* * *
Leo silently counted the seconds as he waited for Ivy to exit the graveyard. When she was out of sight, he slipped through the gate and searched the scattered tombs for a glimpse of the dahlias she must have left behind. Guilt at following her was a distant emotion. His curiosity outweighed his violation of her privacy. It wasn't his fault that he'd dressed early for the shooting party and had seen her slip outside. Concern for her had soon turned to fascination as he trailed behind her and realized she was headed to the cemetery by the old Gothic church. From his hidden spot behind the stone wall near the gate, he'd watched as she touched a gravestone and spoke, her words carried away by a faint breeze.
Why would she come here? Why visit a grave in a place she'd claimed she'd never been? Something wasn't right. There was deception somewhere in all of this, but he couldn't fathom how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.
Leo tugged his hat down a little more snugly and crossed the graveyard, dodging tombs until he found the one where a bouquet of dahlias rested at the base of the stone. He read the name, then stumbled back a step.
Here lies Elizabeth Jameson. Beloved mother and dearest friend.
That name. One he would never forget. She had been his mother's lady's maid so long ago. His mother's friend and confidante. Cancer had claimed her life sixteen years before …
The blinding truth hit hard enough to make him stagger.
A little girl with large brown eyes and a trembling smile. He rubbed his palm at the memory of how her small hand fit in his when he'd held it. Her clear, joyous laugh and the pert button nose he'd tapped so often with a finger as he'd teased her.
Button. Ivy Leighton was Button all grown up. She had been his one friend at home, the only friend he'd ever had when he wasn't away at school. She'd been his constant shadow, with a wide-eyed innocence and a sweet little voice. It hadn't been about romance then, not for either of them. They had been bound together as friends, a trust and love that ran deeper. When he'd come from Eton during the holidays and learned that Elizabeth Jameson had died and her child had been sent away to live with her father … it had broken him. His father had scoffed at his soft heart and informed him he was better off without the little half-breed running underfoot. Leo had stood stoically, listened to his father's cruel words, and then he'd gone upstairs to his rooms and cried, not caring that he felt like a child and not a young man. Button was gone. His only friend at Hampton gone forever …
He'd buried that love and affection for his missing friend over the years, but to have her back now? Like this? As the beautiful woman who both drove him mad with lust and fascinated him with her rebellious nature and brilliant mind?
My darling little Button … His chest ached fiercely and he swallowed hard as he tried to still the fluttering rush of hope inside him. Ivy was Button. For as long as he'd known her, she'd always been his Button. The name Ivy had never entered into his mind and therefore he hadn't known who she was, especially since she'd taken her father's surname. Surely she remembered him, but why then hadn't she told him who she really was? Had she meant to deceive him and if she had, to what end?
Leo raked a hand through his hair, trying to puzzle out whatever purpose Ivy had for hiding her identity from him, but he could not think of any reason. Was she ashamed of her past? Did she think he would judge her? It was possible; he'd been an arrogant arse from the moment he'd quarreled with her at tea. He'd dashed her hopes and dreams with his foolish opinions. She wasn't just some chit who wanted to be wild and play the rebel; she was Button, and he wouldn't have said those things about women's rights if he had known who she really was.
I shall have to find a way to coax the truth out of her by hook or by crook … or perhaps by kisses. He didn't know whether to laugh or curse. He'd half seduced her already. The mere memory of it heated his blood anew until he recalled how she'd come here at his mother's insistence.
"Mother," he growled.
She had to have known all along who Ivy was and had played him like a hand of faro. Was this part of her plan to distract him from marrying Mildred? By presenting him with a delicious mystery like Ivy? Did she think him discovering her true identity would make him change his mind about proposing? Or did his mother simply want to create trouble? He could easily credit her with either scheme.
He clenched his fists, then unclenched them as he pondered his next move. He wanted Ivy. That hadn't changed, but it was clear, now more than ever, that having her would come at a price. He could not marry Mildred and have Ivy at the same time. He would not be his father. Yet taking a half Gypsy for his wife wouldn't stop the whispers and the gossip. That she was also a suffragette was something else he would have to deal with.