. . snip . . . snip of Alistair’s garden shears finally began to pervade his consciousness. Slowly, he became aware that in his distraction he’d managed to behead most of the roses rather than tend them. He leaned back. Of course he had done. Everything he meant to nurture and preserve ended up cut short before its time. Sighing, he tossed the shears aside and threw himself on his back to stare up at the stars. Here he was, then. On the Waldegrave family lands, crouching six feet above one third of the Waldegrave family. Or was he? They had never been three. There had only been he and Marjorie, and then he and Lillian. And Violet, he acknowledged slowly. Now they were three.Or could be, if he didn’t ruin it. Hadn’t already ruined it. He’d been a fool.He’d been a fool because he was a fool, and would likely do a thousand foolish things more before his time on this earth was through, but he had not meant to take advantage—if that was how she felt—and he most certainly had not meant to storm off without explanation.
