Chapter Twelve

The Flora Festival

The noise, tap, tap made Theodosia snuggle in her blanket. Frederica would have to wait for a decent hour to hear more gossip.

Tap.

It was too early for her chamber maid.

The rhythm continued. She sat up, pulling the bedclothes to her chin. Her eyes slowly opened to the ebony darkness. She struck a match and lit a candle. Gazing at Philip’s sleeping form, her pulse slowed. He lay still beside her, hopefully enjoying pain-free dreams.

Before she could tuck the covering about his shoulder, the noise started again. This time she heard the ting ting. It was something hitting the balcony door glass panes. Something outside wanted in.

Blinking, Theodosia squinted at the curtains. Through the parting of the fabric, she spied an outline, a ghost, no a man. Ewan?

Like a cat, she sprung up, closing the sheers to her bed, hiding her sleeping son.

Fear pumped through her, her ghost…too near her boy.

Holding her breath, she pulled on her robe and cinched it tight. Starting to the doors on tiptoes she stopped. Philip wouldn’t hear. Only if he were looking at you and concentrating could he make out noise with his good ear.

Sad and sighing, she stood at the glass doors, staring at the frowning man on the other side.

His hands were on his breeches. The man bent, half-hunched over, gasping air. “Theo. Open up.”

“Go home.” She hoped he’d heed and not wake the house, but the fire in his gaze said no. He wouldn’t be moved. “Please.”

“Not until we speak.” He punched at the glass while still gulping like his lungs weren’t working. “Not with this between us.”

Unbelievable. Ewan rapped against the door, wheezing like an old fool. What did he expect climbing up here? And he could’ve fallen. Her chamber sat high on the second floor.

He banged this time, harder. “Let me in.” His voice sounded louder this time.

Philip might not hear, but the rest of the house would. She couldn’t have more whispers about her conduct, not after the footman had witnessed the argument outside the brothel. Resigned, she unlatched the door and pushed onto the balcony. “Be quick.”

Ewan strutted forward, like a peacock, a panting peacock. “You don’t look sick.”

His shortness of breath filled her with unwanted concern. “You do. Are you very winded?”

“It will pass. It always does.” He pressed at his chest in the spots where she’d felt his scars. “Overexerted myself climbing up here. Not quite the same as when Jasper and I did it as children.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Ewan. It’s too dark and dangerous to balance on my tree. Did you step on my clematis blooms to get here?”

Bright moonlight streamed about him, making his shoulders seem broader. He chuckled and leaned against the rail, dusting his hands. “Fretting over flowers? No regard for me falling?”

She folded her arms to keep from shoving him over the rail. “You chose to climb. No one made you. Why are you here? What if someone saw you sneaking in here?”

“From what I remember of our time together, you were consumed with lavender, not clematis.”

“Good night, Ewan.”

She reached for the doors, attempting to close them upon him, but this time he was faster and both his large hands covered hers.

Warm, rough, and alive. The heat of his skin seared her flesh, made her knees weak. “Leave me, Ewan. Please.”

He opened the doors fully and sauntered inside. His brows popped up as his head dipped, then raised, as he circled her. “Creamy white silk is much better than dark, heavy mourning robes.”

The glint in his eyes made her pulse race. His touch brought that dangerous, swirling, out-of-control feeling. It engulfed her, but she folded her arms about her middle like a shield. No matter how weak she was for him, he wasn’t going to make her rash. “Say what you have to say then over the balcony and out of my life.”

He leaned on the doorframe. “I have been trying to see you for days. I’m tired of waiting. You should understand that, Mrs. Cecil.”

She refused to respond to his baiting and held all her retorts that it was his fault she’d needed Mathew. Ewan needed his say, if only to make it right that she’d dumped him at the docks. Nodding, she said, “Continue, but be brief. I have a long day tomorrow. The festival begins.”

“Yes, the Flora Festival. Pickens said you’ve exhausted yourself in the planning, but I’ve come with an ultimatum from the earl. He’ll triple his offer. He will pay three times the previous amount for the water leases.”

“Triple? And just for leases. Not to buy all my land.” She tugged on her robe sash, almost turning toward her canopy bed but stopped. “Not my requested multiple of twenty?”

His eyes squinted. He pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and pushed it between her fingers. “This is reasonable. And take hold of it. Read it for yourself. I know my notions hold little weight, but this is a valid offer to continue the water use. This will bring peace between neighbors.”

“But Lester won’t let me agree. He wants…” She took the paper, and curled it within her fingers. “Even if what you say is true, I can’t sign this yet. It will force my hand, literally.” She moved to her desk and lit a candle. Using the light, she scanned the pages. It said what Ewan stated.

With heavy steps, he followed. She felt his breath on her neck before she turned.

“I can read it to you as in direct address. You used to like me reading to you, Theo. You used to like me.”

She glared at him. “I don’t want you haunting me anymore.”

“Yes. You made that quite clear in your carriage. But I must resolve this before the earl does. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

The concern in his voice was palpable, heart stopping, and she had to remember that this was the same man who’d left her in fear of his father’s wrath. “I’ll manage.”

His hand lifted, and she tensed, as if he were going to touch her.

Frowning, he grunted something then leaned past her and picked up her letter from the baron. “Oh, how droll, teasing you about regrets. I suppose you’ll tell him how I misled you, poor innocent you.”

He tossed the paper to the desk, then curled his palm under his chin. “Do be kind when you tell him how you never responded to my kisses, not even the ones in the carriage. No, that would be a lie, like saying, ‘I’ll wait for you to return from the Peninsula,’ when you obviously didn’t.”

Breathing heavy in short bursts, as if he had touched his lips to hers, she slipped to the side of him. “I wish for you to take your mocking and seductions and go.”

A smile lit his face and he moved to her again. “Seduction only works if the object is in the mood to be swayed. I’m no bounder. I’ve taken no liberties, nothing that wasn’t freely offered.”

“I never said you took anything.”

“Theo, you made a great performance of it in your carriage. That kiss, the sizzling one that sent me flopping out the door like a happy puppy about to feast on the cook’s soup bones—that was done well. You should manage theater. The production was quite fine.”

“I was wrong to do that, but you used that storm to try to…confuse me. That was wrong, too.”

He rubbed at his neck. “I didn’t mean to take advantage. I remembered how you hated storms and meant to be of comfort. But I can’t help my attraction to you. That doesn’t make me nefarious; it makes me a man. I’m not seeking to ruin you, well, not like that. Admit that I’m no bounder. Six years ago, I was a man who was alone with the woman he loved.”

Those pretty eyes of his held her captive, but it was easy to say this truth. “Yes Ewan, you are no bounder.”

“Good. I like my sins known.” His gaze raked over her.

She pulled at her lacy robe again, feeling exposed to his hungry, hypnotic gaze. “You chose your elegant words to make me believe a lie, that you would marry me, honor, and protect me. I forgave you when I thought you’d died. I only tried to remember the good, not that you’d abandoned me when I needed you. But now, I see the truth, how you will use your elegant words to ruin my reputation.”

In slow motion, he put a palm to her elbow. “I took your name out. I will not put it back in because we are fighting.”

“What of the carriage? Ewan, you’re not in love with me, but you kissed me like you are.”

He walked around her again, lowly humming to himself. “I’m still a man, Theo, and a little weight looks truly well on you.”

“Haven’t you ever seen a robe before? Or a mature woman?” She wanted to add that she’d had a baby, but she didn’t, not with Philip sleeping a few feet away.

His grin returned. “Yes. But since I’ve returned, I’ve only seen you in dark billowy garbs. Sheer looks good upon you, and you’re not pregnant.”

What? Not ashamed of her curves, she lifted her chin. “Thank you, I think, but why would you…” She shook her head, knowing his new conspiracy would take today’s peace. “Mathew Cecil thought me very pretty. You’ve delivered your message, but you being here is not proper. Someone could catch you. They’ll think—”

A snore whistle sounded. Soft at first, then loud.

“We’re not alone, Theo.” Anger etched his jaw as it tightened. “Here I am trying to protect you.” His voice deepened. “Thinking this Lester fellow is bad and he’s trying to force his way into your bed, and he’s already here. Let me congratulate him with my fists.”

“No. Ewan stop.”

Unable to grab him, he sprang over to her big bed and drew back the canopy curtain.

Theodosia came upon him and caught the shift in his face, the slacking of his jaw.

Ewan saw Philip.

But did her poor boy see Ewan?

Another sleepy snort whistled.

Philip didn’t even awake with the commotion.

Relief sweating through her pores, Theodosia pulled Ewan’s hands away and yanked the curtains closed. “Stop before you wake my son.”

Ewan took another peek before turning to her. “I’m sorry, Theo. You make me cork-brained.”

“I can’t make you anything.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve never been a jealous man. I’m a second son. I missed titles and wealth by the virtue of birth order.” His palm curled about the knurled post of the footboard. “I lost this estate to Cecil by the premature reports of my death. None of this deeply cut, not until I found out he had you. And you have born him a son.”

He looked as if he’d go back to Philip.

Against her resolve or even better judgment, she reached for Ewan and rubbed his forearm. “I’m sorry, but he’s a good boy.”

“Little comfort, Theo. I’m envious, stewing inside. Cousin Cecil married you. From all accounts, you two seemed happy and you have a boy. If I’d stayed, if you hadn’t thought me dead, he could be my son.”

Gulping in her guilt, she fought the urge to shout to him, Yes, Philip is yours! The truth dangled upon her tongue but so did the fear of what would happen next. More fussing, and Ewan would steal her boy’s honorable name and not defend him to the world. His Fitzwilliam family would come first, not the flower seller’s. She’d rather die than allow anyone to call Philip the names she bore, the names her dear Frederica had to endure. With a yank, she stole back her hand and clasped her elbow. “We can’t look back.”

“Well, now I know why Cecil married his mistress. He wanted his boy to have a name. Someone he could leave a legacy.” He punched at his hand. “Blasted Cecil, you standup fellow.”

She looked down at her robe and scooped up the sash. “This is for the best. You think your father would want a mulatto heir? I know he wouldn’t. Your mother wouldn’t want that, either.”

Ewan ran his fingers through his hair. “My mother would love my son. She’s nothing like Lord Crisdon. But it matters not what anyone thinks.”

“It matters to you, Ewan. I remember how it tormented you not to have their blessing.”

He frowned. “All I know is my cousin was the luckiest man.” Ewan chuckled as if he’d gone mad. “I truly hate him.”

She followed behind him out of the house and into the night, watching those broad shoulders sag. His emotions had to be as raw as hers. The man had seen his son. He said he was jealous of Mathew’s claim to Philip. Even now, tears threatened at the costs Ewan bore. Once upon a time she was the one with whom he’d shared dreams. And she’d treasured those moments. Now, she was part of his nightmares. She put a hand to his shoulder. “I am so sorry. What’s done is done.”

He turned it and clutched her hand to his chest. “Is it? Or is it to be repeated. I can’t deny my attraction to you is still alive.”

“I’m a threat to your Fitzwilliam family, remember? You wrote me as a villain in your play. Go home. Maybe read some more of that foul Shakespeare you’re so fond of.”

“You remember?”

“Yes, Ewan. I remember. I remember everything. I did like you reading to me.”

He didn’t release her hand and swung her until the big bright moon seemed reachable. “Well, we are on a balcony. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night. Give me my Theo; and, when I shall die, take her and cut her out in little stars, that will make the face of heaven so fine. All the world will be in love with night.”

It was hard to breathe. The cheek he touched burned as if branded. “You and your fancy words.”

“They’re foul Shakespeare’s from his Romeo and Juliet, a forbidden love from opposing families.”

“We’re the same family now, sort-of-cousin.”

Ewan lips brushed her forehead. “Let me make this plain. I still want you, Theo. And you should admit that part of your kisses were true. You still feel something for me.”

Her heart stopped, and it would never beat right again if she started believing in him, if she again gave in to that desperate-for-her look in his eyes. She stepped backward. “You have your play. Once I’m married, I’ll sign the papers you brought. Your father will be proud of you handling this.”

“That solves his problems, Theo. Not mine.”

With a slow step, he stood within inches of her, but kept his hands to his side, not wrapping her in those arms that would make her wilt against him like a lily lacking water. “Choose to kiss your cousin.”

For a moment, she imagined pressing into his arms and waiting for him to take away her breath. In the carriage, Ewan had proved his kisses were the same as six years ago, dangerous and wild.

But she couldn’t think of herself, only Philip. He needed a champion more than she needed to be held in arms that wanted her. Taking another step back, she shook her head. “Go home, Ewan.”

“Theo. Everything has been frozen inside of me.”

“You don’t know me anymore. I still hate thunderstorms, but I’m different. I have a son who needs a mother he can respect. And I mourn a husband who made sure we were safe. He didn’t care one whit about what others thought. He was our champion. I knew I was completely safe. His promises never changed.”

“I was young. I had to be able to provide for us, and I didn’t think we could survive with the earl against us. I should’ve believed more in us. He stopped my first play from being sold. That’s the only reason I agreed. He never changed my mind about you. I left for war, thinking it would be a quick year and you and I would be free, with nothing to stop us.”

She wanted to believe him, but too much was at stake. “We can’t go backward. And it’s not proper for you to be in my bedchamber or meeting me in the fields saying such things. Please, as your cousin’s widow, if you care anything for me, go back to Grandbole as quietly as you came.”

Standing erect, he reached for her hand and kissed it. “Then it’s time to move forward.” Gripping her palm high he spun her again, as he had at the beginning of his fine speech, as he had on the hill, as he had so many years ago. “I will court you again.”

On the balcony, he twirled faster and faster until she clasped him tight to stop the world from spinning. He dipped his head atop hers and held her.

“I am Fitzwilliam. You know that makes me determined to win you. I will not be deterred. You need a husband and father for this boy or you wouldn’t have placed an advertisement for one. Let it be me. Let me tend to you, Theo.” He bent his head. His mouth neared hers. “Like it should’ve been before. Let me be the one. Turn to me.”

His heart pounded in her ear and the scent of him—tangy sagebrush mixed with sweet oak from the tree he’d climbed—enveloped her. Right or wrong, she parted her lips, wanting to swirl away, lost in him.

“Open your eyes, Theo.” Ewan pushed her shoulders and eased her rising tiptoe stance back down. “The right way this time. With a minister…and a bed, a wide bed. Let’s elope now.”

“Ewan, my husband’s festival is tomorrow.”

“Late husband, remember. You’re querying for a newspaper groom. Do I need to respond to your advertisement?”

It was good he didn’t kiss her. One kiss might lead to another and tomorrow would disappear. She could feel herself falling for his teasing, but would he be there to catch her? “Ewan, we were young and not smart enough to keep our love. I must tell you. Something that I don’t think you will forgive.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the past, backward.”

“But what I must say will ruin things. I must tell—”

He did kiss her this time, cutting off her words, her reservations, even the power to reason. His palms molded her against him and took possession of her breathing. He became air and she savored how he filled her chest with love. She levitated in his arms, so high, so fast that tomorrow didn’t have to appear.

“No, sweet Theo. Not until the banns are read, then you’ll be mine completely.” He put her feet back onto the balcony and held her until his heart stopped racing. “Consider this a verbal application to your advertisement. I want equal, no, all of your consideration. We will elope after the festival. I’m not taking no and if I have to kiss you all the way to Scotland and back I will.” With a safe kiss to her brow, he turned and threw a leg over the rail. “See you tomorrow, Theodosia Cecil, soon to be my bride.”

He said her name, her whole one. “Fitzwilliams don’t come to the Flora Festival.”

“This one is. I’m coming to honor my cousin and his widow and formally meet his son. I am to be the boy’s new stepfather tomorrow. He should meet me and get used to me. I will be around this time because we elope once the festival closes.”

Her traitorous lips didn’t say no. She watched Ewan lower himself into the tree and disappear into the night.

Going inside, she closed the door and leaned her head against the panes. The determination in his eyes was different than it had been six years ago. That scared her more than anything. How was she going to keep Philip safe, safe from angry in-laws, horrid business partners, and out-of-control passion?

She’d tell Ewan the whole truth tomorrow. Then he’d know why she couldn’t marry him. Ewan would either despise her again or understand why she wouldn’t expose Philip to Fitzwilliam hate.

If she couldn’t marry Ewan, she still needed a husband. She dropped into her desk chair, pushed aside Ewan’s lease paper, and began penning her greatest regret to the baron: she’d been so focused on the memory of a lost love, that she had fallen prey to hard times and almost starved to death, hurting her child. She’d send this note off tomorrow. If the baron dared to write back to newspaper advertisement number four, then he was the man who would stand by her and defend her to the Court of Chancery. If not, she’d marry the squire, anyone whose name wasn’t Fitzwilliam.

A man who could be counted upon was who she needed, not a ghost who suddenly wanted to live again in her heart.

…

The musicians could be heard all the way up to Grandbole. Ewan had his youngest scamp niece dressed and ready to join the fun below, the Flora Festival. The air held the tart smell of fresh-cut hay.

They hopped all the way to the patio and spent countless minutes numbering the gathering crowds. The parish church bells rang and gonged in symphony with shepherds, who set and pitchforked hay bundles on the edges of Cecil property. It was medieval and wonderful.

Little Lucy tugged on his hand. “Anne and Lydia would like to come, Uncle.”

“Well, they shouldn’t have exchanged my ink for mud, dear.”

“They didn’t mean it.”

The child’s father came onto the patio, bent down, popped Lucy’s drooping chin up with his finger. “No, they didn’t mean to get caught.” Chuckling, Jasper straightened, clear-eyed, energized. He reached out and thumbed Ewan in the chest right atop his deepest scar. “Literally, they’ve tried to scare him so much they’ll give his weak heart pains.”

“My heart’s not that weak, just scared and cautious. Girls will do that, won’t they, Hartwell?” Ewan swung his niece, her white dress floating about her short legs. Absolutely cute.

The wistful look in Jasper’s light blue eyes concurred. “They’ve tormented your uncle Ewan enough. Missing the festival is fitting punishment. Besides, it’ll take the two of us just to keep you from mischief.”

Setting down the girl, Ewan looked down to Tradenwood. “Seems quite a show.”

“One year, Cecil had chimney sweeps on his roof, dancing and singing with their brooms. They wore gilt paper and masks. It was a sight to see. Cecil had a fondness for extravagance and made his festival like a May Day celebration. It’s crowded and noisy, perfect for an afternoon of ridiculousness.”

Ewan scooped up Lucy and pointed to the fields. “Look at the milkmaids. I guess it’s them with the wide skirts of red and gold.”

“Uncle, they have huge pyramids on their heads.” She put her hands above her head like she balanced something, too. “I want to do it. Mama used to make us paper hats, but with regular paper, not the gold stuff.”

Jasper’s countenance soured for a moment. “Maria did that? We never went. I didn’t know she…” He took his dark top hat and popped it atop Lucy’s bonnet. “You can use this.”

The giggling girl put it on for a second then handed it back. “This is round.”

Impatience winning over humor, Ewan started down the steps. “Let’s go see the pyramids and all the gilt paper. You never went?”

“No, your mother hated it and pretty much convinced everyone it was low class and a travesty to Tradenwood. I’d never heard her scream before my oldest brought up going. But Maria liked fun and music. I should’ve known she would go.”

Mother…screaming? Ewan shook his head, but realized Theo wasn’t the only one mourning a legend, a mate who seemed more perfect than life. Was love possible again for one who had loved and lost so deeply? Ewan thought about his own heart and what he believed he had felt for Theo six years ago and now. There was a chance for them now. Right?

He had to get her to elope…in his brother’s carriage. What type of man did that make Ewan? Shrugging inwardly, he picked up his pace. “I’ll not tell Mother we are going. Can you keep that secret, Lucy?”

“Yes, Uncle. Now hurry. I hear a violin.”

“I’ll not tell Lady Crisdon.” Jasper caught up and took his laughing girl from Ewan and put her onto his shoulder. “Perhaps, I should blend in. Maybe borrow Father’s other title again, Lord Tristian.”

“No.” Ewan lowered his tone and plastered on a smile. He didn’t want to upset the letter-writing widow. She’d be humiliated and think he was up to tricks. She’d never trust Ewan, and her trust was important. He tugged his niece out of the way of a parade of toe-tapping musicians who rammed through the thick crowd, making their own path. “I think you should be your lovable viscount self. In fact, stay long enough to attest to our family only wanting the leases, nothing more. Not her land.”

Jasper nodded. “Can you attest the same? Nothing else you seek?”

There was more, but Theodosia had to come away with him first. “Let’s get to Tradenwood before all of London arrives.”

Ewan let Jasper and Lucy lead the way as he followed behind. The rhythm of the musicians hit him first, the laughter, and buzz of the crowds. Then the heady smells of cooked pork called to his spirit and the breakfast he’d skipped. If it had the tart tamarind like the dishes of the West Indies, he’d dance himself dizzy. He’d missed that taste since his regiment disbanded.

His hungered spirit leapt when he saw Theo. Her hair was curled and pinned high, leaving her neck free for nuzzling. Yet, she stood on the portico wrapped in gray. Distant, lonely gray. She needed music and Shakespeare. She needed lightness.

With rainbow colors for paper patterns and bright pink table linens surrounding her festival, shouldn’t she come alive with an emerald ribbon in her silky hair?

Staring at her like a schoolboy couldn’t be done, so Ewan parted from his brother and niece as they became more interested in the hot air balloon hovering above the blooms. He headed to the food tables, slipping through the crowds separating him from Theo.

A wild cart owner pushed his wares too near his toes, so Ewan bounced out of harm’s way and stood behind a man and older woman awaiting their turn at the carvers.

“Old Cecil would love this,” one said.

The other sneered over her yellowing teeth. “The darkie got it right. The perfect amount of garish and finery.”

“If you feel that way, Millie, why did you drag us here?”

“I wanted to see what she’d do and if she’d taken up with someone else. A rich widow is still rich, no matter how black.”

“Stop it, Millie. She’s a fairer vendor than Lord Crisdon, and you’d never see the likes of us invited to anything with their name on it.”

“I hate the name of them.”

Stepping away, a myriad of emotions swished into Ewan’s throat like hot gall. It wasn’t the insult on his family that burned, but the ones to Theo. These people ate her food, drank her wines, and did business with her, but still talked about her badly…

As he had in his play.

His gut twisted a little more. Theo wasn’t stupid. She knew to the penny the cost of each morsel. She knew their sentiment. Yet she’d committed to this fair, all the trouble and expense. This Theodosia was indeed different from the girl he knew. He hungered to know her more.

He spun and glanced at Jasper running after Lucy who had Maypole ribbons. Lucy pattered up to a lady trimmed in a fine bisque bonnet and pale peach-colored gown.

Taking another look at her fair features, the indeterminate shade of brownish gold curls, she looked like one of Theo’s friends from the theater. He cupped his hand to his eyes and looked again. Was that the Duke of Simone’s daughter with Jasper and Lucy?

Mulatto or not, the woman and his niece had his poor brother twisted up in pink ribbons. Yet, Jasper was laughing, a full-bodied, belly-shaking laugh.

Jasper deserved to be happy. If only he could find a way to stay that way. Then he wouldn’t be chasing after a bottle, a newspaper bride, or inadvertently, Theo.

Looking to the left and then to the right, Ewan saw revelers, and people pushing food carts, but where had Theo gone? Searching, his gaze fell upon Theo’s son, a little boy with an ashy tan complexion. He played near the bottom of the steps of the portico. An older woman sat at his side. Maybe she was his governess.

The woman came closer to the boy right in front of his face. “I’m going to get us lemonade. Stay here,” she said in a loud voice, before kissing his head and leaving him to play. The child was alone, a perfect time for an introduction.

Ewan’s chest had no more room for what-ifs: what if he’d stayed, what if she’d waited for him, what if they’d married…instead he’d fill them with would-be’s. She would accept him, he would be her lover, her husband, a stepfather to her child, and father to another babe. Well, he would enjoy trying for that one.

“Cousin?”

He turned at the sound of Theo’s voice. Tipping his top hat to her, he bowed. “Is everything fine?”

She bit her lip for a moment then said, “I didn’t think you’d really come. Fitzwilliams never attend.”

Extending his arm to her, he waited for her to take it, but she didn’t move. Disappointed at how wary she seemed again, he dropped his palm to his side. “I’m here and so is my brother, Lord Hartwell, and my niece. You should meet them, Cousin, as I am going to meet your son.”

As he stepped toward the boy, she came close and took his arm. “He’s playing, enjoying the fresh air. You can meet him later.”

“Why? You’re coddling him? The boy’s still in a pinafore, even with his little knobby knees exposed.”

Her fingers tightened about his elbow. “They’re not so knobby, but he is little.”

Ewan’s gut was at odds. He liked her being so near, her holding on to him with the scent of lavender making him want to dip his head to her neck and inhale all of her. Yet, she was only touching him to keep him from her son. He pried at her thumb to be released and took two more steps to the boy. “Your son, he must be young or he’d be breached and in a full pair of pants.”

A wince washed across her countenance. “He’s not six, but I suppose your father tried to make you boys men as soon as possible. I want my son to enjoy every minute. I’ve no expectations of his growing other than health.”

She had mistaken his fishing for an age as condemnation. He must have sounded judgmental, very much like the earl. He gazed at the boy again. He seemed frail as he rolled the hoop back and forth between his palms. Remembering Theo’s first response to the newspaper advertisement he and Jasper had penned, about a sickly child, Ewan wanted to smack his stupid gut. The boy suffered and Ewan felt even more the blackguard.

“There’s something I have to say.” Tears were in her voice as she seemed to choke and sputter. “I need—to tell—”

“Let’s go somewhere private.” She couldn’t accept his proposal between jugglers and musicians. No, it had to be in private, where he could kiss away any sadness. Her bold confession about wishing things were different, that she still felt love for him, that she wondered if they could start anew would be applause-worthy. Except, that would be the line he’d pen for one of his heroes.

Her other friend from the theater, the shorter girl with a pearl-laced bonnet, came to her side. “Mrs. Cecil. There’s a young woman who says she must see you.”

Theo raised her head. Her countenance cleared and his hope of her coming to her senses disappeared, too. “Take me to her, Miss Croome.”

He clasped at Theo’s hand but she slipped away. “But our talk?”

As soon as a dray cleared the path, the ladies started to move again, but Theo stopped. Over her shoulder she said, “We will, Cousin, after all is done.”

He let her ominous tone sink in as he watched her walk away. Didn’t sound like a confession of love was forthcoming. Was she going to reject him? No, he felt in his bones that this was right for them to wed. Something else was amiss.

Whatever it was, she would have to release it, forgive him, forgive herself, and then move forward. He’d tell her it was fine. No more guilt for what had happened. Things were finally on the right path. He was going to be a successful playwright, and this rivalry between the flower farms would be done as soon as Theo signed the papers. Everyone had a chance for peace, if they seized it with both hands and never let go.

Scanning, he found Theo again. Miss Croome had led her to the patio and up to the terraced gardens. The elegant negress with her creamy coffee complexion left Theo with a young blonde.

The girl’s hand swung wildly.

His chest beat faster. He feared for Theo.

Something had to be amiss. Before he could stop himself, he started moving. He dashed to the side as a wobbly dray rumbled in front of him, nearly missing his leg.

Not waiting for an apology or acknowledgment, he moved closer to the gardens, navigating around a food cart. Everything was chaotic, like his beating heart. He raced up the terraces, past the laughing crowds, and stopped at the knee wall of the patio. He was within earshot of Theo.

“All can be made fine,” Theo said. “You’ll come work for me now.”

“I’ll take what you’ve given me and go to the country and have this babe. I have a cousin who’ll help.”

“If that’s what you think is best. You have to keep this babe safe. You have to eat a lot, even if you don’t want to.” Theo’s voice sounded weepy.

Ewan fought the urge to come out of the shadows. Something was dreadfully wrong.

“Mrs. Cecil, I should’ve listened to you when you came to Burlington Arcade. I shoulda listened. You said not to be his mistress.”

Theo, giving mistress advice? Ewan rose from the wall and stared at them. He didn’t care if he was discovered. He had to hear things correctly.

Theo had the girl in an embrace again.

The young woman snapped up, kissed Theo’s hand, and fled down the terrace levels back to the revelers below.

Pivoting toward Ewan, Theo frowned deeply, her beautiful face marred with sadness. “You’re supposed to only haunt me, not my guests.”

He came closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Giving advice about not being a mistress? After we marry, I’m not sure I want women coming to you for the dos and don’ts of this business.”

How was it possible for lips to disappear even more? She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. The almond-shaped pearls quivered.

His gut froze with instant regret. Before he could take his boot from his mouth, she slipped past him. “Excuse me.”

He should’ve reached for her hand, and apologized for the poor joke, but they both had pasts. He had forgiven her last night for not grieving him long enough, for letting her heart move on to his cousin. He had no choice. Unlike her, he hadn’t forgotten her, hadn’t stopped lov—

“She’s too nice, you know.”

Ewan lifted his head to see who watched him.

It was Theo’s friend, the duke’s daughter. She stood near, with her fan moving, frowning almost as much as Theo had. “I see how you are watching her. You care for her, more than a cousin should.”

“Miss?”

“Miss Burghley.” She crossed her arms. “If you don’t intend to stick around, don’t trouble her. Her heart’s too big. It cares too much for others. It’s too easy for her to be hurt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Miss Burghley.” Her lips pouted, as if he should’ve repeated her name. “Why are you here now? Your cousin died almost a year ago.”

“Seems your dear friend has been silent on things. Perhaps you should be asking her questions.”

He turned to go back down to the party, when she swatted him with her fan. “She’s silent on things and people who hurt her. Maybe that is why I hadn’t heard of you until the theater.”

Ewan hurting Theo? What, for a month? “I believe—

“Oh, no, that Mr. Lester fellow has her cornered. I don’t know who I need to protect her from more.”

As the musicians started again with a loud high-spirited tune, he turned to see where the blackguard had Theo, ready to pummel somebody like he had the night of the theater, but he spied something worse. “Move!”

Leaving the woman with her mouth open, Ewan shot down the terrace levels as if he’d become a bullet from a discharged flintlock, heading straight for a runaway cart. The big, barreling object made people jump out of its path and flee in all directions.

Everyone moved but one.

Theo’s son.

“Move!” he yelled again. Ewan lengthened his stride, trying to become as fast as a racing horse. He huffed and puffed like a steaming tea kettle. The timing of Ewan snatching the boy had to be right or they’d both die, smashed by the cart. Mouthing a prayer, he leaped, clasped the child in his hands, and raised the boy high over his head—knowing the cart would hit him square in the chest.

Blam.

Something crunched inside as the cart exploded against him as the steel balls of war had done six years ago. The impact flung them like a rag doll. Sailing backward, he still clasped the boy about the ankle. He held on even as his own eyes began to dim, but he fought the pain.

Tucking the squirming boy into whatever remained of his chest, Ewan slammed into the grass, his head bobbing up and down. The boy wrestled free but stuck his face over Ewan’s.

That’s when he saw it.

Mother’s irises, the same crystal blue, the same as his.

He tried to fight the darkness but lost the chance to see once more the light, the light in his son’s eyes.