The engagement ball was happening in two days, and Geneva had a big problem. Despite the guilt, she had already made up her mind. She was going. Her companion Gwen, and the housekeeper Helene, convinced her to go.

"This might be the last time you can enjoy a Stratford ball, Miss," Gwen had said. "You know the mistresses would not go if they were here."

"We went to the last one," she had reasoned. "If I ask their permission, they may say yes."

"They only went last time because their friends went," Helene countered. "Now, all of them are not going."

"They aren't?"

"Yes. I made inquiries. Mrs. Newton is still a little resentful about the duke. You know she had been hoping for her granddaughter to snatch the man."

"There will be no one there to tell you attended," said Gwen.

"But I will be recognized."

"Not if you can deny it."

She frowned at her companion. "How?"

"Don't wear anything you own. Wear a different dress."

And that was her problem. She did not have one that would not make her unrecognizable. Everything she owned screamed Geneva Withers, the great-niece of three old women. No colorful dresses with ribbons and laces, no jewelries to match. And no money to procure a different one.

"Hm. That does indeed pose a problem," Damon said the following morning. They were outside Windsong, under the same oak tree. It was dawn, the sky a haze of bronze and yellow; his horse, Maple, not far away, enjoying the moist grass.

She stared at him and shook her head. "Do not even think about buying one. I will not accept it."

"Supposing I'm thinking about it—Whyever not?"

"Because I don't want anyone wasting money on me." She narrowed her eyes. "I know that look, Mr. Priest. Dare not do it."

"What look?"

"The look of someone coming up with a plan."

"I do have a plan."

"Oh, Lord, here we go again. What plan?"

***

"That's your plan?" Webster asked, eyes wide. "It's preposterous!"

"It can easily be done, brother," he said with confidence. "Tell him, Harry."

Harry was the only one standing on the birdwatching deck, and had been looking down the grounds that led to the woods as Damon laid out his plan. At his question, Harry turned and leaned back against the balustrade, glass of wine in hand. "She will not notice."

"She will!" Webster asked.

"She will not. She's preoccupied," Damon drawled.

"I will not be a part of this."

"Very well," Damon said, pushing himself to a sitting position. "Harry?"

"Only if you do not name me if you get caught. It will ruin my reputation in this household."

"I shall bear the consequences alone, of course." He stood with a grunt and smiled down at Webster who was looking at them with utter incredulity. "Enjoy the rest of your boring night, brother. You've changed so much since you started running the family business."

"I did not. I'm still fun."

Damon and Harry shared a look and they both scoffed.

Not five minutes later, Harry was at the end of the corridor in one wing of the manor, strangely sitting in a chair that should not be there, reading a book and keeping watch. The entire household was silent and if they listened enough, they might even hear Price snoring in his room.

"It's locked," Damon whispered, trying the door at the other end of the corridor. He turned and looked at his brother for help. Webster rolled his eyes and sighed. Pulling his hands off the pockets of his trousers, his brother harshly pushed him aside, turned the knob, and gave the door a forceful push with his shoulder. It gave in.

"She once worked for days inside without food and she almost passed out. The old man had no choice but to change the locks so we can easily rush in and feed her to keep her from dying," reasoned Webster, hands back inside his pockets.

"I remember that. I don't remember anything about the lock." Damon walked inside Simone's studio with a lamp. "Where does she even keep things?" he asked in awe, looking at the mess. Her wedding dress was right at the center, but the rest was merely everywhere.

"She doesn't, really," Webster replied, walking inside and leaning against the wall. "Please, brother, do go on with your crime. But don't touch the bloody wedding dress. We'll never be rid of her if the wedding doesn't happen because she has nothing to wear."

Ignoring Webster—and avoiding the wedding dress—he searched the highest mountain of fabrics first, then the second, and found none. He looked back at Webster for help. His brother glared at him and pushed away from the door.

"You should start paying more attention to our sister," Webster said, walking over to the line of cabinets. He gave the bottom one a light kick. Damon went down and pulled it open. And there, he found them. Dresses. He picked the first one his hand touched, but Webster stopped him. "Not that. That one is new. She'll know. Dig deeper."

He picked what he thought was a blue dress with a sheer fabric outline. He looked up at Webster. "No. She was making that before we left for Birth last year."

"Then which one should I get?"

"Try the other one."

With a sigh, he moved to the next drawer. "This?" he said, picking up a dress with various layers the color of leaves in autumn. Webster's head dropped to the side as he tried to remember it. "I don't remember that one. You can take it."

"I need four more."

And so they searched for more. A light blue one with ribbons, a yellow one with puffy sleeves, and two white ones which he was certain Geneva would like."

"Are you done?" Webster asked wryly.

"I believe so."

"Then get everything back in order. This place is a mess, but Sisi can spot when someone's been in here."

He did his best and neatly replaced the other dresses into the drawers. He then proceeded to wrapping the stolen ones into a large white fabric. As he hauled it over his shoulder, he stopped and hesitated. "Are you certain she would not notice them?"

Webster glared. "This was your bloody plan."

"But she will not notice, will she?"

"I'm not going to stand and wait while you put them back, Damon. There's no going back. You're stealing them. Let's move along."

"But if Sisi—"

"She will not notice them. She remakes her dresses more often than she sent letters to my bloody friend, the same one she's marrying," Webster said, pointing at the wedding dress in the center of the room. "People copy her fashion. It will not be a surprise if they attend the party wearing the same ones she did months and years ago."

He nodded. "Yes. You're right."

"Can we leave now?"

But as they were leaving, they stopped to stare at the wedding dress. It was very much like Simone. It seemed ordinary, yet if they looked enough, she had added unique details in it.

"I think it's her best work thus far," noted Webster.

"I agree." He turned to his brother. "Did you give her the talk already?"

"What talk?"

"The talk a lady should get before marriage."

Webster blinked a few times before he finally understood. "I should do that?"

"You're the eldest."

"I would rather die."

"Then who would?"

Webster closed his eyes and groaned. "I trust Daniel to be careful."

"I still think you should at least give her a talk."

"And I think we have overstayed. Come on."

Harry stood from his chair when they reappeared moments later. His eyes landed on the bulk Damon was carrying over his shoulder. He just chuckled, shook his head as he picked up his chair, and the three of them climbed down the stairs, Damon with his stolen dresses and Harry with his chair. Webster was free, hands in his trousers.

"If you're brave enough to break into our sister's studio," his brother said, "perhaps you should be brave enough to tell Miss Withers of why you're doing these stupid things."

He did not offer a comment. He may be foolish and brave enough to steal dresses, but he could not quite summon the courage to confess.

"I agree," Harry said. "You may only be confusing the woman."

Again, he said nothing.

"And confusion may just scare her away," added his brother.

If their intention was to scare him, they succeeded. He spent the night glaring at the ceiling, asking no one in particular if he was indeed causing more harm than good. Geneva Withers was one who tend to overthink. And he wondered what she had been thinking about his recent efforts.

***

On the morning of the ball, Damon met Geneva in Windsong with the dresses. And as he expected, she was not pleased.

"You stole them." Her disappointment echoed around the chamber beneath the well.

"I would have said Sisi let me borrow them, or that I rented them, but that would be lying. Yes, I stole them. She doesn't use them."

"I'm not going to be a conniver of this crime!"

He looked down at the dresses. "Then what am I supposed to do with these?"

"Return them, of course!" she said, stomping her foot.

His face crumpled at the thought. "That would be taxing."

"Well, whoever told you to steal them? And why would you even steal them?"

"You needed dresses for the ball."

"Yes, and I managed to address that problem well enough."

He looked at her in disbelief. "You did?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"How?"

"I have three aunts, Mr. Priest. They were all young once and they, too, have dresses they forgot and never use."

He blinked. "But that would mean your dresses—"

"Your sister is not the only one who can sew."

"You reconstructed your aunts' old dresses?"

She scoffed and tilted her chin. "Of course. I might be a better seamstress than your sister."

His brow cocked high. "Truly?" He stared at her with amusement. Her face was filled with pride, her eyes the most. And her lips were fighting off a smile again; like they often did. Hopefully in time she would no longer find the need to hide it from him. "I'd very much want to see them."

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You might. If I decide to attend."

He had the urge to laugh, to make the step that would take him close to her, wrap his arms around her and just kiss her. This was a good moment for that. Unfortunately, this was not the time for her. She was not ready. So he stepped back and dropped to the settee and groaned. "How do I take them back up?" he asked, kicking the bundle of dresses.

She dropped beside him with a sigh. "Not my problem now, is it?"

"You would have loved them, you know," he said. "Or at least two of them."

She did not say anything for a while, just looked up at the sky through the opening above them. "What color?"

"Why would I tell you? You don't want them." She did not push. Geneva Withers could contain her curiosity better than him. "Blue. Yellow. Two white ones. And... autumn."

"Autumn?"

"Different shades of autumn." He watched her eyes flicker to the large ball of fabric at their feet. "Some have beautiful ribbons and laces. Sheer and puffy sleeves."

"I'm quite sure they're pretty."

"I think you'll love the white ones the best. They'll suit you."

Again, her eyes flickered to the ground. Then she shook her head. "You have to bring them back."

Damon dropped his head backward on the settee. Then he rolled it toward her. "I wish you'll wear them." She gave him a piercing sideway glance. "But I know you'll also look good in your aunts' new old dresses."

The subject of the stolen dresses was dropped and silence occupied the tiny chamber. Damon was curious what's going on in her mind. There could be a number of things, really, and it was not just the dresses. Her family might be in attendance and that must be her greatest worry.

"I may have blood on my dress tonight," she spoke, breaking the silence and confusing his thoughts.

"What?"

She raised her hands in front of her. "I pricked my fingers sewing."

Damon grabbed one hand and peered down at her fingertips with a frown. "You should have used some thimbles. Did you bleed a lot?" When he heard no reply, he looked up and caught her gaze. "What?"

"You're holding my hand."

"We're friends."

Her brow arched. "We are?"

"I should say we are. I'm keeping your secrets. I showed you my favorite places. I conjured a plan so you can meet your father. We've spent mornings and afternoons here. And I stole for you."

Her lips pursed. She was once more holding out a smile. "You make it sound like I haven't done anything for you."

She was close enough that he could see the shadows of her lashes against her cheeks, the tiny freckles, the tiniest movement of her brows and nose and lips. He could lean closer and they would be sharing one breath. "It's not too late."

"And what would you wish me to do for you?"

He should ask for a kiss, a smile, even another hour after the sun was up before she scurried home. Or another day in Windsong tomorrow morning. Or another hour after the ball tonight.

His hand tightened around hers ever so slightly, not yet ready to let go. "Keep my secret."

She blinked in surprise.

"And what is your secret?"

"I'll tell you if you promise not to be weird after I do so."

He saw her falter for a moment. Did she guess? She probably did because she swallowed and her gaze flickered everywhere but him. But she eventually nodded her head.

His heart was in an uproar inside his chest, and to control it, he had to take a deep breath. He cleared his throat. He should at least appear confident. "I believe I'm beginning to like you very much, Miss Withers."

She stiffened. "That's your secret."

"Yes. I like you."

"As your friend."

He playfully narrowed his eyes at her. "Come now. You know that's not what I meant."

Her mouth opened, and she gasped for breath, but no words came out.

"You don't know what to say, do you?"

She blinked a few times, her gaze jumping everywhere and then down to where he was holding her hand. When her eyes raised back to his, she said, "Why? You don't seem to be someone who would... hold affections for someone such as I."

He sighed and let go of her hand. "We should leave," he said, and disappointment crossed her face. Yet, she did not argue when he guided her up the ladder and followed her out of the well.

"Well, good day," she haughtily said as soon as they were back on solid ground.

Damon smiled and surprised her by grabbing her hand just as she turned away.

"What—"

"Don't leave yet," he said, leading her to the secret garden.

Fresh morning air greeted them, birds chirping somewhere in the trees. The wildflowers seemed brighter at the new day, dewdrops hanging at the tip of the blades of grass.

Pretending to be nonchalant, Damon let go of her hand and ducked into the shade of the willow tree and settled on the ground. She sat beside him, the two of them leaning against the hard trunk. He peered down the cascading foliage to look at the wild flowers and broke his silence. "When my cousins asked our gardener for flowers after discovering this garden, he gave them a pouch full of seeds instead. Simone and Lydia sprinkled them around. And as we waited for them to grow, I imagined daisies. Sisi imagined sunflowers, Lydia poppies. We imagined different things. They eventually bloomed and we realized the gardener gave us an assortment of flower seeds. They came to life, wild and chaotic just like the crumbling garden they were planted on."

He grabbed her hand again, gently running his thumb over her injured fingers. "Affection is freely imagined, easily speculated. I imagined daisies; you speculated I'd never hold affections for someone like you." He paused to take a breath, glad he was calmer than he was earlier. "But the gardener had more plans than just daisies when he gave us seeds. The garden bloomed beyond what I imagined and I shall never trade it with a field of daisies." He raised his eyes and found hers already watching him. The corner of his lips curled into a gentle smile. "I admit you're not the field of daisies I imagined. You're the garden when the flowers finally bloomed."

She pulled her hands away and he let her. Moistening her lips, she looked around—at the wildflowers, the beautiful chaos. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to," he said with a sigh of relief, leaning more into the trunk. "You're now keeping my secret. It's up to you what to do about it."

"And you don't have any other secrets?"

He smiled. "One secret at a time, Miss Withers."

She fell silent for a moment. Then, "I think I will be a little weird after this."

He groaned. "You already are."

"I've never been confessed to."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Well, I hope you only get it once." When she remained silent, he stole a look and chuckled. "You're being weird."

"Because I can't help it. I'm confused."

And here he thought he would erase her confusion if he confessed. He sighed. "About what?"

"Do you intend to keep it a secret?"

"I intend to keep it a secret until you're ready to accept it."

"And when I do?"

"Then it shall no longer be a secret. I refuse to have secret trysts. They're quite taxing."

"My aunts will never approve of you."

"So long as you do—"

"But if they find out—"

"Geneva," he said, her name gliding out of his lips with a sweet tone, "I dare you to be a little blind to your fears of the future." He motioned his head toward the wildflowers around them. "And instead see it's exciting possibilities."

"That's not who I am."

"I know. Thus, I said 'dare'."

"I cannot. I have to know."

"No one can certainly know the future. It's impossible. You never thought I would ever like you, and here I am confessing that I do adore you. My imagination failed me about this garden; your speculation about me is false. Both of us had no idea, did we?"

"But—"

"Unless you think it so bad." He said, growing anxious. "Knowing about my affections. Is it so bad? Is it amongst the things you feared? Is that why you're being weird?"

"What? N-No!"

"Then... Are you disappointed?"

She cleared her throat. "N-No," she faintly answered.

"Good. Now, you don't have to be weird."

"I'm trying not to."

"Then forget about my secret."

She huffed and glared at the sight before them. "I can't."

"You'll get used to it."

"Damon." Hearing his name from her lips was even more gratifying than getting to speak hers. "Stop talking about it, please."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "I'll walk you home in a while."

"You don't have to."

"That's part of the courtship."

"You never said anything about courting."

"I just started," he said with a chuckle.

"Stop."

"Courting?"

"Laughing!" she growled, slapping his arm.

He laughter rumbled in his chest. As it slowly dwindled, he stole her a glance. She was fighting a smile.

Damon looked away and closed his eyes with a stupid grin.