One of the estate’s four glasshouses had once housed an extensive collection of bromeliads, cared for by Helen. Most of the exotic plants had been transported to London, where Winterborne had built a glass rooftop conservatory for Helen in their home. Some of the orchids, however, had been left behind at Eversby Priory.

“Naturally we’re having difficulty with them,” West said. “Orchid keeping is nothing but a desperate effort to delay the inevitable outcome of dry sticks in pots. I told Helen not to leave the damned things behind, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Surely Helen won’t scold,” Garrett said, amused. “I’ve never heard her say a cross word to anyone.”

“No, she’ll merely look a little disappointed, in that way she has. It won’t bother me personally, but one hates to see the entire gardening staff weep.” He leaned down to pick up a hammer from the carpenter’s tool basket next to the fence post. “I assume you’ll check on Ransom when you return to the house?”

“No, he’s been sleeping in the afternoons while I walk.”

“Not lately, he hasn’t.”

She shot him a questioning glance.

“Three days ago,” West said, “Ransom asked for a complete set of floor plans and outside elevations for the entire house, including an accounting of the alterations and remodeling we’ve done so far. And the ground plans. When I quite reasonably asked why, he looked annoyed and said he would tell me if I needed to know something.” He paused. “Yesterday he interrogated one of the housemaids about the servants’ quarters and common rooms, and the location of the gun room.”

“He’s supposed to be resting!” Garrett said in outrage. “He’s still at risk for secondary hemorrhage.”

“I was actually more concerned about what he wants with the gun room.”

Garrett sighed shortly. “I’ll try to find out.”

“Don’t make me out to be the tattletale,” West warned, “or I’ll deny it with a show of great indignation. I don’t want Ransom angry with me.”

“He’s in his sickbed,” Garrett said over her shoulder. “What could he do to you?”

“The man has been trained to murder people with common household items,” he called after her, and she had to bite back a grin as she walked away.

After returning from her walk, Garrett changed into a light, lemon-colored gown, purloined from Kathleen’s clothes closet. Mrs. Church had brought a collection of such garments to her, after having seen the two sensible broadcloth dresses Eliza had packed.

“You’ll stew in those dark, heavy things,” the housekeeper had told her frankly. “Broadcloth is a misery in the Hampshire summer. Her ladyship would insist that you borrow a few dresses of hers to wear.” Garrett had accepted them gratefully, and had instantly come to love the airy, easy creations of silk and printed muslin.

She went to Ethan’s room and tapped on the door before entering. As she had expected, he was lounging on the bed with a sheaf of huge quarto-sized pages covered with intricate diagrams and specifications.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said.

One of the pages lowered. Ethan’s mouth curved as he saw her. “I’m on the bed,” he pointed out.

“As my father would say, that’s splitting straws with a hatchet.”

Garrett entered the room and closed the door. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, relaxed and lazy and masculine, with that chocolatey-dark hair falling over his forehead. He was barefoot, and clad in a shirt and pair of trousers borrowed from West. Two leather braces crossed over his back and came down over his front to fasten at his waistband: a necessity, since the trousers hung a bit loose at the waist and wouldn’t stay up otherwise.

He was drinking a glass of cold tea brewed with healing herbs—honeysuckle, milk thistle. As his gaze swept over her, bright filaments of awareness awakened all through her body, and she felt an absurd pang of shyness. “You’re as pretty as a daffodil in that dress,” he said. “Come closer and let me see it.”

The yellow dress, consisting of thin layers of silk tissue, was an afternoon “at-home” gown, fastening with only a few buttons and loops. It had been cleverly designed to give the appearance of a corset worn underneath, allowing the wearer to go without stays. Her hair was arranged in a softer style than usual, by a housemaid who aspired to be a lady’s maid and had asked to practice on her. The maid had curled it into loose waves, pulled it back loosely in front with a silk ribbon, and pinned it in a French twist in the back.

As Garrett came to the bedside, Ethan reached out to catch a fold of the yellow silk in his fingers. “How was your walk, acushla?”

“Very pleasant,” she said. “I went to see the poultry house on the way back.”

“Near the kitchen garden.”

“Yes.” She glanced at the plans with a quizzical smile. “Why are you studying the estate’s layout?”

He took his time about replying, making a project of gathering the scattered pages. “Assessing weak spots.”

“You’re worried that someone might try to break into the house?”

He hitched one shoulder in an evasive half-shrug. “’Tis a miracle they haven’t been robbed blind by now. No one ever seems to lock the doors.”

“It’s because of all the repair work,” Garrett said. “There are so many contractors and craftsmen coming and going, it’s easier to leave things open for the time being. Mr. Ravenel told me they’ve had to pull up floors to install modern plumbing, and replace entire walls that were rotting from bad drainage. In fact, the entire east wing has been closed until they can restore it at some future date.”

“It would be better to raze the whole house to the ground and build a new one. Why try to resurrect an oversized old rubbish heap?”

Garrett’s lips quirked at his description of the elegant and historic estate. “Ancestral pride?” she suggested.

Ethan snorted. “From what I know of the Ravenel ancestors, they have little reason for pride.”

Garrett sat on the edge of the mattress with one leg folded beneath her. “They’re your ancestors too,” she pointed out. “And it’s a renowned family name.”

“That means nothing to me,” Ethan said irritably. “I have no right to the Ravenel name, and no desire to claim kinship with any of them.”

Garrett strove for a neutral tone, but she couldn’t quite keep the concern out of her voice. “You have three half sisters. Surely you’ll want to become acquainted with them.”

“Why would I? What would that get me?”

“A family?”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like a connection to them, would you? You should have let Lady Helen introduce you to West Ravenel. By now you’d be a member of the family in full.”

Taken aback by how quickly his mood had changed, Garrett replied calmly. “Good heavens, how cross you sound. I don’t want Mr. Ravenel, I want you. It doesn’t matter to me what your name is, or what connections you have. If it makes you unhappy to associate with the Ravenels, we won’t. Your feelings matter to me more than anything else.”

Ethan gave her an arrested stare, the chill vanishing rapidly from his eyes, and he reached for her with a quiet groan, pulling her close.

Mindful of the bandage beneath his shirt, Garrett protested, “Please—be careful of your wound—”

But the muscles in his arms kept tightening until she was forced to lean on his sturdy chest. His fingers wove into her hair, disheveling the loosely pinned locks, and he nuzzled his face against her head. They stayed like that, breathing together.

At length, Ethan said, “How could I ever say Angus Ransom wasn’t my father? He took my mother to wife and raised me as his own, and never let on to me that I was another man’s bastard. A decent man, he was, for all that he went on the drink more than he should, and was too fond of giving me the back of his hand. He kept me fed and taught me to work, and more to the back of all that, he saw to it that I learned to read and cipher. There were things I hated about him. But I loved the man.”

“Then you must honor his memory,” Garrett said, touched by his loyalty. “Do what you feel is right. Just remember that it’s not fair to blame Mr. Ravenel and Lord Trenear for past events they had nothing to do with. They’ve done nothing but try to help you. Mr. Ravenel went so far as to give you his own blood.” She made her voice very soft as she added, “That deserves some gratitude, doesn’t it?”

“Aye,” Ethan said gruffly, and fell silent, his fingers moving lightly in her hair. “About the transfusion . . .” he said eventually. “Does it alter a man . . . change his nature in some way . . . if he’s given someone else’s blood?”

Garrett lifted her head and regarded him with a faint, reassuring smile. “That question is still being debated among scientists. But no, I don’t believe so. Although blood is a vital fluid, it has nothing to do with a person’s characteristics, any more than the heart has to do with one’s emotions.” Reaching up with her hand, she softly tapped her forefinger against his temple. “Everything you are, all you think and feel, is in here.”

Ethan looked baffled. “What do you mean about the heart?”

“It’s a hollow muscle.”

“It’s more than that.” He sounded vaguely outraged, like a boy who’d just been told there was no Father Christmas.

“Symbolically, yes. But emotions don’t actually come from there.”

“They do,” Ethan insisted. Taking her hand, he brought it down to his chest and pressed her palm flat against the strong beat. “The love I have for you—I feel it, right here. My heart beats faster for you all on its own. It aches when we’re apart. Nothing tells it to do that.”

If Garrett had any defenses left, they fell away in that moment like scaffolding from around her heart. Rather than debate physiology or explain the brain’s influence on muscular action, she raised herself over his chest to kiss him tenderly.

She had intended the contact to be brief, but Ethan responded passionately, sealing their mouths together. He continued to press her hand against his chest, and she thought of the first night they had arrived at Eversby Priory, when she had stood by his bed and collected his heartbeats in her palm.

He consumed her, taking deeper, rougher tastes, sucking and gnawing as if he were pulling sweetness from a honeycomb. It went on for fevered minutes, kisses of soft velvet and slow fire, until she became aware that the big masculine body beneath hers was primed for an activity he wasn’t nearly ready for yet. As she felt the stiff ridge of his arousal through the layers of their clothes, her brain clamored a warning through the erotic haze. She tried to roll off him, but his hands clamped on her hips to keep her in place.