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thing—and perhaps I will have Betty make an strategic adjustment or two.”

Chapter Five
    “She’s in the garden, my lord.” Flint cleared his throat. “The special garden.”
    “Ah. Thank you, Flint. And she’s alone?”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “Splendid.”
    Baron Tynweith strolled down the broad gravel walk, past the knot garden and the parterres. The trees and bushes were neatly trimmed into spheres, cones, and pyramids. He had been told his garden was too symmetrical, too unnatural. Too French. He didn’t care. It pleased him. He enjoyed the feeling of order—of control, perhaps—that the straight lines and sharp angles gave him.
    He passed under an arch of honeysuckle and ivy and into the topiary gardens. He ignored the plantings on the right. They were his father’s and grandfather’s. He had left them unchanged. Amazing, really. He had been so angry when he had inherited, it was a wonder he had not taken the entire estate to hell.
    He turned to the left, walked between two high hedges, and entered the special garden.
    He cringed now to look at it. What had he been thinking?
    He knew what he’d been thinking. The moment the last shovel of dirt had hit the coffin of his carping, overbearing, perfectionist father, he’d set out to insure the dead man never stopped spinning in his grave. The topiary garden was an obvious target. For the last ten years of his life, the old bastard had spent every waking moment supervising the gardeners, making certain they trimmed the fanciful shapes—the horses and dogs and women—exactly as he wanted.
    Tynweith grimaced, looking at an especially fanciful arrangement of a dog, a horse, and a woman. He suspected Jacks, his head gardener, also harbored some anger toward his father. He’d been quite delighted, after he’d recovered from the shock, to fashion this twisted mirror garden.
    He found Charlotte observing a leafy tableau featuring two women and a snake.
    “Admiring the foliage, Duchess?”
    She gasped and spun around to face him.
    Damn, she made his blood quicken. She’d been a debutante when he’d first met her. It had been his first Season as baron, his first Season free of his father. He had been wild.
    He’d seen her the moment he’d walked into Easthaven’s ballroom. She’d been standing by the door to the garden, next to her beak-nosed mother, staring out at the crowded room, not talking to anyone. She’d looked so small, so blond, so self-possessed. So cold. The wags had dubbed her the Marble Queen before she’d risen from her first curtsy.
    He’d wanted her.
    He’d gotten Lady Easthaven to make the introductions. The Duchess of Rothingham had wrinkled her nose at a mere baron approaching her daughter—well, it was also possible she had heard of his rapidly deteriorating reputation—and would have denied him a dance if she could have. But Charlotte had said yes before her mother could say no.
    He still didn’t know why she’d agreed. She had hardly spoken to him. Hardly touched him. Yet he could hardly keep from dragging her out into the darkened garden.
    He’d seen an exotic mix of fear and passion behind her controlled façade. It fascinated him. Drew him. He told himself that she presented a challenge, and he could no more turn down a challenge than he could stop breathing.
    He had managed to get her into the garden, but he had shown little finesse. Well, no finesse. He had jumped her like the animal he was and she had slapped him soundly.
    She was eyeing him nervously now. “I’m looking for Lady Felicity.”
    “Hmm. An odd place to look. I thought I’d made the point of mentioning this part of the gardens is not suitable for the fairer sex.”
    Charlotte flushed slightly. “I took a wrong turn.”
    “Well, since you are here, may I show you around? Unless, of course, your maiden sensibilities will be offended.”
    “I am not a maiden, my lord.”
    “No, you aren’t, are you? Then I need not send for the hartshorn.”
    She