Page 42 of A Fragile Enchantment

Kit sighed the moment the door clicked shut behind them, and she sensed a weight lifting from him. As he followed the flagstone path into the greenhouse, flowers opened toward him and shook loose their pollen, as though preening for his attention. She liked the way contentment looked on him. Niamh wasn’t sure if he was even aware of how much he’d relaxed, and she wasn’t about to wind him up again by telling him.

“This is spectacular,” she said. “I didn’t realize you liked gardening.”

“I don’t. It’s tedious. But I did a lot of it while I was gone, and Jack wants me to keep myself busy.”

“What kind of garden did you keep?”

With an edge of self-deprecation, he said, “I worked on an olive orchard on some island in Helles.”

“Oh. Wow!” It made sense now, she supposed, that he hardly behaved like a prince if he’d lived for years among commoners. His manners—even his speech—were more unrefined than any other noble she’d met. He was like a purebred cat, turned loose and taught to survive in the wild. “That sounds difficult.”

“It was,” he replied. “Granted, I was drunk most of the time, until about a year ago. Makes things a little harder.” He watched her, clearly waiting for her to recoil.

“Congratulations,” she said, and she meant it. “A year is an incredible achievement.”

“Don’t patronize me.” There wasn’t much heat to it. If anything, he looked unsettled by her praise—maybe even bashful. “At any rate, this place is much easier to manage. It was my mother’s greenhouse. She grew everything herself from seed, so my father always thought it an expensive waste of time. Any of us could have grown it three times over for her in a matter of hours. But she was stubborn that way.”

So that was where he got it from. She smiled at the thought.

So many questions bubbled up—everything fromWhat was she like?toWhat is your favorite flower?—but she didn’t want to frighten him off. He hadn’t mentioned either of his parents to her before. Yet his tone was matter-of-fact and dispassionate, as though he was discussing the weather rather than his dead mother and ill father. Niamh stroked the delicate petals of an orchid, just to keep herself from staring at him. “It must bring back memories to be here.”

“I suppose.” She’d never before encountered someone who so chafed against sympathy. “Someone has to keep the flowers alive, and I don’t trust the gardeners to do it. This place was a wreck when I got home.”

Niamh bent over a pot and pressed her nose to a flower, a starburst of indigo petals. It gave off the slightest peppery smell. “Do you need any help?”

“No. I don’t want you tripping over anything.” He gave her a strange look. “If you want something with an actual scent, you may enjoy the lilacs more. They’re two rows down.”

“Oh.” She flushed, quickly straightening up to her full height. “Thank you.”

He nodded stiffly, then went to retrieve a watering can from a hook beside the door. While he busied himself with the flowers, Niamh took the opportunity to wander. She ambled through therows of flowers, her sketchbook tucked in the crook of her elbow and her fingers trailing over the most inviting blooms, until at last she found a place to install herself: atop a pile of burlap sacks, filled to bursting with soil. Comfortable enough, she decided. She was so tired, anything was better than standing.

She rested her chin on her fists and watched Kit. The greenhouse was enormous, and she was frankly astounded that he had the patience for such time-consuming work. But he settled into an easy rhythm, watering and pruning each of his plants with a practiced assurance. The sunlight trickling through the windows turned the air syrupy and warm. If she closed her eyes for even a moment, she’d doze off.How quaint it would be,she thought,to spend every morning this way.

Kit unbuttoned his jacket and abandoned it on the worn handle of a spade. Anotherpopof buttons, pearly in the light, and he began to roll his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Just below the bun at the nape of his neck, his skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Humid air trailed its fingers slyly down her collar, and her mouth went entirely dry.

Suddenly, it was quite hot in here indeed.

Niamh forced her gaze back to her empty sketchbooks, her face burning furiously. Gods, how much time had she wasted sitting here moonily, just after she vowed to focus? And yet, in those few minutes she’d stolen from herself, she had felt… contentment.

She shoved the thought away and set to work sketching her ideas. By the time Kit’s shadow fell over her, she’d finished no fewer than five designs for a potential wedding cloak.

“You’re covered in dirt,” he said.

“Huh?” She glanced down at her dress. Indeed, dirt streaked her skirts like careless daubs of paint.How could this have…?When she turned over her hands, her palms, too, were covered in soil and pollen. It must’ve happened sometime between touchingall of the flowers and seating herself on a veritable mountain of dirt. “Oh. Oh no.”

Kit rested a hand on his hip. Something unusual glittered in his eyes. Not disdain or irritation… Butamusement.Her temper flared mutinously. “How did you manage that just by sitting here? It’s almost impressive.”

“There’stonsof dirt in here! It’s not that difficult.”

“There is,” he conceded. “Most of it is in pots.”

“Enough,” she cried indignantly, “I get it already!”

He smirked. “It’s as though—”

“Stop it, K—” She cut herself off.

His expression shuttered again, sharp and assessing. “Why won’t you call me by my name?”