Ravenwood forced his shoulders to relax so as not to betray how deeply he feared the risk he was about to take.

His garden was more than a secret. It was the one place he could truly be himself. A place that belonged only to him. Inside its walls, both he and nature were free from society’s stringent rules and disapproving gaze.

There were no neatly trimmed hedges, no manicured corners, no painted walking paths.

The great stone wall surrounding the garden was as tall and imposing as Ravenwood House itself, but inside was a wonderland of delicate scents and untamed beauty.

The trees grew as tall as they wished, in any direction they pleased. The flowers were not segregated in this section or that, but rather allowed to grow wild, flourishing in an ocean of riotous color rather than each species confined to small, defined squares.

This was where Ravenwood felt most alive. Where he was most vulnerable.

The one place he was truly himself.

He kept his eyes on the pebbled path before them. “I…have a garden.”

She nodded. “In the rear of the property.”

Surprise drew him up short. “You knew?”

But of course she did. He had personally instructed his staff to deny her nothing. He was the only one who hadn’t followed his own directive.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you have no pressing engagements, perhaps you would like to visit it now?”

Her face lit with surprise and pleasure. “I would love to.”

His mouth dried. “Then it would be my great pleasure to take you there.”

That, of course, was a blatant falsehood. He didn’t want to take anyone there.

Yet Katherine, of all people, was the most likely to understand why he found it beautiful and peaceful.

If for some reason she did not, if she found it silly and gauche, her derision would haunt the walls. Every time he thought of his secret garden, his sacred place, he would remember her rejection and no longer be able to find peace within.

Even if she liked the garden, she might not understand it. Might not understand him. And his tongue would be too tied to convey how he felt.

He searched for something, anything, to erase his growing nervousness as they neared his private garden.

“I notice you have not visited your museum of late.”

She bit her lip. “You’re correct. I’ve relinquished all daily duties to a competent overseer whilst I focus on my next project.”

“Introducing artists to patrons?”

“It’s more than that.” A bounce of excitement crept into her step. “Yes, patronage is important, but so is developing an environment where one needn’t hide their artistic inclinations. Scholars of both genders have the Bluestocking Society. Why shouldn’t there also be a Performing and Creative Arts Society, open to everyone?”

“You’re not planning an event,” he said with sudden clarity. “You’re hoping to start a movement. Create a community.”

She touched her fingers to her chest. “My dream is not only to spread awareness and interest in the arts, but to foster them. Improve them. Strengthen them. Anyone can sponsor anyone else. A place where poets can chat with earls and marchionesses can talk to actresses without their economic backgrounds preventing a connection—that is a community.”

“Poets?” he echoed, as casually as he could.

Until this moment, he hadn’t believed she would hold such a solitary endeavor in as high esteem as she held acting and music.

She waved a hand. “I just said that as an example. Every third dandy believes himself the next Lord Byron.” She rolled her eyes with a laugh. “None of them would know good poetry if it bit them in the nose.”

His chest tightened. He was careful to betray nothing.

“In order to make the inaugural event the greatest success possible, what I really need are stunning entertainers. Actors, acrobats, jugglers, musicians, dancers. Astonishing, visceral performances that cannot help but open hearts or purses.”

He could not deny that such an event could easily have London abuzz. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve tried to.” She smiled up at him.

He was dubious a single gala would snowball into a serious community, but had no doubt the opening event itself would be just as astonishing as Katherine hoped. Everything she planned turned out better than expected.

He had a longstanding distrust of change, because every time his life forked into a new direction, new troubles came with it. Inheriting a title meant the loss of his parents. Gaining a guardian meant the destruction of his home. Staying home from war to manage his dukedom meant watching his best friends return broken and bitter men.

Time had also brought them better fortune, in the end. His friends had suffered great losses, but they’d ultimately gained love and peace.

He hoped the same would eventually happen for him. That was why he was leading Katherine off the carefully cultivated public paths and along the dirt trail leading to his private garden.

She stared up in obvious awe at the great stone wall protecting his private refuge. “Is this a garden or a castle?”

“Both,” he answered simply. The moat was the dukedom surrounding the walls. The inner sanctum was where nature reigned, and he was its humble servant.

Heretical thoughts. He paused with his key in the lock. His palms were sweating. This was a terrible idea. He was giving up his privacy. His solitude. His sanctuary.

Katherine’s fingers tightened about his arm and she leaned closer in anticipation.

He twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the heavy iron door.

Happiness filled him at the familiar sight of his private garden. Enormous trees with wide, leafy branches provided plenty of shade from the morning sun. A profusion of varying flowers rippled in the breeze like colorful fish in a sea of green.

So much ivy covered the interior side of the stone walls that the garden appeared not closed off, but rather endless, as if they were surrounded only by untamed hills of grass and flowers.

Katherine’s mouth fell open in wonder. She clutched her hands to her chest and spun in a slow circle, her wide blue eyes drinking in every wild, unclipped section. The grass tugged at the lace hem of her day dress, but she seemed too entranced by the view to even notice.

She turned bright eyes toward him, her mouth parting as if he were just coming into focus. “Did you do this?”

“I did nothing,” he said. “Like many things, nature is at its most beautiful when we don’t try to control it.”

She stared at him for a heartbeat and then threw her arms about his neck and rose up on her toes. “What an incredibly poetic thing to say.”

He couldn’t help it. He kissed her.

This time was different. He wasn’t kissing her because she was his bride and therefore he was obligated to. Nor was he kissing her for base, lusty reasons—although it was true that he had never stopped wanting her.

This kiss was because she was Katherine. Because here, he was not a duke, but Lawrence Pembroke, the man. The poet. The seeker of beauty.

And he had found it.

This kiss was because Katherine loved his lawless garden that by polite standards was not a garden at all. It was a wild thing. Lush and savage. Blossoms and thorns.

This kiss was because she saw him. Saw him in the peonies and the cherry trees, in the ivy and the twisting branches.

He kissed her because he wanted to. Needed to. Yearned for her. This garden wasn’t a mere hideaway—it was an extension of himself. He was every bird, every leaf. By letting her within its walls, he had let her into his heart.

Katherine was perhaps the one person who wouldn’t find his unconventional side a detriment. She didn’t care what society thought. If life wasn’t how she wished, she simply made it so. She was free. As wild as the sea of flowers around them. And as impossible to ever truly tame.

Gasping, he pulled away before he fell so far into their kiss that he would never find his way back home.

She slid an arm about him and leaned her head against his chest. The pounding of his heart had to be deafening. He wrapped an arm about her waist and nestled his cheek against the top of her head.

“You are like a dahlia,” he said softly.

She tilted her head up slightly. “Which one is that?”

He pointed with his free hand. “The gold ones are here… The pink ones there… The orange ones over there. Dahlias are more than pretty. They’re strong and resilient. And new to my garden this year.”

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “And they’re all so different.”

“Just like you.” He plucked a small golden dahlia from its stem and tucked it behind her ear. She looked like a wood nymph, capable of seducing the coldest heart and then disappearing into the mist.

“Thank you.” She snuggled close. “I love your garden.”

He nodded, pleased.

She made him happy and gave him hope.