He would do anything for her. To her. He’d debase himself to a ridiculous degree if she asked him.
Or better yet, commanded him.
Christ. Nothing would please him more.
And nothing could be further from a possibility than making love to Felicity Goode.
Chapter 9
A week later
Felicity used the sound of the water pump to cover that of her tears.
She’d kept them at bay until Titus left after unwittingly dropping a fragmenting explosive into the middle of her already shattered nerves.
By habit, she searched for Gareth in the garden beyond the endless beads of rain sluicing down the glass enclosure on all sides. He’d made himself scarce the moment her brother-in-law had appeared in the courtyard to deliver his news in the glasshouse.
No doubt, her personal guard meant to give her some privacy with her family, but it appeared that he’d quite vanished.
Because he never shirked his duty, she knew he was nearby.
And yet at a distance.
Almost a week had gone since the ball, and she’d never felt more alone in her life. The morning after their kiss— after she’d fainted quite literally on him— she’d awoken to check and see if his wound was all right.
If they were all right.
And it seemed while Gareth’s rib was sutured and healing nicely, that evening had driven something between them. Though he was civil and responsive to her needs and suggestions, Gareth had become like a fortress against a siege, cold and impenetrable.
Infuriatingly polite.
He’d gone back to calling her Miss Goode, which felt like a slap in the face every time. At the four subsequent events they’d attended, he’d found a way to avoid touching her. Even stepping by to allow the footmen to hand her down from carriages or take her cloak.
Their every interaction had been monosyllabic at best.
She hated it.
Filling her brass watering can, Felicity hauled it with shaking limbs to her rosemary. It wasn’t lost on her, the irony that she watered plants by hand when the deluge outside might have done just as well.
It didn’t matter. So many things wilted in the chill and wind. They were not meant to withstand the unrelenting weather. All they needed was a bit of shelter from the cold to thrive.
A tending hand and an observant gardener to coax their shy blooms from hiding.
Who would look after them if anything were to happen to her?
The only other person who knew a whit about their care was Mrs. Winterton… and she… she…
Oh, God.
The can slipped from her grip and fell to the stone footpath with a rancorous crash, spilling water in every direction.
Overcome and overwrought, Felicity buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Gareth was there within seconds, his hands on her shoulders, her wrists, pulling them from her face to search for a wound. “Are you hurt?”
There he was. For just a moment, those icy grey eyes had melted with concern. His gaze touched every single part of her face, her hands front and back, the corpse of the overturned watering can. “What the bloody hell happened?”
All she wanted to do was to step into the circle of his arms, to press her cheek against the strength of his chest and release the storm of tears that’d been gathering for so long. Because she knew what it felt like now, the warmth and muscle that resided there.
How would it be to find shelter beneath such a buttress of fortitude? To cast her burdens on his Sisyphean shoulders, for surely they were capable of bearing her weight if only to give her a moment to breathe.
She wouldn’t do it. Not when he so distinctly drew a line in the sand between them.
It was for the best, surely.
“What did Conleith say to make you cry?” he demanded, scowling toward the arch with a very dark sort of wrath.
“E-Emmaline… Mrs. W-Winterton. She’s taken a turn for the worse. She’s in so much pain, Titus had to sedate her. He’s worried that if she can’t keep down any water, her organs might fail.”
His expression changed from one of frantic fury to troubled bemusement. “You said she was well when you visited her yesterday.”
Nodding, she gathered up her apron to wipe at the eyes that wouldn’t stop leaking. “She was! Though a bit pale and worn, she sat up as we had an entire conversation.”
Gently, without interrupting her, Gareth pulled her gardening apron from her fingers and pressed a clean handkerchief to them.
Grateful, she wiped at her nose, and did her best to beat back the storm of fear and