The Earl turned.
At the glasshouse door, in her yellow muslin, with the afternoon light coming through the glass behind her like a halo, Cecilia stood alone. She was not smiling. She was twisting her hands together and trying, very hard, not to look afraid.
Lucian Hartley, Earl of Wyncombe, drew a long breath. He bent down, and very gently picked up the torn white flower from the grass. Then he walked across the lawn toward his wife.
Chapter Twelve: The Only Place He Was Ever Happy
She stood very still as he came up the path.
"Cecilia," he said.
It was the first time in eighteen months that he had said her name in a voice that was not a polite one, and she felt it go through her like a hand through water.
"My lord."
"Lucian," he said. "Please. If you can bear it."
Her lips trembled. "Lucian."
He held out the orchid. It lay across his palm, crushed a little at the edge, one petal torn, and he looked at it as though it were a thing that might break, which it was. "I have ruined it," he said. "I am sorry. I have ruined all of it. Your gift. Hale's work. My mother's wish. I have been a fool, and worse than a fool, and I do not know how to make it right."
"It is only a flower," she said unsteadily.
"It is not only a flower. It is the first thing in my life that anyone has ever made for me, and I tore it off its stem because I was too much of a coward to ask whether you loved me."
The words fell into the warm air of the glasshouse and stayed there.
Cecilia looked at him. Her eyes were very bright. "And do you want to ask now?"
"I am afraid to."
"Why?"
"Because I think I know the answer, and I think it is no." He gave a short, ragged laugh. "I have not been kind to you. I have not been anything to you. I have been a stranger in your house. I do not blame you if—"