The darkness enveloped Mabel the moment her shoes sunk into the wet grass. The mansion glowed in the night, but its lights didn't reach past the steps leading down from the veranda. Her hands flew to her cheeks, pulse throbbing in her wrists. It was so dark out here, so lonely.

With a deep exhale, Mabel lifted her eyes toward the stars, searching to meet their eternal gaze and feel at peace. The constellations stretched along the foggy ribbon of the Milky Way. Murder, rapine and eternal chase of the ancient myth underpinned them. There was no refuge there for her, for humans infected even the Heavens with their strife.

She was so small and scared. So vulnerable. Lost.

Her only beacon was the mansion. Disoriented from staring up for too long, she turned and eyed it critically. Hopefully, the men had the grace to leave, clearing the path for her to slip back inside, unobserved. She stumbled toward it.

"Miss Walton!" Radcliffe called out from the railing. His stunted figure separated from a pillar to silhouette against the manor's lights. A sinister hunchback who owned this castle, waiting for her in an ambush. "Miss Walton, please, come back. You could hardly expect me to gallop after you, and I would hate to summon help."

She would also hate it if he summoned help and revealed her distress to the gathering.

Without seeing his horrid face, the voice was similar, but somehow more seductive than his brother's. A little deeper. More sure of himself. It had a familiar shadow of perpetual amusement that she didn't glimpse earlier. Other than that, it lacked the passion that so drove Everett's fatally attractive person, but it was compelling. Commanding even.

He shouldn't be able to see her from his spot in the light, but she nodded in response to shore up her bravery. Were she discovered alone with a man, her reputation would be ruined. Yet, instinctively, she trusted his honour. And this time her instincts would prove true, she reassured herself. They had to sometime.

It was the tongues of the society she had to be wary of, not Radcliffe Chesterton. Belatedly, Mabel gathered the trailing hem of her skirt, hoping that it didn't soak in too much moisture to betray her behaviour to the prying eyes of her neighbours.

She climbed the steps toward the welcoming light, faster and faster, as if it promised her salvation.Or at least assured her shoes' survival. They were made for the dance floors, not for traipsing through the dew! In her haste, she nearly tripped at the end, and fell against the railing.

"Where is—" she wheezed, breathless from exertion and embarrassment. The cold stone dug into her back mercilessly.

"Oh, he has gone inside," Radcliffe replied, knowing full well whom she was asking after. "I must say, I am in awe, Miss Walton, since I haven't seen Everett chastised quite like that in ten years."

A shaky laughter escaped her in response to this preposterous compliment. "This is not how it appeared to me, Lord Chesterton. I must apologize—"

For what? Despite shivering, she didn't feel that anything she had done was wrong.

She acted too boldly and she would be judged harshly for it, if found out, but in her heart, she could not see herself doing anything differently. Everett was unkind when he should not have been. Someone had to point it out, and it fell to her.

But even so, did it behoove her to act like a harpie?

"I must beg your pardon for my forwardness."

He let her words trail away as insignificant. "Unfortunately, the cover of darkness steals the most obvious line from me. It would be absolutely ridiculous to ask how you have enjoyed my gardens."

"Not at all ridiculous, Lord Chesterton," Mabel said, wiggling her toes inside her wet shoes. "For I've looked out when we just came, and the vista was lovely. Perhaps in need of a caring hand—"

"I also noticed that. To my dismay, it is turning wild at the edges, compared to what I remember from childhood." A smile she couldn't see warmed up his voice, for she still couldn't force herself to look directly into his face. "However, thanks to that, I could just now envision you as Arthemis on a hunt."

"I doubt very much she casts about the heartwoods in a manner of a panicked fowl." Mabel sighed. Her dress must have picked the light if he could track her progress on the lawn.

"I wouldn't know, Miss Walton. Goddesses don't grace me with their presence. This is a singular occasion."

She laughed at this outrageous flattery. Even her corset seemed to loosen a little, making breathing easier. "So, you're an avid gardener, Lord Chesterton?"

"Indeed, I am. My latest obsession is the orangery at our London estate. My father first started it to satisfy Mother's cravings for lemons." Sadness crept in his voice, as if the memory was painful. "I took it over when he became busy with the war office, but the more I've learned of piping and heating needed to cultivate the exotic plants; the more plants I have obtained, the more passionate I have become. Obsessive even."

"A collector's fever?"

"Yes, I suppose. I am afraid it's part of my character." He chuckled self-consciously. "Look at me, boring you half to death, and that's after Everett acted a complete boor. You must abhor us."

"You are not boring me. Quite the opposite; I am intrigued."

The polite response fell flat after the sincerity of his admissions, making her regret their good manners. He could have rambled on. She could have loudly protested. Or perhaps it could have been too soon after shouting at Everett. She would have hated it if his impression of her were that she was rude and obnoxious.

"Flowers are my favourite subject to paint," she confessed. "Mother scolds me for trying to imitate scientific drawings, like in the herbariums."

"That's unfortunate."

Despite her best efforts, exasperation crept into her voice. "Instead, she encourages me to paint something that speaks to her sensitivities."

There was something incredibly exciting about sharing the deepest corners of her heart with a complete stranger. It took some weight off her soul, if not all.

"It is a rare accomplishment." He said it without a trace of mockery. What's more, he said it with something Mabel rarely heard in a man's voice: respect. And not just respect due a virtuous lady; it was respect due an interesting person.

"I hope I don't sound petulant."

"You are not."

She played with the fan hanging forgotten from her wrist. "She regrets that I do not paint portraits, since it would have been valued by our society. But I prefer flowers, because you do not need to use tricks to flatter their looks—"

Mabel caught herself, twisting the string on the fan's handle until it tightened around her wrist so much it hurt. How could she be this inconsiderate! He was the ugliest man she'd met, so he was sure to take her words as a barb.

"If we were to do what's useful for the society, we'd be tilling land and sowing crops, Miss Walton," he said, smoothing over her frustrated silence.

If he could soothe her every time she made a mistake like that, she wouldn't mind it. Everett was a fool to fight his brother's attention and intent to help him.

"On some days, I would almost have preferred to till the land!" She darted a glance toward the ballroom's door. Must they go back inside at all? Unfortunately, yes. He was the host and she was perilously close to shivering.

"At least your studies are more sensible than my zeal for the blooms of the Indies or Americas. Every time I look upon the bluebells and daisies decorating our native fields so well, I think, 'what an absurd thing to do'... and I can't help myself."

"Oh, no, no. The daisies are always around." And she felt as homely as one. "I wish I could have seen what you have imported from those faraway lands."

"Then you have my cordial invitation for whenever you visit London." He scratched his jaw. "Though you probably would want to stay in Lancashire?"

Did she imagine a question in his last remark? She wasn't so sure, but the answer came to it anyway.

"No," she said with a resolve that surprised herself. "No, I am leaving Lancashire. I do not yet know how, but I shall leave."

"You reminded me of Everett just now," he said. "No wonder he likes you so well."

His words made no sense, and neither did a hint of regret. Nor did it make sense that she could detect his emotions. He was a private man, and she'd only met him a few moments ago. They shared a moment charged with passion, because of Everett, yet he was a stranger to her still. Even more of a stranger than his dastardly brother.

"If Mr. Chesterton had a high opinion of me, I am afraid I ruined it with my awful clumsiness." She stuttered a few times getting through this lament, because all the preceding events—her labours to dance well; the humiliation on the dance floor; her shattered hopes and her unseemly outburst on the veranda—all of it came together to create a tightness in her chest.

"Do not despair, Miss Walton. My brother's moods change faster than our weather," he replied. The genuine warmth suffusing his voice was gone, leaving only courtesy in its wake. "And speaking of Everett... As much as it pains me to cut short our sojourn, we should follow his example and rejoin the gathering before he causes more mischief."

He speaks of his brother as if he were a toddler, Mabel thought, sneaking back inside, and conspiring to hold the door open with one outstretched arm, so as to make it easier for him to pass through.

He didn't acknowledge it, but the expression that clouded his face brought out a sigh to Mabel's lips: it seemed she did wrong again.

Honestly, she could not step once tonight without trodding on Chesterton's sensitive toes. If it wasn't the younger brother, it was the elder! She didn't know which one she loathed to offend more—and so she had offended both. How very even-handed of her. How polite!

'Oh, Mabel, you are such a silly goose.' Hazel mocked her in her head. For once, she agreed. She made a complete fool out of herself.