Ravenwood tossed his shears into the dirt and settled at the foot of his favorite cherry tree. His private garden had never felt more like home.

No matter what might be going on outside of these walls, enjoying a spot of sun beneath the shade of a comfortable tree always made him feel more at peace.

He liked being alone. He loved tending his garden. Or just letting it grow wild.

Pink geraniums and purple irises blossomed against the deep green of the grass and the brown bark of the trees. The white primula with their golden yellow centers sprang up cheerfully from their thick leaves. But his newest addition, a brightly colored smattering of dahlias, made his garden look as lush as a painting.

Happiness filled him as he gazed at all the vivid colors. He wasn’t artistically inclined like Rembrandt or William Blake, and he didn’t need to be in order to enjoy the art of nature. Morning dew balancing on a delicate petal brought him the same amount of joy as other men found in cockfights or shooting pheasant.

Not a particularly ducal sentiment, to be sure. England’s most revered peers would never allow grass stains on their coat sleeves or muck about in the dirt like schoolchildren just to tend a flower. If they wanted a rose, they simply sent a servant with a coin to fetch one, like civilized people.

Which was why Ravenwood’s walled garden was hidden beneath a cloak of ivy at the rear of his estate. And why he possessed the sole key to unlock its gate.

He would not subject the things that gave him pleasant memories—or inner peace—to the forked tongues of the ton. He tried not to let it bother him that no one would ever see beyond his aristocratic mask.

’Twas better for all parties that they could not.

Particularly now that his spotless reputation had taken such an ill-earned thrashing. He would need to watch his every word for the next two years to erase the damage done in a single moment.

Not that avoiding scandal was much of a challenge for a man who tended to avoid people in general.

But he wasn’t alone any longer, was he? Now he had a wife. A woman he neither knew, nor understood. He tossed a blade of grass aside and pushed to his feet. That he was often happiest in solitude was not a question. Whether he could be happy with her, or she with him…

No future family? He would not resign himself or his dukedom to such a fate. But while begetting an heir was both a must and a priority, the thought of forcing himself upon a wife who lay there in terror simply because it was her duty did not paint a pretty picture.

Annulling their marriage, however, was not a step Ravenwood would ever take lightly.

Not only would she be ruined in the process, he took his wedding vows as seriously as he took his loyalty to the Crown. For better or for worse meant not giving up at the first sign of adversity.

He would simply treat her as he treated the rest of the beau monde. He would be polite, play his assigned role, and wear the mask that she wanted—or at least expected—to see.

For now.

To his surprise—and pleasure—the passion they had shared had been as fast and as hot as quicksilver. There was no denying their attraction. In the space of a breath, their simple kiss had led to him shedding clothing and tumbling them both into bed.

That was more than promising. All she needed was time to get to know him. Perhaps that was what they both needed. To come together as a couple, rather than as strangers.

He was convinced their union could work. He just had to convince his wife.

Mind set, he quit the garden sooner than he had planned. It would survive without him. His relationship, on the other hand, would not.

Ravenwood went straight to his chamber to wash up and change into fresh clothes. It had been his bedchamber for over a decade, and had never once struck him as particularly cold or lonely. Until last night.

Sleep had not come easily. He had stared at his tester until the wee hours, wondering if his wife was doing the same thing. Now that he was back from his garden, perhaps they would have a chance to speak.

When he emerged from his dressing chamber and enquired as to her whereabouts, he learned she was taking tea in the yellow parlor with her aunt.

Ravenwood nodded to himself. Perfect. Not only would the presence of a third party make conversation less awkward, at last he would also learn what his wife liked to eat besides fish and canapés.

Today, they would stop being strangers. Very soon, they would truly be husband and wife.

Both ladies were holding saucers of tea when he entered the parlor. He bowed to them both, and motioned for them to remain seated and enjoy their tea.

“Good afternoon, your grace. Mrs. Havens. I trust you slept well?”

Laugh lines radiated from the corners of Mrs. Havens’ eyes as she grinned up at him. “Like a babe. I would’ve found a duke to marry myself if I’d had any idea how soundly I’d be able to sleep.”

He blinked. “I am pleased the accommodations meet your approval. And you, madam?” He turned to his wife. “Do you lack for anything?”

She squinted at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

At first he stiffened, assuming her mirth to be mockery. But then she shook her head.

“Please don’t tell me I’m to spend the rest of my life being referred to as ‘Madam’ and ‘Your grace’ by my own husband. My name is Katherine. If you feel comfortable doing so, you have my leave to use it.”

Mrs. Havens raised a finger at her niece. “Some people might appreciate being able to command such elevated honorifics.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be certain to require such acknowledgements when I find myself amongst mere earls and viscounts. But there’s no need for stiff formality in one’s own home, is there?”

Ravenwood remained silent. His father had never referred to his mother with anything less than the full respect her position deserved, and Ravenwood had always intended to follow that example.

However, his goal was to encourage his wife to think warmly of him. To welcome him into her heart and her bed. If that meant calling her “Katherine”, then so it would be.

He began by taking a seat across from the ladies and accepting a cup of tea.

Mrs. Havens leaned forward. “Kate was just relating the most diverting story about the time she belted out a sailor’s rhyme in an empty theatre, only to realize dozens of people on the other side of the curtain had heard the whole thing.”

Katherine turned pink with laughter. “I daresay I was more careful after that. I don’t even let myself attend musicales anymore.”

Ravenwood blinked. At moments like these, he was glad to wear a mask of stone. Her anecdote wasn’t humorous. It was mortifying. Had such an embarrassment happened to him, he would never have repeated the tale.

And yet.

He had always equated Miss Katherine Ross with “flighty, irresponsible hoyden.” He was perhaps mistaken in the first two pronouncements. Her antiquities museum and her production of the charity gala were proof of her business acumen and philanthropic spirit.

But hoyden? Absolutely. She didn’t take anything in life seriously, least of all herself. Her associations with those of questionable reputation had been proof of that.

Ravenwood frowned. He couldn’t imagine what it might be like to not care a button what anyone else thought.

The idea was both fascinating and appalling. He cared tremendously what other people thought. His peers. The Crown. Society at large. Interpreting social cues was not always easy for him, which was why he relied on rules. They saved him.

Proper social mores were the best way for all parties to know how to comport themselves. When everyone agreed on what constituted suitable decorum, no one was left guessing. Acceptable behavior was both expected, and easily achievable.

For people who didn’t belt out sailor ditties in empty theatres.

Mrs. Havens set down her cup and saucer and rose to her feet with a knowing smile. “When couples are this quiet, it’s usually because there is too much to say. I’ve plenty of embroidery to get back to. Kate, you know where to find me. Have a lovely tea.”

In dismay, Ravenwood watched Mrs. Havens quit the parlor. Her presence had meant he and his new wife wouldn’t need to broach the previous night’s failings. Not yet. Not until circumstances changed enough to warrant renewed discussion.

Which left what? He didn’t know Katherine well enough to start a conversation she’d be passionate about.

He cleared his throat. “What were you doing on stage in the first place?”

Her smile lit her entire face. “My friends and I had been considering a plan to unite the stratified circles of art.”

“To what?” This time, he didn’t have to try to keep his face blank. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

She touched her chin. “Would you say that London is home to a boast-worthy population of world-class artists, musicians, dancers, and the like? More than just the most famous faces we typically see on the stage?”

“Yes, of course.” He stared at her over steepled fingers and wondered where the topic was headed.

He held the best private box in the Royal Theatre and considered himself something of an aficionado, but he had never put more thought to the experience than simply enjoying the play.

Katherine’s words came faster. “Would you also agree that London is home to a rich population of art and music aficionados, who would attend such programs twenty-four hours a day, if such a feat were possible? Particularly during the Season?”

“I suppose so,” he answered hesitantly, no doubt in his mind that he was stepping into a trap.

She leaned forward. “I intend to join the two groups. London is home to countless talented individuals who lack the funds to purchase paints or instruments or ballet lessons. And there is certainly no shortage of wealthy aristocrats who could easily afford to sponsor such individuals, thereby becoming true patrons of the arts.”

“You plan to ask your peers to donate money to untrained artists?” he asked doubtfully.

“I plan to prove what a good investment it is.” Her blue eyes shone. “I intend to found a monthly gala, in which undiscovered visual and performing artists of all types can take their turn on the stage. The audience will be full of future investors—and spectators who simply wish to enjoy an evening’s entertainment.”

He frowned. “And then what?”

“After each performance, there will be an opportunity to mingle. Music lovers will discover budding musicians to sponsor, and so on. Most importantly, both groups will be interacting. Artists not only deserve respect—they need money to live, and to work on their craft. If peers want to keep enjoying the arts, we need to ensure the performers can thrive.”

He shook his head. Yes, peers did wish to keep enjoying the arts. No, he did not think performers should achieve the same level of respect.

He didn’t hide his skepticism. “You think Lady Jersey will begin handing out Almack’s vouchers to actresses?”

“Oh, obviously not.” She shrugged. “Actors and musicians will likely never enjoy a truly elevated social status. But nor should they be seen as inferior creatures.”

“They are inferior,” he pointed out dryly.

“Surely we can agree that they shouldn’t be seen as unworthy creatures at least,” she said, eyes flashing. “Not by me and not by you. I hope my husband is the first in line to give a sponsorship to some deserving artist.”

His smile was tight. “Just as my presence was so beneficial the night of the charity auction?”

“Unintended consequences occurred,” she conceded. “But yes—your presence attracted a greater number of attendees, and therefore raised a greater amount of funds for Daphne’s charity work. This is the same idea. I don’t see—”

“I’ll be first to donate,” he forced himself to say despite his misgivings. He had come here not to argue, but to woo. A happy wife would want to bear her husband’s children. He cleared his throat. “I’ll also be last to donate, and give a stipend to every participant who fails to attract a proper sponsor of his own.”

“Truly?” She stared at him in wonder. “You would donate so much?”

He lifted a palm. ’Twas just money. He doubted all of the artistic hopefuls would later become front stage sensations, but there was no reason not to give them the chance to try. If he had been born not a duke but a penniless poet, a society like the one Katherine proposed would be a life-changing opportunity.

The difficult part would be surviving the event itself. He had always enjoyed his private theatre box because it was just that: private.

Being expected to make conversation with hundreds of people sounded like hell on earth.

His discomfort with being on display was one of the primary reasons he was rarely seen at society events. The last few balls he’d attended had either been at the request of his sister or one of his childhood friends. Nothing else would tempt him to subject himself to the public eye and crowded spaces.

Except, apparently, a wife.

He rolled back his shoulders. Not only was he a man who knew his duty as a husband, he sought more than an ordinary marriage. He wanted friendship. A house that felt like a home.

If his monetary contribution and physical presence would make his wife happy, then it was what he must do. Who knew where her experiment might lead? She believed so firmly and so completely in herself and her ideals… Perhaps she would start to feel the same about him, too.

“Of course I will support you,” he said. “It will be my pleasure.”

“There’s something else I’d like to ask you. Perhaps if we…” she trailed off and bit her lip.

He leaned forward. “Yes?”

Before she could respond, Simmons, the head butler, appeared in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, your grace. The coach is ready.”

Ravenwood’s muscles tightened. Parliament. Splendid. Preparing himself for long hours sequestered with so many people was almost physically painful.

He was always expected to know things, to speak eloquently, to be capable of persuading the masses… It was enough to shrink his stomach into a cramped ball of dread.

He schooled his features into a blank mask. He knew what was expected of him. And he had to leave now, or risk being late.

He pushed to his feet and bowed to his wife. “We’ll talk another time.”

As much as he wished to learn about Katherine’s other idea, it would have to wait. Duty always came first.

“Of course,” she said without meeting his eyes. “There will be plenty of chances for tea.”

Something in her voice, however, indicated there might not.