Page 28 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
He did not respond at once. Instead, he took the seat beside her, allowing his gaze to settle on the open page between them. A rendering of Epimedium alpinum faced a brief essay on soil acidity and shaded environments. His mother had even noted the changing behavior of pollinators across seasons.
“She used to bring me here in the days of my youth,” he said quietly. “My father called it idle indulgence. She called it instruction.”
Genevieve glanced at him sidelong.
“Did she succeed?” she asked.
He smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes.
“I learned to observe, if nothing else,” he said. “She insisted there was dignity in patient attention.”
Genevieve turned another page.
“Then you absorbed more than you admit,” she said, gently teasing.
Gabriel scoffed gently, but not without affection.
“I doubt she would say so,” he said, his voice thinning as he added, “She died before I could prove otherwise.”
A silence followed, not uncomfortable, but full. Genevieve traced a line of script beneath a drawing of wild campion.
“She had talent,” she said. “This could have been published.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“She never pursued recognition,” he said. “She preferred to work quietly, away from scrutiny. I have often thought—“ He stopped, then shook his head. “No matter.”
Genevieve stepped toward him with an encouraging expression.
“Pray, there is no cause for concern,” she said. “I am willing to hear what you wish to say.”
Gabriel took a visible breath before he sighed.
“I have often thought she might have been happier had she been permitted ambition,” he said.
Their shoulders now touched, the space between them narrowed not by intention but shared focus. Genevieve held still, aware of the solid presence besideher, of the subtle scent of sandalwood and linen, of the warmth that radiated from him in steady measure. The page before them displayed a rare alpine variety she had only seen once, long ago in her aunt’s garden. Her fingers moved toward the edge to examine the details and met his. His hand stilled beneath hers, neither withdrawn nor assertive. The stillness became something else entirely. She did not move. Nor did he. Then, Gabriel cleared his throat, and the moment fractured like thin glass.
He turned the page slowly, his fingers just a degree less certain. The next illustration of a fuchsia specimen from South America, labeled in graceful Latin, came into view, and Genevieve gasped softly.
“This ought to be preserved properly,” she said. “There is mildew on some of the bindings.”
Gabriel’s expression brightened. It was another thing he could do to encourage his wife’s pursuits, which was suddenly almost as important to him as his own.
“I can arrange for their protection,” he said, though his tone remained subdued. “Or you may continue to review them as you see fit.”
Genevieve smiled and nodded.
“I should like that,” she said. “But I will tell you if I do not think that they will thrive without a little more assistance.”
He nodded and rose. She remained seated, fingers still curled against the edge of the journal. He did not touch her again. Nor did he speak of it. Yet something had altered between them, and it did not feel altogether uncomfortable. Was Gabriel truly interested in supporting her endeavors?
Chapter Eleven
The morning had been unusually still, the sort of silence that unsettled rather than soothed. Gabriel stood near the south-facing window of his study, reviewing ledgers inked with projected harvest returns, when a firm knock fell hard against the door.
“Enter,” he said, already folding the page aside.
Mr. Winters stepped into the room, his coat marked with dust and damp, a streak of dried mud across one boot.
