Page 43 of In Need of a Duke
“I’m not trying to build anything.” She clenched her fists, refusing to tear the book away from his hands. Spiting him only drew them both into a cycle of hate, and she was far too tired.
“Well…” He stepped around her, then turned, rested his back against the bench and stood there beside her, a hair's breadth away. “You have drawn it multiple times.”
“The math of it is confounding, that is all. I will?—”
“Lottie, what is it?”
She glanced over to him, fighting the urge to bump against his shoulder. Struggling with the familiar feeling that he was home for her. How she had loved to be held by him at one time.
“They kill the bees each September, and I refuse to do it. I have written to several beekeepers who have shared proprietary plans which move bees from skeps to a hive structure that allows a beekeeper to examine it with a removable frame system.”
“The bees here at Stonehurst?”
“Yes, and beyond. A skep doesn’t allow a beekeeper to examine for pests or disease, and there is no way to access the honey without destroying it, you see.” She pointed to her sketch, wincing as she lifted a shoulder slightly too high.
“Do you need to return to the house?” he asked, something a lot like concern pulling at his features.
Instead of agreeing, though that was likely for the best, she continued, “I am experimenting with several hive designs here at Stonehurst to see what works best. I”—she paused, bracing herself for his reaction—“pass my time here gathering the flora and fauna to study them and submit my findings to the Naturalist Society.”
“That explains those then.” Ian pointed to the stacks of sketches she’d made of what she cataloged.
“I’m hardly an artist.”
“They are beautiful.”
“No need for flattery, Ian. Let’s keep matters easy and strive only to be friendly.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said, his voice ragged.
“Yes, well…” She spun away and grabbed the journal from his hands as the rain continued to gently cascade down the glass roof of the conservatory. “It is all silly and foolish.”
“There is nothing foolish about you.”
“You have made me a fool.”
He tapped his boot against the stone floor, then reached for the mister and placed it on the bench. “I only came to see you didn’t catch a chill. I apologize if I disturbed you.”
Charlotte placed the journal on the table, releasing a slow breath as her shoulders settled into a firm line. This constant pull would wear at them both, just like the stones along the river’s edge.
Very soon she feared she would be just as dull.
“I am sorry.” Charlotte crossed her arms, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders.
She was used to his suits perfectly tailored to his body. Instead, he wore a suit worn and patched. Something she swore once belonged tothe gamekeeper. Suddenly, he was affected as well. All his sharp grace blunted. Even the hard light in his eyes had softened, toward her.
For her.
“I was remembering earlier,” he said quickly, speaking to the floor. “Of how you used to press flowers when we met and kept them between the pages of your books, hiding them away, as if making a garden only for yourself.”
She nodded. “I would follow the gardener around for days until my mother was mortified. She let him go, and I wasn’t allowed outside without my governess. I never forgave her. I thought if I hid them away in my books, then I could still enjoy the garden.”
He reached back for the journal with the beehive sketches, then flicked through, the hint of a smile hitting his lips as he spotted a pressed yellow iris she had gathered beside the pond last year.
She wondered if he smiled because it reminded him of The Serpentine where they often read together while courting. There had been a cluster of the same irises near their favorite spot.
“I must guess you are furious with what I have done to Stonehurst while you have been away.”
“I don’t believe I have much say.”
