He shouldn’t have come back here. He should have rented a place. Bought a place. Anything else. But part of him—a part he could never tell anyone about—wanted to prove to himself that the horrors that clung to these vine infested walls had no more power over him, over his life. None. He glanced at the door leading to the gardens before stealing a glance at Lady Rosilee.
And perhaps he had another, more selfish reason.
He wanted her to remember.
At the same time, he dreaded it, too.
“It’s a lovely haven, despite the tenacious vines,” Lady Rosilee said with a quirk up her lips.
Blake made a strangled sound. “It’s not—”A lovely haven. It wasn’t lovely at all. But what was the point of refuting her? Her optimism was as stubborn as the ivy strangling the walls. And if she said it was lovely, so it must be. Her word might as well be law.
“It’s not . . .?” she pressed.
“It’s nothing.” He strode over to the hearth that Mr. Wiggins must have lit. “The fire seems content enough.”
“Such a droll reply,” she countered, her laughter light and infectious, and despite himself, Blake felt an almost smiletugging at his lips. She stepped up beside him. “Content, hmmm? Is fire not the breath of love?”
“Romantic words for a fire.”
“You cannot argue that in winter, especially, fire isn’t romance. For indeed it is—it’s love.”
Romance? Love? Blake clenched his jaw, the words hitting harder than they should. “There is no such thing.”
“You mean love?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.” He felt the force of her stare. It burned worse than the flames. “It’s a worthless sentiment.”
“Well, aren’t you a skeptic?” she replied with a hint of humor. “But what about all those men who kneel before their wives, showering them with affection and devotion? Isn’t that worth something to their wives? Isn’t that love?”
“Ludicrous,” he scoffed. “Trickery. It’s what we men do best.”
She laughed then. “Well, I cannot fully dispute that.”
Holding her gaze, he asked, “How do you do it?”
She arched a brow. “Do what exactly?”
“Stay so mystically optimistic.”
She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Someone has to balance out your brooding.” After a pause, she added, “Besides, life is only as dark as you let it be. Perhaps I just choose to see the light, even when it’s hard to find.”
Blake shook his head. “Light? I’ve searched for it. Seems it’s not meant for me.” His gaze flickered to the fire before he added, quieter, “Or maybe I just don’t deserve to see it.”
“Oh, pish,” she countered. “We all deserve light.
“And you think you’ll find it at the Lyon’s Den with Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Light can be found in the darkest of places, too.”
“Says the optimist.”
“Speaking of optimism, what is our next course of action?”
A throat cleared from the door. “Good question.”
Blake nearly rolled his eyes at Bishop, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.
“Mr. Bishop,” Lady Rosilee said with a smile. “Where did you go?”