VII. – Amongst the Blakeney Roses

The following two weeks had proved that, though the darkness still hovered about her, there was a light guiding her out of the depths of despair. She did not know wither it would take her, but she was positive it must be good; it shone from Lord Dewhurst's every facet and seemly pulled her towards him. And she hadn't even spoken to the man, yet! But whenever she accompanied her father to a soiree or dinner or a ball or a garden party, and saw milord with his friends, she felt giddy and flush.

Martin-Roget had never elicited such emotions within her budding young body. She tried to comprehend what was happening to her, but to no avail. All she knew was that she wanted to get to know the young Englishman, and was torn by her father's wishes that she attach herself to Martin-Roget, the wealthy French banker.

And then, one afternoon, at the exquisite Lady Blakeney's end-of-summer jardin d'accueil, she found herself quite alone when His Royal Highness claimed her father in order to introduce the Duc to several other guests. Martin-Roget had not yet arrived and, truthfully, Yvonne hoped he would be delayed even longer, for she dreaded his constant hovering. Besides, without her father and her fiancee, she was free for a short while, and taking advantage of the situation she had wandered into milady's beautiful rose garden, utterly enchanted by the staggeringly beautiful colors of late summer roses.

And then she rounded a bend and came face to face with Lord Dewhurst.

The instant tinge of dark pink on his strong, high cheekbones was quite adorable and sudden, she thought. Surely he was not nervous of a mere sixteen-year-old girl!

She shyly diverted her eyes and struggled to ignore Pierre Adet's terrible memory, even as it attempted to snarl furiously (more furiously than usual, it seemed) that this man was like all of the others – vile and demanding, slobbering and foul smelling, wanting nothing more than what Adet himself had taken.

"M-Mademoiselle," Lord Dewhurst stammered, bowing politely.

Yvonne curtsied nervously and kept her lashes low against her soft cheeks. Her voice was nothing more than a trembling whisper as she murmured in response, "My lord."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing once. There was an awkward silence, but after a few seconds, he said, "It is a fine day, is it not?"

"Mais oui, c'est très joli." She still whispered, partly from fear, partly from intense attraction. "Madame Blakeney is a wonderful hostess."

"She is," he agreed, almost fretfully and fidgeting slightly. "Mademoiselle, I…"

But before he could continue, Yvonne's father appeared around the bend just at that very moment and, when he saw the scene before him, looked positively enraged to find his daughter speaking to the young Englishman – alone!

Still, the Duc de Kernogan was a man of breeding. He did not, thankfully, make a dreadful scene. Lord Dewhurst had paled, but he had also nodded politely to the older man, whose own manners were perfectly cool and aloof as he took Yvonne's elbow and informed her that Monsieur Martin-Roget had just arrived and was asking for her. Then he even inclined his head briefly towards the young Englishman, in a gesture of strained etiquette.

But as her father led her away, Yvonne glanced over her shoulder and gave her admirer a small, timid smile – quite outside the boundaries of what her father would have considered appropriate.

And to her delight, he returned it quite hopefully, almost boyishly.

The pleasant feeling of giddiness settled happily within her chest, enabling her to endure Martin-Rouge's dull, boring talk for the rest of the afternoon.