Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets: The Soldier's Dark Secret / The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite Kaye

My intrusion was unwelcome, I can see that, but it was also unintended. I am, however, very sorry. Had the roles been reversed, I too would have been...’

      She broke off, flushing, but it was too late. Jack was already imagining her naked, scything through the waters of the lake, and Mademoiselle Marmion was clearly perfectly aware of that fact. ‘Think nothing more of it,’ he said quickly, trying desperately to do just that. ‘Your apology is accepted, provided you do not repeat the transgression.’

      ‘Thank you. I promise you that in future I will avoid visiting the lake in the morning.’

      She smiled at him, and he caught his breath. She really was very lovely, with her white-blonde hair, and those eyes the colour of brandy. Her skin was smooth, flawless, but not the creamy-white of an English rose; it was a pale biscuit, sun-kissed and warm. Then there was her mouth. Luscious pink. Too wide for fashion, but perfect for kissing. Kissing her would be like biting into the sweet, delicate flesh of a perfectly ripe peach. The kind which grew in the heat of Spain, not the hard, bitter little fruits which were espaliered on the wall of Charlie’s garden. Kissing her would be like bathing in the dry heat of the true south. Kissing her would be like a taste of another world.

      Though he could not for the life of him imagine why he was thinking of kissing her. He’d had no urge to kiss anyone since—well, for quite some considerable time. ‘I think we should get out into the gardens while the light is good, Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait here while you fetch a hat.’

      ‘I was raised in the south of France. I don’t need a hat for the pale English sun, Monsieur Trestain.’

      ‘Then thank the Lord, that means I’m not required to wear one either. And since we’re dispensing with formalities, I would prefer it if you would call me Jack.’

      ‘Then you must call me Celeste.’

      ‘Celeste.’ Jack grinned. ‘How very appropriate. An angel sent from heaven to relieve my boredom.’

      ‘An artist sent from France to paint your brother’s estate,’ she retorted.

      ‘Touché. In that case we should get down to business.’

      * * *

      Celeste followed Jack Trestain down a narrow path through a colourful but uninteresting rose garden. His leather breeches fitted snugly around a taut derrière that was really very pleasant to admire from behind. His jet-black hair, dry now, curled over the collar of his shirt. She couldn’t help but remember the muscles, now decently covered in white cambric, which had rippled while he swam.

      She cursed softly under her breath and tried to concentrate on the path. And the task in hand. Not the intriguing man ahead of her, with his powerful soldier’s body. A frisson of desire made her stomach flutter. Twice today, she had experienced this sudden yearning, for the very first time since—since. She had not missed it. She had not even noted its absence, until now. Perhaps, Celeste thought hopefully, it was a sign that she was starting come to terms with the loss of her mother. Not that she’d been struggling precisely, but she had not been quite herself, she could admit that much now.

      ‘The Topiary Garden.’ Jack Trestain opened the gate with a flourish.

      Celeste had passed through it this morning, but had not taken the time to study it. Now she did so with delight. ‘This is fascinating. I have painted several such places before. I think it is unusual to have such a French garden attached to such a very English house, no?’

      ‘It was first laid out about two hundred years ago,’ Jack Trestain replied. ‘I think it was originally designed by one of your countrymen, now I come to think about it. To appreciate the symmetry and the scale of it, you’ll get a much better view from the top floor of the house, if you were thinking of making this one of your featured landscapes.’

      ‘Absolutely I am,’ Celeste said, ‘and I think a view from the lake too, through the topiary with the house in the background.’

      ‘When my mother was alive, the borders were a blaze of colour at this time of year. And the parterre too. You’ll recognise the lavender that borders it, there. I was once passing through Provence when they were gathering the lavender crop. The scent of it took me straight back to my childhood, escaping down here with Charlie, playing hide-and-seek in this garden. It’s well past its best now.’

      ‘Were you in the army for a very long time, Monsieur Jack?’

      ‘Thirteen years. My father bought me a commission when I was sixteen. Why do you ask?’

      Celeste shrugged, feigning a casualness she was far from feeling. ‘Were you forced to leave because of your injury? Or because there are no more wars to fight?’

      ‘I was not forced to leave. I resigned my commission.’

      His clipped tone made it very clear he considered the subject closed. The same tone he had used with Lady Eleanor at breakfast. Thirteen years was a large part of anyone’s life to exclude from discussion but then, there was an equally large part of her own life she didn’t ever discuss. Celeste smiled brightly. ‘Then let us concentrate on my own modest commission, which I have only just started.’

      Jack disguised his relief well enough, but she noticed it all the same. As they walked down another path, Celeste prattled on about other gardens she had painted, other topiary she had drawn, aware he was studying her as covertly as she was studying him. Unsettled and distracted by her own interest, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by his, she decided that she would do better for now to concentrate on her work, and so took out her sketchbook.

      The Topiary Garden was divided into two by the long gravelled path which led towards the lake. On either side, the yew hedges had been trained into the most extraordinary shapes. Despite the fact that it had not been pruned, it was still possible to distinguish peacocks, a lion, a crown, and what looked to be several chess pieces, as well as more traditional cones, boxes and cylinders. Holly bordered the low and overgrown beds which had been laid out in the shadow of the yews. No longer feigning interest, Celeste made several rapid sketches.

      Looking up some time later, she smiled at Jack watching her now with unalloyed interest, tilting her last sketch to allow him to examine it better. ‘In France,’ she said, ‘this garden would be prized and restored, not cut down to make way for a— What was it Lady Eleanor called it?’

      ‘A little wilderness,’ Jack replied, ‘whatever conceit that is. Eleanor loathes it as it is, and I have to confess, it is much darker than I remember.’

      ‘With some remedial work, it could be very beautiful.’

      ‘Your sketch certainly makes it look so. Perhaps you should share your thoughts with Eleanor.’

      ‘Oh, no, that would be presumptuous. It is her garden, not mine.’

      Jack ushered her towards the welcome of the shade, where a mossy stone bench was positioned under a yew which had been clipped into an arch. He had come out without a coat, and now rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The contrast between his pale right arm and tanned left was stark. It was not only the colour, but he had clearly lost muscle.

      ‘It must have been a very bad break to have kept your arm in a splint for so long.’ Without realising, Celeste had reached out to touch him. She snatched her hand away.

      ‘Why did you stay at the lakeside this morning?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve as much as admitted you should have left the moment you saw me. What made you stay?’

      The bench was small. His leather-clad thigh brushed hers, and his knee too, for he had angled himself to face her. ‘I am an artist,’ Celeste said, her voice sounding odd. ‘You made an interesting subject.’

      ‘Did you draw me, then?’

      His hand covered hers, which were clasped on her lap. Her heart began to thump. ‘There was no time,’ she said.

      ‘Yet you insist you were watching me purely with the eye of an artist?’

      His