Again the Magic (Wallflowers 0.5)(78)

“Then I shall endeavor to be both pleasant and distracting,” Adam replied with a casual grin. He bowed gracefully over Aline’s hand.

“Come walk with me in the garden,” she urged, her fingers tightening on his.

“What an excellent idea.” Adam reached out to one of the bouquets heaped on the entrance table, broke off a perfect ivory blossom, and tucked it into his lapel. Extending his arm to Aline, he walked with her through the hall to the French doors at the back of the house.

The gardens were brilliant with summer magic, with plump cushions of forget-me-nots, lemon balm, and vibrant yellow daylilies, surrounding plots of roses shot through with garnet clematis. Long rows of silvery lamb’s-ear stretched between large stone urns filled with rainbows of Oriental poppies. Descending the terrace steps, Adam and Aline began on a winding gravel path that led past neatly clipped yews. Adam was one of those rare people who was comfortable with silence, waiting patiently for her to speak.

Feeling soothed by the serenity of the garden and Adam’s reassuring presence, Aline let out a long sigh. “The roses were from McKenna,” she finally said.

“I gathered that,” Adam replied dryly.

“There was a poem too.” She extracted it from her bodice and gave it to him. Adam was the only person on earth whom she would allow to read something so intimate. Pausing in the center of the path, Adam unfolded the slip of paper and scanned the few lines.

When he glanced at her, he seemed to read the exquisite mingling of pain and pleasure in her eyes. “Very touching,” he said sincerely, returning the poem to her. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. I’m going to send him away, as I originally planned.”

Considering the words carefully, Adam seemed inclined to venture an opinion, then appeared to think better of it. He shrugged. “If that’s what you think best, so be it.”

No one else of her acquaintance would have made such an answer. Aline took his hand and held on tightly as they continued to walk. “Adam, one of the things I adore most about you is that you never try to advise me what to do.”

“I despise advice—it never works.” They skirted the edge of the mermaid fountain, which splashed lethargically amid heavy beds of delphiniums.

“I’ve considered telling McKenna everything,” Aline confided, “but it would turn out badly, no matter how he responded.”

“How so, sweet?”

“The moment that I show McKenna my scars, he would either find them too horrible to accept, or worse, he’ll pity me, and feel duty-bound to propose out of obligation or honor…and then he’ll eventually come to regret his decision, and wish to be rid of me. I couldn’t live like that, looking into his eyes every morning and wondering if that was the day he would leave me for good.”

Adam made a soft, sympathetic sound.

“Am I doing the wrong thing?” she asked.

“I never define these matters in terms of right and wrong,” Adam replied. “One should make the best choice possible given the circumstances, and then avoid second-guessing for the sake of one’s own sanity.”

Aline couldn’t help contrasting him with Marcus, who believed so strongly in absolutes—right and wrong, good and bad—and her mouth curved with a bittersweet smile. “Adam, dear, I’ve considered your proposal over the past few days…”

“Yes?” They stopped once again, facing each other with their hands linked.

“I can’t accept,” she said. “It would be unfair to both of us. I suppose that if I can’t have a real marriage, I should be happy with an imitation of it. But all the same, I’d rather share a genuine friendship with you than a counterfeit marriage.”

Seeing the glitter of unhappiness in her eyes, Adam reached out to clasp her in a strong, warm hug. “Darling girl,” he murmured, “my offer stands indefinitely. I’ll be your genuine friend until my dying day. And if you ever change your mind about marriage, you have only to snap your fingers.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve found that imitations can sometimes become damned attractive, when one can’t afford the real thing.”

Seventeen

Livia had spent approximately seven nights in London, returning with sufficient parcels and boxes to lend credence to the claim that she had gone to town for a shopping expedition. The female guests took great enjoyment in viewing some of Livia’s purchases…a small, high-crowned hat trimmed with dyed feathers…gloves that had been embroidered and beaded at the wrists…shawls of lace, cashmere, and silk,…a sheaf of sketches and fabric samples from the London modiste who was making gowns for her.

Naturally, Susan Chamberlain asked if Livia had seen Mr. Shaw and McKenna while she was in London, and Livia replied with breezy offhandedness. “Oh yes, my chaperone Mrs. Smedley and I spent a most delightful evening with them at the Capitol Theater. Box seats, and an excellent view of the stage—we were positively transported!”

However, no matter how casual Livia’s manner was, her statements were greeted by arched brows and pointedly exchanged gazes. Everyone, it seemed, suspected that there was far more to the story than what was being told.

Aline had heard the details of the London visit as soon as Livia had returned. She went to Livia’s bedroom after her sister had changed into her nightclothes, and the two of them sat on the bed with glasses of wine. Aline leaned against one of the massive carved bedposts, while Livia settled back into the pillows. “I was with him every evening,” she told Aline, her cheeks flushed. “Seven nights of absolute heaven.”