"Do you enjoy cow parsley?"

Mena spun around and glared at Durham. It seemed he was always sprouting out of nowhere. Never mind how softly he'd spoken or that he stood at least three feet away, his hands at his back. He wore a beguiling expression that only made her anger grow. His back was to the sun, which gave him a soft halo and darkened his refined features.

Her anger was tempered when he walked past her to stand closer to the cow parsley. In the back of Wardington's garden, after one went through a series of high hedges, along a wall of trees and farther onto the black gates, grew the white flowers in a wild and unorganized fashion. The parsley grew in large bundles with dozens of small white petals and Mena had never seen anything like it before.

"They grow abundantly in the country," the marquess told her, which made Mena realize she'd spoken aloud.

Mena looked around for Bradley but found the boy was gone. Most likely Durham had sent him away.

Thoughts of the young earl vanished when Durham turned to look at her.

Facing the sun made the golden ring around his pupils more prominent. "They grow in the fields by the Durham estate." He grinned, and Mena knew what statement he'd left unsaid. If she married him, she'd have a cow parsley field of her own. He turned back to the flowers and said, "Guests usually enjoy the rose beds or the primrose. Why does the cow parsley intrigue you?"

"Why do you care?"

Instead of backing away as she'd wished, he stepped toward her and touched her arm lightly. "Because, I want to know everything about you."

She was beginning to grow used to her stomach being unsettled around him. She'd have much preferred an old marquess as opposed to the virile man who stood before her. Or even a comely sort of gentleman would have been harder to resist, but when Durham looked at her with never-ending tenderness, her heart began to dance in her chest, that part of her that yearned for this show of kindness, for someone to want to know everything about her. She had to find a way to distract her thoughts from her body's response. "Why not just marry someone else? You've already told me that you didn't ask for my hand. I was your mother's idea. Surely, there's a woman who would fit you better."

His lips rose on one side. Never was there a more roguish look. "But how am I to know that if I don't know you?"

He had a point. How was he to know they would not suit if he knew nothing about her?

"I like how untamed they are," she finally said. "There is beauty in their freedom to grow as they wish."

"You've not had much of that, have you?" he asked.

She looked away. "Ladies are not given such privileges. I was tutored at home and kept close to my father before he died. Then I went to a school for girls in Germany." And now, she had Mrs. Gale.

"I had a strict upcoming as well," he told her. "My mother likes to have things her way."

She looked at him again and noticed some of the light had left his eyes. His lips were pressed firmly together. He fought a grimace and failed. The marchioness had chosen his wife. Mena couldn't imagine what other choices she'd made for him as well. She knew that it was usually a man's lot in life to do as he pleased, but from what she could see, that had not been Morgan's upbringing.

She thought it not a far-off guess to believe that Morgan didn't like his mother very much. Perhaps that was the way to get him to see reason. "Your mother chose me as your wife. Surely, you resent her choice?"

Immediately, his brows relaxed, and he smiled once more. Mena feared what he'd say next.

His voice was smooth as the day was warm and his hand trailed down her arm to grab her elbow. "I believe that if this is where my life has led me, then it might all be worth it." He took her hand and placed it on his arm before he started walking.

Mena's legs were forced to move, though she was still slightly surprised by his words. "You're quite charming when you wish to be."

"So are you," he said in what sounded like an accusation.

"What does that mean?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm simply being petty."

"What about?" she pressed and instinctively her fingers did the same to his arm.

He glanced in her direction and then straight ahead once more. "About you and how you seem to favor every man you meet but me."

She turned away. "You never gave me a chance to like you."

He touched where her hand rested. "I know, and I'm trying to remedy that."

"You won't succeed."

She was caught off guard when he pulled her behind a tree and backed her into the gate. Her back hit the cool metal, and his body caged her in without touching her, his arms surrounding her head while his face lay close to hers.

"I think I can," he whispered.

Mena's entire body caught flame, and she buried her face in her hands. She closed her eyes, but that only heightened her other senses. He didn't touch her, but the air around her vibrated and was scented with his large presence. The garden faded away until there was nothing but him. She shivered and wished it was with fright. "Do you wish to scare me at every turn?"

"You don't fear me," he declared.

He was right. She didn't fear him. Not at the moment. Not when his eyes promised no hint of pain and every bit of something she didn't dare to guess at. She must have gone mad. He was dangerous. She had to remember that.

"Look at me, Mena."

She lifted her eyes and peeked through her fingers to find his brown eyes watching her closely. She couldn't recall a man ever staring so intently at her. He took one of her hands, and she gazed wide-eyed as he removed her glove. "What are you doing?" she whispered. She wasn't supposed to remove her glove. She gasped when the air touched her fingers right before he pressed them against his mouth. She watched, stunned, as he ensured that not one inch of her fingers went unclaimed by his soft lips. She grabbed hold of the gate with her other hand for fear she'd melt into a puddle at his feet.

His eyes seemed as dazed as she felt. "As my wife, you will feel like the most cherished woman in London. Isn't that what you want?"

Yes, her body cried. Her eyes slowly moved to where his mouth pressed against her palm and then the pulsing vein over her wrist. Everywhere he touched seemed to be connected with the rest of her, making her entire being flutter with something strange and dark. A need she didn't understand. "I'll not marry you." Even to her own ears, the words lacked their previous conviction.

He smiled. "Then I'll give you something better."

She didn't know what could be better than this.

"Freedom," he whispered. "You'll be free to do as you please and go where you wish."

Her eyes lifted to his. "You can't mean that." It was unheard of. She knew what to expect as his wife. Mrs. Gale had ensured she knew her duties. She'd have to birth heirs, host parties, accompany her husband where he wished to go, and do it all without complaint. She knew that once she moved from the house that Creed had provided for her use, she would simply be given to another man who would rule over her. She took her hand back, once again upset that he'd dangle something so absurd before her eyes. "I know what to expect as your wife."

"Yes, and as your husband, you can expect me to keep my word."

She laughed. "Oh, should I? I recall you telling me this morning to expect nothing from you." His words still hurt.

He frowned. "I regret this morning, Philomena. I was not myself."

"And how often does such a thing occur?" She was feeling better by the moment. She crossed her arms. "What happens when you're angry as you were this morning?"

His own temper seemed to be growing as he leaned away. Deep grooves appeared between his brows. "I wouldn't strike you, if that is what you fear."

"Oh, but your words can cut just as deep."

When he hesitated, she moved around him and started down the graveled path toward the house, going around the hedges in the middle of the garden and sticking to the outer path.

He caught up with her moments later. "We'll have dinner at a friend's house tonight."

She briefly closed her eyes. "I feel a headache coming on. Perhaps we should call it a day and simply part ways for—"

He caught her around the waist, and she could feel the pressure of every finger on her hips as though her dress and petticoat didn't cover her. "You promised me two full days. Are you not a lady of your word?"

The question bit at her just as he'd hoped it would. She’d already planned to break their engagement. The least she could do was keep her promise of two days. "Very well. Dinner."

He escorted her the rest of the way out of Wardington's garden, through the house, and into the waiting carriage.

She ignored him during the ride home but noticed that he didn't try to talk to her either. A glance in his direction showed that he was in his own thoughts. They took a shortcut through streets that were less used and were but a block from her house when Durham had the carriage brought to a halt and leapt out.

And without a word, he was gone.

She leaned toward the window in time to see him use his shoulder to barge his way into a townhouse. There was a shout from inside. A footman cut in front of her and closed the door.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but his lordship will see you later at dinner."

"No." She pushed the door. "He will see me now." And she would finally have her chance to break from not only her engagement but the remainder of the day and even the next. Surely, he would see now how horribly they suited. He was mad. She gave the door another shove and noticed the footman stopped her from moving.

"My lady, I need you to stay here." The footman looked worried and turned to stare at the house with the open door. Already Durham's driver was distracting a pair of women who had arrived at the door, their eyes curious to see what was taking place inside, most likely wondering why a man had broken in the house. He was mad, she wanted to tell them. Dangerous. If they'd been on a busier street, more people would have been about. But no matter. Philomena was witness enough.

"I'll not stay here." She fought to open the door again. "You can't hold me here."

"Please."

She turned and moved to the other side and was out before the footman could come around. Then she was sprinting to the door and slipped right past the driver with the two women before rushing up the stairs and into the room.

She covered her mouth at the sitting room's disarray. It was a small house, and she could hear a ruckus that vibrated the ceiling and strange noises coming from upstairs.

"My lady, please." The footman touched her arm.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

The man moved his hands away but blocked her path to the hall. "I need you to return to the carriage." He obviously knew his employer's ways and wished to keep them hidden. She wondered if the marchioness had known about her son's ways as well.

"No." She started toward him. "And if you touch me, I will scream, and those women outside will hear me."

The man looked worried, but another scream from upstairs made him turn, and Philomena used that moment to go past him and start up the stairs.

"My lady, please."

She ignored the man as she moved toward the sound of weeping and didn't slow her steps until she was standing at the open door to a bedchamber. She covered her mouth, and her eyes watered at the sight.

Durham stood over a man on his knees, his fist raised in the air ready to deliver another blow to the man's already broken face. His face was enraged.

"No!"

The marquess turned to look at her and, just as quickly, something silver gleamed in the light right before Durham grunted and fell to the floor. Mena turned and let out a strangled sound as the man on the floor retracted a knife from Durham's side right. Then, with the same quick move, he turned and jumped out the open window.

Gone in a blink.

The footman rushed past her and toward the window, and Mena moved over to Durham but couldn't see the wound underneath his hand. She froze again, staring at him, unsure of what to do, unsure of what she'd seen.

"Go," Durham grunted, and Mena placed her hands behind his head and guided him back before turning her eyes to his side. He cursed.

"Mind your words," she whispered, fear making her nerves vibrate. "What were you thinking? What happened?"

The sound of feet rushing up the stairs made Mena turned to stare at the door. Her heart climbed into her throat as she feared the man with the knife had returned to finish what he'd begun. When she saw it was the driver, she relaxed.

Durham was breathing hard. "The witnesses."

"I told them you lost your key, my lord. They're already gone."

"Good. Ralph went after him. Take Lady Philomena home and send a note to Simon."

"No." She turned to him again with tears in her eyes. "What's happening?" She touched his hair, pushing is back from his sweaty brow and bit her lip to hold back her tears. Everything about this moment reminded her of the worst day of her life.

The marquess looked at her, his expression pained. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be making dinner tonight."

"My lady." The driver stood beside her with his arm out to her, waiting for her to take it.

She turned to the driver and shook her head. "Please, help him." The words sounded helpless to her own ears and were all she could get out before the crying began and her pleas became broken. "Please, don't l-let him d-die." Not like Father.

The driver moved to Durham's other side and went to work.

"It's only a flesh wound," he told him with a groan. "I'll be all right, but Philomena doesn't need to be here."

"I'm n-not leaving you." She touched his face, the moisture cutting through her gloves. This was her fault. She truly was cursed. She looked down as the driver peeled away the jacket and revealed the growing stain of blood. Mena almost fainted but steadied herself on Durham's shoulders.

"You don't have to be here," he whispered.

She ignored him as the driver opened Durham's shirt and peeled the folds back. The wound was ghastly, but not large. However, from the blood that seeped from it and the force that the other man had stabbed him, she thought it might be deep.

The driver went to the bed and pulled off the white blanket. "Add pressure to it, my lady. I'll be back in a moment."

Philomena did as she was told and found that doing something seemed to calm her. She watched the rise and fall of the marquess’ chest. He glistened with sweat and the trail of dark hair that covered his middle glittered. A scar rested on his left breast, old and almost invisible. She wondered where it came from. Her eyes moved up to find his watching her with a blankness that seemed out of place.

His hand, covered in blood, pressed into the blanket. "I'll be all right. Please, take a hack home."

"I'm not leaving you, my lord." They'd made her leave her father when he'd been dying, and she’d always regretted leaving. She wouldn't leave the marquess. Not until she was sure he was all right.

He closed his eyes and relaxed his hold on the blanket. She took over again, adding more pressure, which caused him to wince.

"I'm sorry."

He opened his eyes again and reached out to wipe her tears away with his dry hand. She moved closer to him to make the effort easier. His voice was like his touch, pleasant and soft. "Why are you weeping?"

She frowned. "Why would I not?"

He smiled. "I mean, why are you weeping for me?" He gave a short laugh before wincing with more pain. "My death ensures you never have to wed me."

"Don't say that," she whispered. "I'd never wish death on you."

"That's good to know." He closed his eyes once more and settled his hand at his side. He cracked one eye open again when the driver returned with a small black bag.

"Pardon me, my lady."

Mena moved away to let the driver work. He pulled back the blanket and examined the cut while he spoke to the marquess on what he was seeing. The bleeding had stopped, which made the driver believe that nothing serious had been cut. He went to work cleaning the wound before producing a needle and thread. He moved with a deftness that made Mena believe he'd done this sort of work before.

"Don't look," he told her.

She turned away, instead watching Durham's face. She touched it again, this time with her bare hands since her gloves were now covered in blood. His skin was cool, probably from the perspiration and breeze coming through the window.

He closed his eyes tightly and that was the only reaction he gave to let her know that the driver had begun stitching him up. She moved her hands through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp to relax and distract him. He tried to move closer to her touch, and she unfolded her body to rest his head on her lap. She continued then at stroking his hair and was ever glad she stayed. She tried to find a peace inside herself to give to him, as though his own senses would find it and take it as his own.

He opened his eyes. "Tell me about your father."

Her eyes widened. Had he known she'd been thinking about him? About his death? "What do you wish to know?"

"What was he like?"

She continued to move her hands through his hair and thought that it should be her asking the questions. Yet instead, she answered, telling him one story after another about the man she'd loved most in the world.

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