chat the day I arrived. We also talked quite a bit while we cleared the debris from the room in the stables where I set up the pugilist’s ring, after which he offered me a glass of his whiskey. He’s a good man. Drinks absolutely vile whiskey, but a good man just the same.”

“You drank whiskey with my stable man?” She tried to imagine Bertrand ever doing something like that and utterly failed.

“I did. And the way that liquor tasted, I’m not sure I’d be able to repeat the task.” He smiled, and his teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “Actually, it was only the first sip that hurt. After that, my insides turned numb.”

“And while you were drinking this whiskey, he just happened to mention that this is my favorite part of the garden.”

“It was actually while we exercised the horses that first day. I asked him to describe your favorite part of the garden. He told me it was a place you called Angel’s Smile and that it was a replica of your mother’s favorite spot in her garden.”

She nodded, slightly bemused. “Fritzborne planted the hedges for me, and I did all the flowers-mostly roses, asters, delphiniums, and lilies, as those were Mother’s favorites.” She looked around her, the peace she always felt in this spot infusing her. “You need to see it during the day to appreciate the beauty and serenity. The way the sun shines through those trees,” she said, pointing to a copse of towering elms about twenty feet away, “bathes this little nook with a semicircle of light that looks like-”

“An angel’s smile.”

“Yes. Before her death, my mother and I spent many happy hours together in the gardens. When I’m here, I feel as if she’s with me, smiling down at me from heaven.” Feeling suddenly embarrassed by her ramblings, she said, “It’s just silly whimsy.”

He gently clasped her hands and entwined their fingers, a gesture that simultaneously comforted and excited her. “It’s not silly, Catherine. It’s important to have places that mean something to us. Places where we can go to settle our thoughts. Find peace. Relive our favorite memories. Or just enjoy a bit of quiet.”

“You must have such a place of your own, to understand it so well.”

“I’ve had many during my travels.”

“Have you one in England?”

“I do.” He smiled. “When next you travel to London, I’ll show you my favorite bench in Hyde Park, and my