Of course Genevieve had invented French; of course the language belonged to her, reshaping itself at her pleasure, bending at the knee merely for the privilege of leaving her mouth. He might have told her as much. He might have said something foolish and pleased and entirely too honest. But her smile faltered then. The change was slight, but he felt it as keenly as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud. The brightness left her eyes, and in its place came something careful. Something frightened. His fingers tightened around hers before he quite realised he had done it. Whatever she was trying to tell him, it mattered. 'I'm the prin- '
"Sardine!" William's voice tore across the garden with all the subtlety of a musket shot. Edgar blinked. A blur of grey fur darted across the path behind them, tail high, dignity untouched. William came after it at a frantic, deeply ungentlemanly pace, one hand holding his livery coat out of the way as he plunged toward the hedges. "Sardine, you miserable little beast- come back here!" Frederic's cat vanished beneath a shrub. William followed with the hopeless devotion of a man who knew this indignity would not be his last. For one stunned second, Edgar could only stare after them until Genevieve growled.
The sound was low, vexed, beautifully uncivilised - and the French that followed struck through him before meaning ever had the chance. He understood almost none of it. A word here, perhaps. A curse, certainly. The rest was smoke and silk and sharpened flame. It should not have affected him, but it did. The anger in her voice, the heat of it, the way the language darkened and quickened on her tongue; it moved through him with startling force. His breath thinned. His gaze fell helplessly to her mouth. The world around them, with its gardeners and fountains and escaped cats, seemed suddenly intolerable. Too loud, too public, too full of interruptions.
Edgar remembered the old gardener's shed, tucked just beyond the bend of the path, half-hidden beneath climbing ivy. His decision arrived before his conscience could object. "Come with me," he murmured. He took her hand and led her around the corner, away from the terrace, away from the workmen, away from William's distant and increasingly desperate negotiations with the cat. The shed door gave under his hand with a soft creak. Inside, the air was warmer, close with the scent of earth, cut stems, sun-baked wood, and old twine. Clay pots lined the shelves. Garden shears gleamed dully on a hook. A narrow window spilled a pale shaft of afternoon light across a wooden workstation worn smooth by years of use.
Edgar closed the door behind them. The garden dulled to a murmur. At last, silence - at last, her. He turned back slowly, still holding her hand, and for a moment all his good intentions stood at a distance from him, lovely and useless. He had meant to prove he could be patient. That he wanted more than stolen kisses and breathless afternoons. He still did. But she had spoken French in anger, and some shameful, helpless part of him had come undone at the sound.
He stepped closer, guiding her back until the edge of the wooden table met her behind. His hand settled at her waist, gentle at first, then firmer when she did not pull away. His other braced against the workstation beside her, caging her there without touching nearly enough. "I did not understand what you said," he murmured, voice rougher than he intended. His eyes traced her face, her mouth, the faint rise and fall of her breath. "But I understood the way you said it." The confession left him almost breathless. His hand loosened at her waist. "Genevieve," he said softly. Her name came out gentler than he intended, almost a plea, though he did not know what to follow it up with. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, and let his hand fall to the edge of the workstation beside her instead. Close, still. Near enough that the warmth between them remained. But no longer pressing, no longer asking anything of her except the truth.
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