Page 69 of A Season for Scandal

“I think she can do anything,” I said reverently. “Part of me thinks she could have flown them here if she set her mind to it. She planned this whole thing, while running the Aviary, schemed all her schemes and still managed to remember to order a gown made to my exact measurements – which I certainly didn’t give her.” I broke off here, glanced around and leaned towards him. “I think she might have measured me in my sleep,” I whispered.

Oliver huffed out a laugh. When he looked down at me, his eyes were warm. “Whatever her underhand machinations may have been, it was worth it. You look lovely.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, thrown by the simple sincerity of his tone, no trace of his usual dryness. I ran my hands over the soft silk of my skirts. “I know we have much more important things to focus on, but I have to admit it was love at first sight for me. I’ve never worn anything like it.”

The dress that Mrs Finch had pulled from between layers of thin tissue paper was a dream. Made in the exact tender green of spring, the neckline was cut in a broad arc, sitting wide on my shoulders. Cinched at the waist, but not at all restrictive, it fell out into a wide pool of silk that diffused into a darker green at the bottom. The elbow-length sleeves and the hem of the dress were embroidered with delicate spikes of pink heather, just like I had seen on the moors.

Heather.Calluna.Meaning: luck and protection.

With my hair pinned up in a loose crown of rose-gold curls threaded with matching heather-pink ribbon, I felt like a fairy queen, and hard as the evening had been, I had to admit that Mrs Finch was on to something when it came to the importance of clothes – this dress felt like armour. Even Mrs Lavigne had been stunned into silence when I had come floating down the stairs, confident that whatever other problems I had, worrying about looking the part was not one of them.

Mrs Finch, glorious herself in a gown of spangled navy tulle, had only beamed like the cat who’d got the cream, while Helene and Izzy descended into raptures over me.

“You look very handsome too,” I said to Oliver now, running my eyes appreciatively over the fine black suit, his usual monochrome appearance broken up by the inclusion of a copper-coloured brocade waistcoat. His jacket fitted him like a glove, the tapered waist and tails emphasizing his tall, lean body, and his black tie was worn in a neat bow, as enticing as the ribbon on a present.

Looking at him properly was, I realized, a mistake, because suddenly my mouth had gone dry and my palms were clammy. My eyes swung away, towards the dark shadows of the garden in front of us, lit only by the light streaming from the house.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he began, unusually tentative, “we could … dance.”

“Dance?” I squeaked. “I – I thought you hated dancing. Do you even know how?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Madam,” he said grandly, “Iama gentleman.”

“Well, I am no lady,” I muttered, cheeks flushing. “I don’t know how to do those fancy waltzes.”

The music drifted softly through the open doors. The smile Oliver gave me was soft, secret.

“Ah, but the beauty of the waltz is that you only need the right partner.” He held out his hand. “Follow me?”

Unable to resist, I watched my fingers touch his as though I had no control over them. His hand wrapped round mine; his other hand went to the small of my back, gently tugging me in towards him.

My heart seemed to be on a mission to beat out of my chest as he began to guide me in the steps. It took a minute or two, but I realized as I softened into his touch that he was right, that if I let the pressure of his hands guide me, then Icoulddance. Sort of. It was probably the worst waltz in the history of waltzing, but as I felt his fingers tight round mine, his shoulder, warm and solid under my touch, the heat of his tall body crowding my own, I didn’t care. I was floating.

“You mowed the lawn,” I said, if only for something to say, something that neither of us had mentioned. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the huskiness in my voice.

He nodded. “Someone told me it was the best place to start, if I wanted to set the garden to rights.”

“And do you?” I asked. “Want to set the garden to rights?”

He lifted the shoulder under my fingers in a shrug. “I think it’s what my mother would have wanted. It would have made her unhappy to see it as it is now. Though I’m not sure I have the vision to do it justice. What would you do?” His eyes slid to me. “If it were yours?”

I tried not to look as if I had been thinking about exactly that since the first time I glimpsed it out of my bedroom window.

“Well, I suppose you could repair the pergola,” I said offhandedly. “Then train some plants over it. Wisteria is always magical in early summer, and then clematis as well. That would give you flowers all the way through to autumn.” I nodded towards it. “You could have seats under there, in the shade. Somewhere soft and inviting to curl up with a book and enjoy the view.”

As he spun us back towards the lawn, I continued dreamily. “Then you could reinstate the existing flower beds, but I would extend the one on the west side all the way down the lawn and then sweep it into a wide curve. It would soften everything and make it feel less formal. I’d focus on a pallet of purples, blues and whites, but with some deep pinks too. Nothing too structured, but a little wild-looking, tumbling, romantic – some lovely scented roses too, fat and pretty, with a bench to sit on and enjoy them.” I briefly lifted my hand and pointed off to the side before returning it to his shoulder. “Over there I would put in a large pond with a water feature – there’s nothing nicer than the sound of running water when you’re sitting in a garden.

“I’d have steps going down to the back lawn and repair the wall so that it was a proper walled garden again. You could grow beds of flowers like a nursery there, fruit and vegetables too if you were interested. And then, most importantly, the greenhouse.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “There is space for a huge greenhouse, and what you could grow in there … well, the possibilities are limitless. You could grow rare tropical plants, propagate the most temperamental roses, and you could do it on such a scale…” I trailed off here and glanced up to find Oliver looking down at me with laughter in his eyes.

“It sounds,” he said solemnly, “as though you have given the matter some thought.”

“No! I… It just… You asked for my opinion!” I flushed, the words coming out defensively.

“I did,” he agreed. “And I’m glad.” His eyes drifted over the land in front of us as if he were picturing the scene I had described. “I like the way you talk about it.”

“It’s a joy, really,” I said simply, as he spun me under the stars. “It all comes out of joy. Making something like a garden, it takes patience and hard work. You don’t see the results at once; sometimes you don’t see the results for years. It’s an exercise in hope.”

“You make it sound … healing,” Oliver said.