Lillian was almost unnaturally aware of the quiet chatter of birds and the soft whisper of the breeze through the ivy. With his gaze holding hers, Westcliff approached …closer, closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. His fragrance drifted to her nostrils, the delicious mingling of sun-heated male skin and the singular dry sweetness that appealed to her so. Slowly he reached one arm around her, and her breath caught in the back of her throat as she shrank into the swishing ivy. She heard the metallic click of a latch.

“A bit more to the left and you would have found it,” he said softly.

Blindly she turned in the half circle of his arm, watching as he pushed the ivy back and sent the door swinging gently inward.

“Go on,” Westcliff urged. There was the slightest pressure of his hand at her waist, and he went with her into the garden.

CHAPTER 14

A wordless exclamation escaped Lillian’s lips as she beheld a square patch of lawn that was surrounded on all sides by a butterfly garden. Every wall was bordered with rich tumbles of color, a profusion of wildflowers that were covered with delicate fluttering wings. The only furnishment in the garden was a circular bench in the center from which every part of the garden could be viewed. The sublime incense of sun-heated flowers floated to her nostrils, intoxicating her with their sweetness.

“It’s called Butterfly Court,” Westcliff said, closing the door. His voice was a stroke of unfinished velvet on her ears. “It’s been planted with the flowers most likely to attract them.”

Lillian smiled dreamily as she watched the tiny, busy forms hovering at the heliotrope and marigold. “What are those called? The orange and black ones.”

Westcliff came to stand beside her. “Painted ladies.”

“How does one refer to a group of butterflies? A swarm?”

“Most commonly. However, I prefer a more recent variation—in some circles it is referred to as a kaleidoscope of butterflies.”

“A kaleidoscope…that’s some kind of optical instrument, isn’t it? I’ve heard of them, but never chanced to see one.”

“I have a kaleidoscope in the library. If you like, I will show it to you later.” Before she could reply, Westcliff pointed toward a huge fall of lavender. “Over there—the white butterfly is a skipper.”

A sudden laugh bubbled in her throat. “A dingy-skipper?”

Answering amusement twinkled in his eyes. “No. Just the regular variety of skipper.”

Sunlight glossed his heavy black hair and imparted a bronze sheen to his skin. Lillian’s gaze fell to the strong line of his throat, and suddenly she was unbearably aware of the coiled force of his body, the contained masculine power that had fascinated her since the first time she had ever seen him. What would it feel like to be wrapped inside that potent strength?

“How lovely the lavender smells,” she remarked, trying to distract her thoughts from their dangerous inclinations. “Someday I want to travel to Provence, to walk one of the lavender roads in summer. They say the stands of flowers are so far-reaching that the fields look like an ocean of blue. Can you imagine how beautiful it must be?”

Westcliff shook his head slightly, staring at her.

She wandered to one of the lavender stalks and touched the tiny violet-blue blossoms, and brought her scented fingertips to her throat. “They extract the essential oil by forcing steam through the plants and drawing off the liquid. It takes something like five hundred pounds of lavender plants to produce just a few precious ounces of oil.”

“You seem quite knowledgeable on the subject.”

Lillian’s lips quirked. “I have a great interest in scents. In fact, I could help my father a great deal with his company, were he to allow it. But I’m a woman, and therefore my only purpose in life is to marry well.” She wandered to the edge of the radiant wildflower bed.

Westcliff followed, coming to stand just behind her. “That puts me in mind of an issue that needs to be discussed.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been keeping company with St. Vincent of late.”

“So I have.”

“He is not a suitable companion for you.”

“He is your friend, is he not?”

“Yes—which is why I know what he is capable of.”

“Are you warning me to stay away from him?”

“As that would obviously be the supreme inducement for you to do otherwise…no. I am merely advising you not to be naive.”

“I can manage St. Vincent.”

“I’m sure you believe so.” A thread of annoying condescension had entered his tone. “However, it is clear that you have neither the experience nor the maturity to defend yourself against his advances.”

“So far you have been the only one I’ve needed to defend myself against,” Lillian retorted, turning to face him. She observed with satisfaction that the shot had hit its mark, causing a faint wash of color to edge his cheeks and the well-defined bridge of his nose.

“If St. Vincent has not yet taken advantage of you,” he replied with dangerous gentleness, “it is only because he is waiting for an opportune moment. And in spite of your inflated opinion of your own abilities—or perhaps because of it—you are an easy mark for seduction.”

“Inflated?” Lillian repeated in outrage. “I’ll have you know that I am far too experienced to be caught unaware by any man, including St. Vincent.” To Lillian’s vexation, Westcliff seemed to recognize the exaggeration for what it was, a smile gleaming in his sable eyes.