A Country Miss, page 15
The door hinges had been oiled and the door repaired so it no longer sagged. There were no wheezes or squeaks when she pushed it to and fro. Roscoe hopped around the corner and peered up. “You look as confused as I am, dear bunny. Who gave the orders for all this to be done?” She could think of no one who would have the authority save Lord Kenrick, and why would he do such a thing? Joshua knew Charity didn’t mind the conditions here. Perhaps Lord Kenrick decided it was time the place had a going-over. Certainly the plants would do better in a spanking-clean environment.
Deciding it was better not to interfere with the brisk transfer of the orchids, she relegated herself the task of directing the under-gardeners where to place various plants, and climbing the ladder to restore the orchids that had grown high in the air. This time there was no Lord Kenrick to put his strong warm hands at her waist and tease her about being a bird.
Before she knew it, the plants were back as they had been and she was once again alone. Roscoe hopped to its usual place at her feet, beneath the bench, while Charity set out her paper and paints. She found the original sketch and pinned it up so she could compare as she went along.
The black mood that had slipped over her when she returned from the ride gradually dissipated. She loved working with first the pencil sketch, then the flow of color over the white paper. She was accomplished at it, too, she thought with honesty. The bloom on the flower she painted the day Lord Kenrick watched her was still in fine condition, in spite of all that had transpired in the meantime.
There was no wheeze of the door to warn her now, but the sound of Roscoe shuffling farther under the bench alerted her to the presence of someone or something. She raised her head in query. “Oh, dear. Lord Kenrick.”
“You didn’t come up to the house to join us for lunch. Why?” He appeared concerned, searching her face intently as if determined to learn the truth.
“No one said a word about it to me, my lord. I told Charles I had a number of tasks to do. He and Ozzie went tearing off across the fields after they left me. Nothing happened to them, did it?” For a moment she had a vision of two men lying in a ditch, limbs awry, bloodied heads.
“He made an impatient dismissal with his hand. “No, no, they are fine. I, that is, we missed you at lunch. I think they went with the squire to look at some horses or some such thing.”
She nibbled at the end of her paintbrush before commenting. “I suppose you cannot be together every moment of the day, can you? I had to complete this painting and it seemed like a good time to get it done.”
“Had to complete it?” His voice was smooth, soft as velvet, dangerous in intent.
Charity nodded as she bent over the paper to resume her work. “The sun is just right today and I need to finish this, if you will excuse me, my lord.”
“Do you mind if I stay to watch as I did last time? I think the guests at the house can find their own amusements for a short time.”
A troubled look entered her eyes as she sought out his. “Do you find this all vastly boring, wearying? You are an unexceptional host, my lord. I am certain your guests have nothing to complain about.”
“When I left, the older ladies were in the Rose Drawing room discussing the latest London fashions. I believe Lady Sylvia intended to practice on her harp and Lady Ann mentioned the idea of planning charades.”
A chuckle found its way past the tightness in her throat. “I gather you do not have to worry about them—at least for now.”
“Not them. I do have a concern about you, however. Should you be alone out here?”
“Roscoe is with me. It seems one or another of the under-gardeners are about the place most every day. There has never been any trouble here in the past. I cannot think why now.”
“There is nothing you wish to discuss with me regarding the hothouse? Last night I mentioned Charles seemed to think there might be something amiss.”
“Amiss?” She winced internally at the hint of a squeak in her voice. She sounded like a frightened mouse. “No, nothing is the matter. Nothing at all.” It was a blessing her father could not hear his beloved daughter telling such taradiddles.
“Have you decided who it is to be?” His voice was a low growl. It brought her head up to look at him, totally disconcerted by his words.
“I have no idea who might be the culprit.”
“I think you misunderstand. I am talking about your future husband.”
“Oh.” Her face fell in dejection, then brightened. “I am sure I can decide before long. Both of the gentlemen are kind and would allow me to continue with my diversion of growing orchids. Lord Harwood mentioned he has an aunt who has a large greenhouse at her home near Bath. He is her heir, I understand. That would work out well, don’t you think?”
“Of course. What would you do with them in the meantime?” he snapped out with a curtness that was most alarming.
Charity paled and dropped her gaze ‘back to her paper, where no progress was being made on her painting. Bravely she decided to ask him the favor she intended to ask . . . sometime. “I was wondering… Once I am betrothed, there is no hurry, is there? Couldn’t I remain here at the cottage and tend the orchids as I always have? When Aunt knows I am settled, she will be free to travel as she pleases.” She took a valiant breath. “I am in no rush to marry.” She didn’t dare meet his eyes.
“Has either of them kissed you?” His words were idly spoken in a neutral manner, yet as though with great care.
His question took her by surprise. Her startled gray eyes met his intense gaze. “No. Most certainly not! It would be most improper.” She neglected to mention she had no particular desire to kiss either gentleman, not even from curiosity.
“Don’t you think it might be wise? It would give you a comparison you have lacked heretofore,” Lord Kenrick said with an amused smile.
“I believe I can survive without it, my lord,” she answered in a strangled voice.
“I think you are leading them both on too much. You ought to decide on one or the other and let it be. Does it make so great a difference? Aren’t you merely seeking a husband, any husband?” His voice had now hardened and his incredible eyes looked like chips of lapis lazuli she had seen set in one of the tables at the great house.
Charity longed to toss a pot at his head again. Heartless man. “It matters to me very much whom I spend the rest of my life with, my lord. I realize I have to wait until one of them actually offers for me…” She broke off as he stood upright, moving away from the bench from where he had leaned so casually. “My lord?”
“Neither of them has offered as yet?” There was a tense quality about his voice, a taut set to his shoulders.
She shrugged. “It seems if one of them comes, the other is not far behind. I rarely see one without the other. I should think it difficult to propose with an audience.”
“That is why neither has kissed you.”
“I would not allow it, in any event,” she declared stoutly, clear she was convinced, at any rate.
“My dear innocent, if a man desired to kiss you, I fear you would not have a great deal to say about it. How would you prevent it? Especially in the seclusion of the hothouse, as you are now?” To prove his point, he grasped her shoulders and drew her up. His hands held her firmly before him, drawing her closer and closer. His eyes had a peculiar glint in them, like sunlight on a summer lake.
His words had softly taunted her, teased her in her helplessness. His grip was like iron and she hoped her dress would cover the bruise his hands would surely leave. There seemed to be a sort of anger within him and she wondered what she had done to bring this on.
Charity shook her head, wanting yet fearing his kiss. He was utterly correct. She had no protection, even counting Roscoe, who offered precious little if truth be told.
“Oh, yes, my dear girl.” The fragile scent of the orchids drifted about them as his face neared her. She was like a fly about to be trapped in the spider’s web.
The feel of his mouth was just as she remembered. Her dreams had been pale reflections of it. At first he was rough, demanding, his mouth hungrily seeking hers, as though he were punishing her for something she had done. But that was impossible, she had done nothing to him he knew about.
She whimpered as he demanded more, and he groaned in response. Charity leaned against him with those strange longings welling up again inside her. Then, as though his mood shifted, he gentled his caress, easing his mouth against hers, molding it to his with tender passion. For long moments they clung together, exploring the touch, the taste of each other.
Charity tore her lips from his, horrified she had permitted the kiss to continue as long as it had. A shamed blush crept into her cheeks. “You have no right to do this.”
“You are a little flirt, my dear.”
The velvety huskiness in his voice further weakened her treacherous knees. Mayhap it was as well he still held her firmly with his hands.
“How can you say that? You practically ordered me to encourage those gentlemen. You are not making much sense.” Her gray eyes flashed with frozen fire as she stared back at his amused regard. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He ran the tip of one finger over his mouth, then touched the throbbing satin warmth of hers. “I never make promises I am not certain I can keep.” There was a look of bemusement in those eyes, as though surprised by an answer to a question he hadn’t asked.
“Please... leave me alone. I must finish this painting and you are a distraction.” Her voice was ragged in spite of the control she attempted to exert over it. Oh, for the command he seemed to contrive with no difficulty at all! Her shoulders tingled where he had held her so firmly in his grasp.
A thoughtful expression settled on his brow as he slowly stepped away. He appeared to sense how she felt, for he moved toward the door. “I expect to see you at dinner.’’
“Yes, my lord.” She would be there. But she would be cautious, guarded.
The door closed silently behind him. Charity creased her brow in concern, then shrugged before she applied herself to the painting, which had been totally neglected. She would finish this painting, carefully pack the orchid, then once the guests were gone, sneak up to London to deliver it. She would travel as she always did, cadging a lift from one of the people sent on an errand for the estate. No one had ever questioned her in the past; they were happy to give a lift to one of their own, so to speak. Just this one more trip and she would be safe. She ignored the problem of the presentation. It was better not to borrow trouble from tomorrow.
* * * *
In the shadow of the tall beech tree that shaded the end of the hothouse, a slender figure stood, fists clenched in anger, eyes afire with malice. Her mouth firmed in an unpleasant line as she contemplated what she had just observed take place within the hothouse.
Lady Sylvia slowly relaxed her hands, then looked again at the woman bent over the wooden bench in the hothouse. She glanced at her hands, her ice-blue eyes afire with speculation. Sylvia picked up a fallen branch, then used it like a whip to snap the head from a delicate wand of Queen Anne’s lace. She stared at the fallen head of the defenseless flower. With an air of resolve, she broke the branch in half with a decisive, satisfying crack.
Her whisper was barely audible. “We shall see who wins, my dear.”
Pausing as she turned to leave, Sylvia took another long look at the woman amid the colorful blooms. The old gardener approached, glanced about in a furtive manner, then entered the hothouse. Sylvia crept closer, curious as to what he might have to say. As she listened, a sly smile spread across her face. First checking around her to see if there was anyone about, she then fled to the house, her lips curving in an unpleasant twist.
Chapter 12
Lord Kenrick stared moodily out at the curtain of rain that fell in steady sheets beyond the tall, velvet-draped window. None of the others had come down to break their fast as yet this morning. With the gloom of the day settling within the house, he was just as pleased his guests take their leisure.
His mother had quite discreetly mentioned the matter of an heir last night before she retired to her bedroom. It was strange about that. He had fully intended to seek the hand of the elegant Lady Sylvia before this house party began. It made little difference who became his bride, and he felt she was as suitable as any. There was no pretense of love between them. She craved his title and wealth, possibly his physical attentions, nothing more. Wryly he admitted he wouldn’t mind the process of getting his heir with the cool blond beauty. But could there be more? Was it possible to find something deeper? Tolerance was not the best of emotions, but he hadn’t looked for anything like love, whatever it might be.
He strolled away from the library window to stare into the flames of the nicely crackling fire in the hearth. If only he knew what to make of his feelings toward Charity Lonsbury. He had urged her, taunted her to find a husband. All the while, he wanted to bar every other man from her side. The thought of another man, even his best friend, Charles, kissing those soft, velvety lips brought his temper to a simmer. She had fought him with sparks of silver fire in her unusual eyes. He admitted he hadn’t wanted to stop that kiss, nor cease his hold on that delectable body, slim, yet nicely curved in such delightful places. She was an innocent, and he had never been one to pursue such, yet she simmered with untapped passion. It was barely leashed; he could sense her tight control over her emotions.
How ironic that a man who ignored young misses making their bows to society should be so affected by Charity. He who had been so scathing in his regard of the “country miss,” as he had called her only weeks ago.
Charity had surprised him a great deal. With jaunty courage she had faced the elegant ladies and lords from London. displaying an aplomb that pleased him. Spunk. She had that and more. He recalled her tumble from the tree into his arms while that dratted monkey scampered away. He had been very reluctant to let her slip from his arms at that moment. If Lady Tavington hadn’t returned at the time she did, he without a doubt would have kissed those tempting lips so close to his. Little minx. She had gazed up with those limpid gray eyes, looking for all the world as though she was innocent of the longings he could feel.... Had she possibly felt them too?
His booted foot reached out to nudge an ember before he looked again to the rain-streaked window. Yes. He was quite certain she had clung to him with an emotion that had nothing to do with a fear of falling to the ground.
Though he had to admit she was not reluctant to seek a husband, at least she was honest enough to acknowledge there was no love for either Charles or Ozzie on her part. By heaven, he couldn’t allow her to marry one or the other of them! Didn’t he owe his friends that much? Either one deserved better than some tepid union with a woman who merely liked him. David ignored the possibility his altruism might be rooted in jealousy. He wouldn’t admit he hated it when Charity bestowed a radiant smile on another man.
As for himself . . . he found he didn’t relish the customary marriage of the ton, either. His parents had appeared to have had such an arrangement. Many of the men he knew seemed to rub along tolerably well with their wives. It was deucedly difficult to detect just how warm the marriage was, for they all could be adept at concealing their depth of feelings. It wasn’t good ton to be too obviously in each other’s pockets.
A scratching at the door brought his head around as his butler, Jameson, opened the heavy oak door.
“Lord Harwood is in the breakfast room wondering where you might be, milord. Will you wish to join him?”
Kenrick pushed aside his mental wanderings and nodded. “I’ll join him directly, Jameson.”
The butler withdrew and Kenrick strolled from the comfortable silence of the library. He glanced back at the portrait of his great-grandfather as he neared the door, recalling Charity’s assessment of him. His lips curved in a reminiscent smile. She had quite liked the old man.
* * * *
Across the sloping lawns, on the far side of Capability Brown’s lake, Charity also gazed out at the steadily falling rain from the cottage window. There would be no ride with Charles and Ozzie this morning.
“No use fretting, dearest child. It will not make the rain go away.” Lady Tavington bestowed a sympathetic look on her niece.
“I had thought to ride this morning. Ozzie and Lord Harwood were to come for me.” Charity bent over to stroke Chico’s head while her aunt sipped her morning chocolate. She wished she dared Mrs. Woods’ wrath and invite Roscoe into the cottage. Mrs. Woods firmly held to the belief rabbits belong out of the house.
“And you are very sorry? You wish to spend time with them so much?” Her aunt’s tone was not probing, but sharp eyes scrutinized Charity’s face with care.
“They are both all that is amiable.”
Aunt Tavington made an expressive face at her niece. “I would wish for more than amiability toward your future husband. Neither of them has come up to scratch as yet?”
Charity bristled. “It has been but a matter of days since we met, Aunt.” It was fortunate her aunt could not be aware of the conversation, if you could call it that, which had transpired with Lord Kenrick on that very subject.
“Stuff and nonsense! Your uncle asked for my hand days after we met. We were wildly happy those early years.” There was a trace of dreamy reflection in her voice.
“And?” Charity set aside the monkey to sink down on one of the chairs by the deal table. Perhaps she might get a glimpse of what she ought to be feeling for one or the other of the gentlemen.
“And then our affection settled into a steady devotion to each other. I did love him deeply, child. I would that you care for your husband as well. Do you carry a tendre for Lord Harwood? or perhaps Sir Oswald?”
