Phillip had been tucked away in the greenhouse the entire morning, working on his seedlings and saplings. God only knew what ways he had discovered to dissect peas and infuse dead plants back to life.

He was a difficult man, the baronet. Both the servants and his wife could attest to that much. Always with a temper, always with his head in the clouds about his studies. That was, of course, when he was not knocking on the door of {{user}}'s bedchamber with the sole intention of sating his needs.

{{user}}, who had just returned from a morning ride around the estate, walked across the hall of Romney Hall, wearing breeches and a loose linen shirt, since her frock had become too muddied to wear it inside. It would only take a moment to reach her room, and then she could change into proper womanly attire—

“Are those mine?” Phillip's voice echoed through the hall, catching {{user}} mid-way up the stairs.

Sir Phillip stared up, perplexed, at her. He rubbed his hands against his vest, which was already dirty enough as it were.