self-assurance loomed like a rock in the rapids. Here was a man who would take charge, and then not bungle it.
Out of nowhere flashed a thought: what would it be like, to be married to such a man?
Free. At the side of a man who took care of things, a woman could be free.
She nearly stumbled on the perfectly even path. What a ridiculous notion—freedom was probably the very last thing a domineering male like Montgomery would offer. With his wealth and position he’d certainly provide more safety than she could wish for, but anyone with an ounce of independent thought would be crushed under his protection. He’d manage her and demand submission, convinced he’d always know best, inside and outside the marriage bed, and no, she really should not have thought of him in bed, performing his marital duties, with his eyes glazed over with lust and his fair hair damp and plastered against his temples . . . A heat wave surged through her veins.
She kept her gaze firmly on the path. His merciless eyes would spot it immediately, that her whole treacherous body had blushed pink.
“So,” she muttered, “is it always a matter of being either free or safe, Your Grace?”
“Actually,” she heard him say, “I find it is usually a compromise between the two.”
They rounded the corner and a flat stone building with a large glass cupola at its center came into view. Long rows of floor-to-ceiling windows brightly reflected the morning light and made her shield her eyes with her hand.
“What is this place?”
“A compromise,” Montgomery said, and steered her toward the building. He halted at a side entrance and swung back the door.
The green tangle and pungent warmth of a jungle greeted them. Towering canopies in lush shades of green absorbed the light that slanted through the glass cupola above.
“It’s a conservatory,” she said softly.
The air clung and throbbed like a physical thing, a blend of rich, damp soil, of overripe fruit and nectar and decay. A flagstone path disappeared into the thicket ahead, enticing her to follow scattered pink and red blossoms like the will-o’-the-wisp. And it was so warm. She had been feeling cold.
He must have expected her to refuse to go back inside.
A compromise.
She turned to him, feeling strangely somber. “It’s magical.”
* * *
Magical? Such whimsy from a woman who read Thucydides. In Greek. But then he was learning that Miss Archer was many things.
And here he was staring at her face again. He knew he had an exacting eye. He had never been able to not notice the error in a ledger, or that one quavering note in a song. But her features were arranged exactly how some primal aesthetic blueprint in his head envisioned beauty. It made her look oddly familiar, as if he had long known her and now she had walked back into his life. Impossible, that. She might speak and carry herself like landed gentry, but his informant had finally sent his report, which said she had been a maid in her cousin’s dilapidated cottage in Kent.
Her green eyes widened. “Is it my imagination, or does the floor feel warm?”
“That would be the underfloor heating.”
She made an excited little noise, and it sent a thrill up his spine.
“The building is state-of-the-art,” he said, “very functional. It allows crop breeding year round with great efficiency.”
Her eyes gleamed with some secret mirth. “Without doubt, Your Grace.”
She began meandering along the path looking up and around in wonder, and he followed, strangely mesmerized by the gentle sway of her skirts around her ankles.
“How did you collect all these plants?” she asked.
“The botanist in my employ does. He takes off to a foreign country to acquire them, or he purchases them from other traders here in England.”
She touched her fingertip to the delicate pink petals of an oleander blossom. “What a marvelous profession,” she said, “to travel all the corners of the world to bring back beautiful things.”
The way her face had lit up made it hard to look away from her.
He had no time for indoor walks with her. He presently had a revolt of Tory backbenchers on his hands over his latest campaign proposal and he should be in his study, writing threatening letters. There was no other reason for him to be here than that he wanted to be here, and he didn’t even feel inclined to question why a most unsuitable woman—a commoner, a bluestocking, a suffragist—would give him so much pleasure.