‘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 thumb was stroking her wrist, so lightly she wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. The tension between them became palpable. Beguiled as much by her own new-found desire as by Jack’s proximity, Celeste could think of nothing to say but the truth. ‘I watched you because I could not take my eyes off you. I was fascinated.’
His eyes darkened. His hands slid up to her shoulders. She leaned into him as he pulled her towards him. It started so gently. Soft. Delicate. Celeste leant closer. The kiss deepened. She could feel the damp of his shirt and the heat of his skin beneath it. A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and she felt a sharp twist of pure desire.
She curled her fingers into his hair. Their tongues touched. Jack moaned, a guttural sound that precisely echoed how she felt, filled with longing, and aching and heat. Their kiss became fierce. He bent her backwards on the bench, his body hovering over hers, blocking out the sunlight. He smelt of soap and sweet summer sweat. His legs were tangled in her skirts. Only his arms, planted either side of her, prevented her from falling.
She was also in danger of falling, metaphorically speaking, from a far greater height if she was not extremely careful. Celeste snapped to her senses. Jerking herself free, she sat up. Jack’s cheeks were flushed. His hair was in wild disarray. His shirt was falling open at the neck to reveal his tanned throat. The soft linen clung to his frame, revealing tantalising glimpses of the hard body underneath. She wanted more. It was good that she wanted more, but with this man! No, she must be out of her mind.
She edged a little way along the bench, shaking out her skirts. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to faint?’ she asked more sharply than she intended.
‘Despite our extremely brief acquaintance you do not strike me as someone much given to histrionics.’
‘You are perfectly correct, I am not. Even when kissing complete strangers.’
‘Not quite complete strangers, Mademoiselle. We have at least been formally introduced.’ Jack shook his head, as if trying to clear the dazed look from his eyes. ‘I apologise,’ he said tersely. ‘I have no idea what came over me. I’m not in the habit of mauling innocent women, especially not when they are my brother’s guests.’
‘Your brother’s landscape artist, not his guest, and I am neither innocent nor inclined to accept an apology for something that was as much my doing as yours,’ Celeste snapped, unduly irked by his assumption that it was all his responsibility. She was relieved to discover she could feel this way again, but she really wished it had not been this maddening man who had sparked her back to life. She picked up her sketch pad and charcoals, trying to regain her composure. ‘It was just a kiss, nothing more,’ she said, because that was all it was, after all.
‘Just a kiss?’ Jack repeated, still looking stunned. ‘Is that what you really think?’
She did not. She thought—not very clearly, admittedly—that it was the most extraordinary kiss she had ever experienced. She thought, looking at him now, that she would very much like to kiss him again, but she was not about to admit that. ‘Very well,’ Celeste conceded, ‘an excellent kiss, though I suspect