The Importance of Being Wicked. Victoria Alexander

enjoyed preparing a special basket for him and whatever guest he might have. This was not his first picnic.

      “No doubt. Anything else?”

      “A month ago, I would have said I wished Fairborough had not burned.”

      “And now?”

      “Now . . .” He shrugged. “I still wish that, but there’s nothing to be done about it so it’s a wish wasted.”

      “It does seem a shame to waste a wish.”

      He glanced at her. “I’ll have you know, I am not the sort of man to waste a wish.”

      “I never imagined you were.” She trailed her fingers over the stone bench. “This is really a lovely surprise. Thank you for bringing me here.”

      “In truth, I was going to bring you to the lake. But then you mentioned Greece and this seemed especially appropriate.”

      “I’m not sure why I mentioned Greece except that you asked and, well, I’ve never told anyone else. It’s a silly dream, really.”

      “Then I am honored that you confided in me.” He met her gaze and smiled into her eyes. Today, in the sunlight, they had a distinct green cast to them as if she were a nymph of ancient Greece transported to England, or a creature of the forest who danced with fairies. “Dreams, Lady Garret, are never utter nonsense.”

      For a long moment they stared at one another. He couldn’t pull his gaze from hers. Nor did he wish to. For one brief instant he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in those eyes of hers.

      At last she cleared her throat and smiled politely. “So, do you bring a lot of ladies here?”

      “No.” He cast her a sharp look and the moment vanished. “This is not the sort of place I bring women for purposes of seduction.”

      “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

      He arched a skeptical brow.

      “My apologies,” she murmured.

      “And the last time I did bring a lady here, well, let us just say she did not share your appreciation. Some people look at a folly and see no more than an error in judgment, a frivolity. I do not share this with everyone.”

      “I see,” she said in a weak voice that was nonetheless gratifying.

      “The folly was in an awful state of disrepair until about five or six years ago. I’m afraid we had neglected it dreadfully.” He pulled out a large, cloth-wrapped bundle. Sliced ham probably, and entirely more than was needed. He set it aside. “I decided then it was too, well, special to be allowed to fall to pieces.”

      “Where would the fairies frolic if it was gone?”

      “Exactly.” There was as well bread and cheese, cake and—he noted with satisfaction—a jar of honeyed fruit. “So I had it repaired and I had the path made to make it easier for the gardeners.” He gazed between the columns and surveyed the clearing. In spite of the distraction of the fire this year, Win was delighted to note the gardeners had not forgotten the folly. “This is the first time I’ve been here this season. They’ve done an excellent job.”

      “It is really quite beautiful.”

      “Aha. I thought as much.” He pulled out a heavy, wrapped bottle, still cold from the cellar. “Champagne.”

      “For luncheon?”

      “Why not?”

      “Because it goes straight to my head and I would much prefer to have my head clear for the remainder of the day.”

      “You have my solemn promise, Lady Garret, that should I notice you becoming the least bit tipsy, I shall wrench the cup from your hand and dispose of it.” He raised his chin bravely. “Even if that means I shall drink it myself.”

      “You are too kind, my lord.” She studied him for a moment. “Why not indeed?”

      She stood and crossed the folly to the basket. Plates, utensils and glasses were strapped to the inner sides of the wicker container. She unfastened the glasses while he opened the champagne.

      He filled their glasses, then raised his in a toast. “To the successful rebuilding of Fairborough Hall and all that goes with it.”

      She raised her cup. “Including electrification.”

      “Including electrification.” He sighed. “God help us all.”