“Gardening is not a gentlemanly pursuit, my dear boy. No lady wishes to discover the hand leading her through a waltz has soil beneath its fingernails.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Holstoke in a letter explaining the proper role of an earl and the improper nature of dirtying one’s hands in tasks best left to servants.
Genie’s first glimpse of Primvale Castle came long after its surroundings had rendered her both speechless and breathless. And that came long after she’d begun to despair that she might perish for want of civilization.
The landscape of Dorsetshire was rolling, the air cool and breezy and faintly marine. In short, it was much like other parts of England she had seen before, though less populated—unless one counted cows.
Her apprehension had grown as she saw fewer and fewer villages among the wind-waved grass. The last had been at least five miles back, little more than a cluster of white, thatch-roofed cottages. No shops. No other carriages. Not even an inn. Here, where the land emptied out, long, shallow valleys resembled rolling water, the grass itself rippling like a splash. It felt as though she were embarking on a long sea voyage with few supplies, fewer comforts, and disagreeable company.
She’d begun silently mourning the nothingness when the coach topped one of the swells, and she gasped. Genie reserved her gasps for only the most extraordinary sights. This was one.
Ahead, along a great, looping drive was a living fence in full bloom. Blushing pink and white, the blossoms were beginning to drop, showering the drive in a profusion of white petals. They sprinkled upon the coach like a nature goddess’s blessing.
But she had little time to contemplate the effect, for everywhere, tall trees and leafy shrubs and jewel-bright blooms formed spectacular, painting-like scenes along each bend in the winding drive.
Genie wondered if she would run out of gasps before they’d reached their destination. Then, slowly as they rounded a particularly gnarled and ancient oak surrounded by dazzling orange lilies, the green of the trees and hedges gave way to a half-moon clearing bordered by a low stone wall. A bench sat cradled inside the curve. That was where the sea appeared. Blue and infinite, it merged into the sky, the only distinction being the shimmer of light upon water. Wondrous blue was framed inside an arch of drifting white petals and great, arm-like branches.
The coach rolled by, but Genie’s heart remained within the spot, idling away an afternoon sketching glorious, sea-inspired hats.
As they continued along the drive, she experienced the same sensation—of leaving a bit of her heart in each small alcove or cleverly designed scene—again and again. Truly, it was a series of wonders.
Then, the drive forked. To the left, she glimpsed a sprawling, square brick structure centered by a massive arch. Through the arch was a courtyard with a fountain and more lush plantings. The coach house and stables, perhaps? The carriage continued along the right fork, rounding a statue of a dragon and a knight at least twelve feet tall. Genie sighed, wondering how Mr. Moody was faring. The coach topped a rise and, at last, the castle came into view.
It might not be as large as Lady Wallingham’s gargantuan Grimsgate, but then, few castles were. Still, it was massive—five splendidly symmetrical stories of smooth, gray stone. Square and perfect, Primvale boasted a round tower on each corner, a multitude of windows, and a long series of steps leading up to a terrace partially covered by a portico with a pointed arch. Inside its shadow was a set of enormous wood doors.
“Good heavens,” Genie breathed, noting yet another fountain at the center of a circle drive. “Is that a griffin?”
“Battling a sea serpent, yes,” came Hannah’s reply.
Genie had nearly forgotten the girl was there. Through sheer persistence, she’d managed to coerce a few civil sentences over the past two hours. It was progress, but Genie anticipated difficult days ahead for Hannah, who had little notion of how determined her new sister-in-law could be.
As the coach neared the fountain, she squinted. The two creatures at its center were twisted up together, spiraling into the sky. Wounded and at the edge of death, the griffin’s wings were bound inside the serpent’s long coils as the serpent sank its fangs into the creature’s feathered throat. It was a savage, compelling portrayal of death and dominance.
“Lady Holstoke commissioned it,” Hannah commented softly.
For a moment, Genie thought the girl might be digging at her, implying Genie’s new title made her as poisonous as its previous owner.
But Hannah’s expression was neither petulant nor resentful. It was haunted.
Her heart twisted. It took a moment to answer casually, “Hmm. Beautiful work, but a rather grim welcome. Why did Holstoke keep it?”
“I do not know.”
Knowing something of what Hannah had endured at the previous Countess of Holstoke’s hands, Genie’s heart fairly squeezed into a knot. She considered giving up her self-assigned task then and there.
But the last thing Hannah needed was more coddling.
“Well,” Genie replied, brushing at her skirts. “It is ghastly. Primvale will be much improved by its removal.”
Hannah offered no reply, but a thoughtful crinkle appeared between her brows.
The carriage stopped at last, and Genie breathed a loud sigh of relief. “I do hope the offerings for luncheon are better than this morning’s ham. Dreadful stuff.”
Blinking slowly, the girl answered, “We do not serve luncheon.”
Genie clicked her tongue. “Don’t be silly. Of course we do. A good meal soothes many, many ills. And after the vagaries of a long journey? It is a requirement.”
Hannah once again frowned.
“Trust me. This is one change you will enjoy.”
Before Hannah could protest that she didn’t want any changes, Genie threw open the carriage door and stepped down onto smooth, wedge-shaped stones laid in a radius pattern. Once again, she sighed. What a magnificent place. Maureen had been right to dub it palatial, although Genie thought even that word a bit weak. Perhaps she should have listened more closely, but Maureen did tend to natter on about gardens to a tedious degree.
She strode toward the ghastly fountain and turned in a circle. Everywhere—positively everywhere—were gardens the likes of which she had never seen. Walled gardens and sunken gardens and watery gardens and flowery gardens. Acres upon acres of them. She gasped when she spotted a peacock strutting beneath a nearby tree. To the west, she spied the peaks of glass houses glinting in the sunlight. To the east, an expanse of ornate hedges gave way to vividly green pastures dotted by cows and wildflowers in orange, white, and indigo.
And she could smell the sea on every breeze. She could not see it while standing on the drive beside the fountain, as the castle was set hundreds of yards inland, but she wondered if it might not be visible from the first floor.
Hurriedly, she climbed the steps to the entrance and spun about. There it was—a ribbon of blue at the southern horizon, framed by gently rolling land and leafy trees. Between the castle and the sea, yet another series of gardens stretched outward in winding fashion. She suspected the vistas grew more spectacular as one approached the water or ascended the castle’s floors.
Coming up the drive from the direction of the stables was the man who had engineered this splendor. Something in Genie’s chest pressed outward. Made her breathless. Made her heart pound.
He was weary—she saw it in his stride, which was more careful than usual, and the squint of his eyes. For all his exhaustion, however, his gait was agile, his demeanor calm.
She surveyed her surroundings again then returned her gaze to him. She’d long known he was honorable. And everyone knew he was brilliant—one need only converse with him a handful of times to be intimidated by his intellect. Yet, she’d not comprehended how impressive her husband was until this very moment.
The weary, tall, brilliant man now rounding the ghastly fountain was her husband. Fancy that.
Heavens, could admiration infect one’s heart and lungs like a disease? She was full to bursting inside. She wanted to dance down the steps and kiss him again. It was true he was frequently oblivious to the nuances of sentiment, trampling her feelings without realizing it. And he ordered her about in the most abrupt, high-handed fashion.
Nevertheless, he’d married her. Protected her. Kissed her in a way that made her long for another experiment.
Her heart sped into a thundering patter. She shook her head and dropped her eyes to the stones of the castle’s terrace. She must stop mooning over the man.
Her eyes returned to him as though tugged by strings. He did look tired. She’d noticed it at the inn, when he’d been so perplexed by her anger. Nibbling her lip, she began planning. A good meal and a bath would serve as a start.
He climbed the steps, his eyes finding her hips and rising to her bosom then finally landing upon her face. “Eugenia.” His voice cracked as though it, too, was spent.
She managed to smile, though inside, that expanding pressure now sparkled and bubbled and made her breathless. “Holstoke,” she murmured. “Show me my new home, won’t you?”
Subtle lines of tension along his brow eased. He sighed as he reached the terrace and offered his arm. “With pleasure, Lady Holstoke.”
Glimpsing Hannah at the base of the steps, frozen and staring up at them, she paused. Turned. Waved the girl forward. Hannah frowned, and Genie clicked her tongue. She descended the steps to Hannah’s side and gently tapped the girl’s elbow. Hannah jerked at the contact, but Genie paid the reflex no mind. “It has been a long journey, I daresay. Shall I ask one of the footmen to carry you?”
Hannah’s long glare was her answer.
“Oh, pooh. Do come along. I shall need your help.”
“For what, pray tell?”
Genie flared her eyes. “Planning luncheon.”
“We do not—”
“Yes, yes. But the correct phrasing would be ‘did not.’ Past tense. One must never become so attached to what has been that one cannot imagine anything better.” She offered her arm. “Come along.”
Hannah sniffed. Glared. Tilted her chin stubbornly. But she started up the steps toward the door and clasped one arm of a thoroughly baffled Holstoke.
Genie grinned and followed, taking Holstoke’s other arm as they waited for the giant wooden doors to open. A white-haired butler bowed deeply. “My lord. And Miss Gray. Welcome home.” His eyes—blue and gentle—fell upon Genie. “My lady.” Another bow. “We are honored to welcome you to Primvale Castle.”
Holstoke introduced the butler, whose name was Walters, before leading both Genie and Hannah forward into the entrance hall. Which was enormous. The floor was white and gray marble squares. The walls were velvety gray stone. The arches all had points. And at the far end were five sets of glass doors leading out into a central courtyard.
“Heavens,” she breathed. “Is that a third fountain?”
“Mmm,” Holstoke replied. “Would you like to see it?”
She glanced up at him. Noticed the redness around pale green eyes, the dust on his hat and coat, the lines of weariness around his mouth. “Not just yet,” she murmured before turning to the butler. “Walters, I must ask a boon, I’m afraid. Miss Gray informs me Primvale rarely serves luncheon, yet I find I am famished after our journey.”
“Of course, my lady. It will be my pleasure to arrange a tray, if you like.”
“Thank you, but I think a proper luncheon will serve best. Whatever you have on hand should do. His lordship and Miss Gray will benefit from the refreshment, as well.”
Hannah sniffed. “Nothing for me.”
“Nonsense,” Genie replied, peering past Holstoke to meet Hannah’s challenge. “You must eat, as it is the only way I shall feel content to let you alone.” She grinned, knowing she had won.
With narrowed eyes, Hannah huffed. Spun on her heel. Stomped from the hall through one of the arches without another word.
“Walters, arrange luncheon, as Lady Holstoke requested.” Holstoke’s voice was low and calm—until the butler left. Then, it was low and angry. “What in blazes is going on between you and my sister?”
Genie slid her hand from his arm and wandered away to sniff the beauteous orange lilies decorating a marble table. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.
“Yes, you do. Explain.”
“These are cut from that spot beneath the giant oak, are they not?”
“Eugenia.”
She spun to face him. He wore an intimidating scowl. Her spine rippled with shivers. “Trust me. It is for the best.”
“You haven’t the faintest notion what she has endured—”
“Actually, I do.”
“I’ll not allow anyone to do her further harm.”
She rolled her eyes. “As though I would wish to. Cruelty was your mother’s favorite sport, Holstoke. Not mine.”
He released a breath and rubbed at the back of his neck. “She is fragile.”
“Not as fragile as you might—”
“Damn and blast, Eugenia. You are a bloody scythe.”
She blinked, reeling at his harsh tone.
“When will you realize you cannot swing wildly about, catering to every passing whim, without cutting those around you to ribbons?”
Swallowing, she dropped her gaze and tried to absorb the sharp, burning ache. She tried to remember that he’d had little sleep and nothing decent to eat in the last two days. She reminded herself that minutes earlier, she’d been overwhelmed by admiration for the man, and that his protectiveness toward his sister was one of the reasons.
He stalked toward her until the toes of his riding boots entered her vision. “It is well past time for you to curb your impetuous nature. Boldness of your sort is not charming. It is brazen and destructive.”
“Are you through?” she asked.
Silence, long and tense.
“Well, then,” she said to his chin. “I suggest you ask your valet to arrange a bath, as it may improve your mood. Luncheon will be served in forty minutes. Until then, I will show myself about the castle.” She started past him.
He grasped her arm.
“Let go,” she said softly.
“I will not,” he gritted.
“This is becoming a tiresome habit. Let go, Holstoke.”
He pulled her closer. “Tell me why I am wrong.”
“We haven’t that sort of time. At most, I will live only another seventy years.”
His hands moved to her waist and drew her hips hard against him. “Tell me.” His face hovered near hers now, his breath hot against her chin. “Please.”
“You despise my boldness.”
One of his hands slid up the center of her back. The other loosened and removed her bonnet. His jaw came down beside hers as his nose nuzzled her temple.
“But without it, I would not be here.” She stiffened against mutinous tingling as he nibbled her earlobe. “Stop that.”
“Your boldness makes mistakes, Eugenia.”
“Once in a great while.”
“It causes you to speak without thinking.”
“Hmmph. That only shows how little you know of me. I rarely speak without thinking. My thinking is simply faster.”
“Look how often you lay your hands upon people.” Holstoke’s own hands had returned to her waist. Now, they squeezed as though he were agitated. “It is impulsive. Inappropriate.” His lips caressed her neck. His nose nuzzled and drew her in.
The tingles swarmed her senses. Weakened her knees. “Strangely, you don’t seem to mind when my brazen hands land upon you.”
“I’ll not have you touching other men, Eugenia.” His whisper fell hot against her ear. “Not ever again.”
“Hmm,” she murmured. “Anything else? Shall I refrain from speaking out of turn? Would you prefer I wear yellow?”
His chest pumped now, his eyes darkened and heated and riveted upon her mouth.
“No answer? Then, I have a suggestion, if it is not too bold.”
Hands gripping her hard, he squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. Gently, she cupped his chin. He jerked then pressed into her like a cat, his whiskers rough against her palm.
“Nobody knows my faults better than I, Holstoke. Not you. Not anyone. It is impossible to eliminate them, for if it weren’t, I would have done so already. One does not endure the biggest scandal of the past three years without wishing one were differently made.”
He opened his eyes. Held hers.
“Do not ask me to change my fundamental nature,” she whispered. “It won’t work, and you’ll only make us both miserable.”
Frowning as though she’d said something bizarre, he opened his mouth. Lifted his head away from hers. “I—I don’t want you to change.”
“No?”
“I want you to promise you will not touch other men.”
Her mouth quirked. She let her hand drop to his chest and gave him a pat. He really was a most peculiar man. “If I give my promise, you must grant me something in return.”
“What?”
“Trust me with your sister.”
His frown deepened.
“That is my condition. I shall even promise not to harm her. See how reasonable I am? I have offered you two promises for only one small bit of trust.”
“Why should a condition be necessary? A wife’s obedience should be—”
“I have already promised obedience. Perhaps you missed it. No doubt distracted during the vows. My hat was breathtaking, I admit.”
“Eugenia—”
“Now, you are demanding my assurance that I will not incidentally touch other men. Rather unreasonable, even by your standards, and yet I am willing to accommodate you.” She sniffed. “You have married a very generous woman.”
He looked tormented. There was no ice, no barrier. Simply a dark, private battle. “She is precious to me, Eugenia.”
“I know.” She waited, holding her breath.
His hands squeezed her one last time, his fingertips digging in. It didn’t hurt, but it spoke of the intensity inside him. Trust could not come easily to the son of Lydia Brand. His throat rippled on a swallow. “Very well,” he said. “Grant me your promise, and I will grant you my trust.”
Her admiration, temporarily dampened by his dark mood, swelled again. She managed to keep from kissing him, but just barely. “You have it.”
Once again, his eyes slid closed. He gathered her in and pressed his lips to the top of her head then to her temple then to her neck.
She thought she heard him whisper either, “Sank cod” or “Thank God,” several times, but she could not be certain. Her heart was pounding too loudly to hear much of anything.
Holstoke’s valet, a wiry man with a neat ring of hair around a bald head, entered the hall. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. My lady. Mr. Walters has asked whether her ladyship would care to visit her chambers before or after luncheon.”
“Before,” answered Holstoke.
“After,” answered Genie simultaneously. She blinked up at her husband, who glared down at her. “Why are you vexed?”
“It is too long to wait.”
“To see a chamber?”
He released a breath. Withdrew his hands. Turned and paced away from her while rubbing his neck. He whispered either, “Bloody hell” or “Flooding yell,” several times. She assumed it was the former, though his frustration made little sense. What difference would an hour or two make?
She approached the valet, whose name she could not remember, then smiled and nodded.
“Ross, my lady,” he said quietly, inclining his head. “At your service.”
Thank heaven for kindly, understanding servants. She nearly reached out to touch his arm. Just as her fingers lifted to do so, she folded them at her waist. “Thank you, Ross. Please tell Walters I shall enjoy seeing my chambers after luncheon. And, if it is not too much trouble, would you arrange a bath for Lord Holstoke?”
Ross smiled. “Of course, my lady. May I do anything for you?”
She waved and grinned in return. “Oh, do not trouble yourself. I shall be contented with a good luncheon and a chance to walk about this magnificent place.” She leaned closer. “I have only seen the entrance hall, so far.”
Ross chuckled. “Might I suggest taking it slowly, my lady? Beauty is best when one has time to absorb it.”
“I agree entirely. Why, as we were coming up the drive—”
“Thank you, Ross. That will be all.” Though the abrupt command was aimed at the valet, Holstoke glared at her.
She set her hands on her hips. “What now? I kept my promise.”
“You smiled at him.”
“Honestly, Holstoke.” She held up her hand as he started to speak. “No, I will not promise to refrain from smiling. For pity’s sake, go and have a bath. I shall see you at luncheon.” She shook her head, retrieved her bonnet, and selected one of the pointed arches before leaving her husband to his own devices.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she explored the castle and spoke with servants. First, she encountered the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, in a drawing room near the entrance hall. The walls were swathed in soft yellow silk, and the furnishings were all gentle blues with the occasional spot of white. The windows were tall and looked out on the courtyard.
Mrs. Green was lovely. Genie sipped tea with her for a half-hour while learning everything she could about the household. Then she gave the housekeeper a list of changes, starting with luncheon. It would be served every day at precisely two, with dinner at eight.
Of course, their first luncheon was less than auspicious. Holstoke glowered from his end of the table in the cozy morning room, while Hannah refused to speak, stabbing at her plate with resentment. Genie did note, however, that both of them ate every bite of the delicious herbed lamb, pillow-soft bread, and honey cakes that were presented. The asparagus and cauliflower, she noted, were received with less enthusiasm.
Later, she roamed the remainder of the castle, ambling from room to astoundingly lovely room. In each chamber, she spoke with servants she passed, all of whom appeared capable, efficient, and best of all, kind. Every one had a gentle way about them. From the laundry maids to the under-butler to Mrs. Green and Mr. Walters, each spoke respectfully yet with sincere warmth that was noticeable.
Genie assumed it was Holstoke’s doing. He would not have haughty servants around his sister. Rather, he would only hire those who treated her tenderly.
Still, she’d noticed one befuddling theme in regard to the male servants, the footmen in particular. To a man, they were … well, rather plain. One might even say unattractive. She counted at least three whose teeth scarcely fit in their mouths. Another two were spotted or pockmarked. And the rest lacked a discernible jaw or had too much forehead or … drat. They were ugly. There was no way around it.
Ordinarily, a peer’s footmen, particularly in a household of Primvale’s grandeur, would be both tall and handsome. It was very nearly a rule, and Genie knew how well Holstoke liked his rules. Ugly footmen were rare and short ones scarce, indeed. Yet, all of Holstoke’s footmen matched either one description or both.
How very peculiar. But, then, Holstoke was a peculiar man. Only hours earlier, he’d demanded she never touch another man. Strange, indeed. This penchant for unattractive servants must be another of his many idiosyncrasies.
She shrugged away the observation as she continued her tour of Primvale Castle. It was magnificent, of course, from the two-story, walnut-paneled library to the thirty-foot-long dining room painted an unusual shade of amber to the master bedchamber with its emerald-green velvets and silver silks.
Chatting with Mr. Ross, who demonstrated how his lordship preferred his lamps lit low in the evenings, Genie discovered Holstoke suffered headaches. Dreadful, debilitating headaches, by the sound of it. Fortunately, the friendly Mr. Ross assumed she already knew—an assumption she did not bother to correct.
Next, she wandered through connecting doors into the mistress’s suite, which was now hers.
It was yellow.
The same yellow silk that dressed the walls of the main drawing room decorated the bedchamber reserved for Holstoke’s wife.
Yellow was not Genie’s favorite color. But it was Maureen’s.
Slowly, she wandered deeper into the room, running her fingers across the sky-blue damask of the coverlet, tracing the golden-mahogany posts of the canopied bed. The carpets were French, the designs swirling in shades of blue and rose. The windows were large and arched. The center one was a set of glass doors that led onto a terrace overlooking the sea.
It was a bloody masterpiece. Every carved feather of the marble cherubim flanking the fireplace, every feminine whorl of the writing desk, every blasted tassel on the little cerulean pillow that lay waiting to comfort its mistress on a rolled-armed sofa.
It was perfect.
For Maureen.
A moment passed in which she was certain she would collapse in upon herself.
She’d known. She’d known he’d loved Maureen once. She’d realized the risk that his feelings might not have changed. But she’d hoped a man as rational as Holstoke might understand how fruitless his feelings had been, particularly after six years.
Yet, here was the truth, dressed in yellow and cerulean blue. He loved Maureen still. He’d kept an entire room for her with feathered marble and tasseled pillows. He’d likely designed his gardens for her and amassed his wealth for her and gone to London for her.
The hollow filled with pain. It grew roots and seeped into the crevices until she thought she might crack open.
She tightened her fists and stared out toward the sea. Evening approached. The sun’s rays had turned golden. Slowly, she forced herself forward. Opened the glass doors. Stepped out onto the terrace.
The breeze nearly blew her back into the chamber. But she needed it. Wanted the wind’s strength. She gripped the cold stone balustrade and leaned forward, keeping her eyes on shimmering water.
It was better that she knew now. This way, she would never expect more than he could give.
She watched a gull swoop in an arc, white and gray and graceful. It blurred, and she swiped at her cheek.
Silly, girlish fancies were daft, anyway. Ladies indulged their husbands far too much when they were in love. Genie would not be daft. She would be firm. Practical.
Swiping at her cheek twice more, she swallowed the burning constriction in her throat.
She would know he did not love her. Could not love her. And she would know it from the start. It was an advantage, really. Knowing meant she would not stupidly imagine a kiss meant anything at all.
“My lady?”
She sniffed and blew out a breath before turning and giving the pretty, red-haired maid behind her a polite smile. “Yes?”
“I am Harriet, my lady. Mrs. Green suggested I might act as your lady’s maid, if it pleases you.”
Genie nodded. “That would be fine.”
The girl stepped forward. “Would you—may I fetch you a handkerchief, my lady?”
Swiping at her cheek with impatient fingers, Genie shook her head. “It is only the wind. A shawl would be lovely, though. And my bonnet. The pink one with the flowers.”
Harriet retrieved a soft white shawl and the bonnet, and Genie left the chamber she now regarded as Maureen’s room. Then, she set out to explore the wonders Holstoke had created outside the castle. For the next several hours, she meandered through garden after garden, beginning with the northern side of the castle, which featured a broad terrace leading down to a parterre. Orderly, formally arranged squares were filled with flowers. Between the squares were graveled paths dotted with benches. At the center of the design was a fourth fountain surrounded by yet more flowers. Good heavens, she’d never seen so many flowers. Beyond the formal north garden was a lake surrounded by leafy trees, irises, and flowering shrubs so vividly red, they appeared silken.
Slowly, she explored each garden “room,” working her way from north to west, the latter of which included two connecting walled gardens, one dedicated entirely to herbs and the other to vegetables. While these functioned as the castle’s kitchen garden, even they were aesthetically pleasing, with everything from cabbages and cucumbers to thyme and lavender arranged in an ornamental spiraling pattern. Each section of the spirals was neatly and discreetly labeled with little wooden signs staked into the soil. When she wandered past a pretty herb labeled “balm,” she reached down and plucked a leaf, rubbing it between her fingers and breathing it in.
Ah, yes. Lemons.
She took a nibble, enjoying the light, cooling flavor.
Continuing her explorations, she noticed the air turning the same color as the lavender she now stroked between her fingers. Dusk was approaching. Dinner would be served shortly.
She breathed in the scents of the herbs and lavender. Gathered her shawl closer. Made her way to the iron gate nestled into one of the garden’s lower walls.
Drat. She’d exited on the wrong side. She spun about, searching for an easy path back toward the castle. It was then she saw the shadow. A tall, dark shadow moving about inside a long glass house.
Her heart flipped and tumbled painfully. She squeezed her shawl between her fingers. Perhaps she should simply return to the castle and see him at supper.
He moved again, and this time, she could see him fully through glass and fronds. Tall. Serious. He examined something on the table before him then rubbed his neck as though he were tired.
Heart pumping out a rapid rhythm, she started to turn back to the kitchen garden. Then stopped. Pivoted. Made for the glass house.
As soon as she entered, the blast of warm, humid air surrounded her. She draped her shawl over one arm and removed her bonnet. Glancing around, she could see Holstoke in every aspect of the place—the neat, labeled shelves filled with plants both familiar and exotic, large and small. The long table strewn with several stacks of paper.
And there was Holstoke.
Her hand drifted to her belly. She paused to catch her breath.
He was in shirtsleeves. No waistcoat, no cravat, and certainly no cravat pin. Just a white linen shirt and dark trousers.
She hadn’t thought he could be more handsome. She’d been wrong.
Drifting toward him as though caught on a Holstoke-bound breeze, she peered at his hands, which penned tidy, organized notes arranged similarly to his most formal garden—in squares.
Good heavens, how his squares made her smile.
“What are you doing in here, Eugenia?”
Her eyes flew to his, which were stern and remote. “Exploring the gardens. And you?”
A muscle flickered in his jaw. “Research.”
“About?”
“Plants which might mitigate the effects of Hyoscyamus niger.”
“High what?”
His eyes were darkening, flickering down to her mouth repeatedly. “Henbane.”
She set her shawl on the table between his notes and an odd-looking potted plant. She ran her fingers over the thick, waxy spikes. “What is this?”
“Aloe.”
She traced her fingertips over the page where he’d divided his notes into squares. A smile tugged. “You are peculiar, Holstoke.”
His hand covered hers. Gripped her fingers. Refused to let go. “You should leave,” he murmured, his voice rasping as though he were parched.
She wetted her lips and wondered at the sensations he evoked wherever her skin touched his. “I should like to conduct research of my own, I think.”
“Eugenia.” Her name was nearly a groan. “This … this is not the time.”
Letting her gaze linger upon his hands then rise up his chest to his throat and then to his mouth—that defined, handsome mouth—she moved closer. “I like your gardens, Holstoke. Very much.”
“Bloody hell.” The two words were scarcely a whisper. He braced his free hand against the table and bent at the waist as though he were in great pain or having trouble standing upright.
Her smile grew. The shivers went everywhere, from her toes to her scalp to the tips of her breasts. Her skin felt alive with them, especially the place where his hand gripped hers as though she were holding him at the edge of a precipice.
“Perhaps tomorrow you can show me everything,” she said, her own voice acquiring a bit of rasp, too. “For now, however, I should like another experiment. Our first was quite successful, wouldn’t you agree?”
Those pale green eyes lowered, his lofty cheekbones flushing. Was he looking at her bosom? She thought so.
She wasn’t very good at kissing and such, and Holstoke was always a bit difficult to read, but she recognized lust when she saw it. His pleased her greatly. While he might not love her, she could make him want her. Perhaps that would be enough.
“You should leave,” he repeated. “I don’t have … I am not altogether …” His chest heaved before settling into a fast, roughened pattern. “It has been a long day.”
Glancing at the glass around them and the darkening twilight beyond, she asked, “This is where you conduct your experiments, is it not?”
“Eugenia.”
She tossed her bonnet on the table beside her shawl. “I experimented a bit, myself, earlier.”
Holstoke went rigid. His hand tightened on hers. “Did you?”
“Mmm. I was roaming about your herb garden and spotted a lovely plant labeled ‘balm.’” She managed to free her thumb and stroked the back of his hand. “Tender leaves. I like the texture, rough and nubbly.”
His grip eased. “It is part of the mint family.”
“I recalled you saying you take it in your tea. So, I thought I might have a taste.”
“Bloody hell, woman,” he breathed. His other hand came up to squeeze her waist. He drew her into his hips until a hard ridge pressed her belly.
Oh, yes. He wanted her.
She grinned up at him. “I liked it, Holstoke. Almost as much as I like your gardens.”
“Take down your hair.” His eyes were molten and dark, the black centers nearly swallowing the green.
“Is this part of the experiment?”
He did not smile. Instead, his face lowered until his lips hovered a breath from hers. “This is me telling you to leave for the third bloody time. Because if you stay, I will take you, and I want your hair down while I do.”
*~*~*