Chapter Eighteen

Heading into the hothouse with Violet again might not have been the best idea Parker’d ever had. But if she finished the process and gave him another run-through of her hybridization techniques, he could mark that off his list, right? Then, all that would be left would be to pack up his order, suffer through dinner with the stuffy Lord Weymouth, and make the ride back to Portsmouth before heading home. He could rationalize his actions all day long, but the true reason for his decision to visit the hothouse with Violet again could not be denied. He really wished to test her feelings, to gauge her level of interest in him, to make certain he read things properly.

He’d come up the hill this morning certain he could let her set the pace once they were in the hothouse, let her take the lead in their cloistered quarters, let her decide the course of their relationship. But then, he’d entered the greenhouse and caught sight of Violet as she changed from one gown to the other. A glimpse of a naked shoulder, the darker hue of a nipple through her chemise, had been all he needed to turn him back into a man ruled by his baser instincts. And his instinct told him to replicate the reproduction process, using himself and Violet as the subjects. Why had he even suggested the hothouse today after being tempted by her display of flesh? He could easily have waited until tomorrow or the next day, when his randy thoughts were put into check.

Dammit. It didn’t matter if it were today or tomorrow. Parker needed to taste Violet again, to touch her cheek, to have her body melt into him. His ribs may be bruised along with his lip, but other body parts were rising to the occasion. First, the hothouse. Then, tonight they’d dress in their finest and spend the evening dancing in each other’s arms. Even if Parker couldn’t convert her to his wishes by the end of the night, he would certainly give his best effort. He’d make certain she enjoyed the evening. Violet deserved to have some good memories. But, dammit, so did he. And his good memory of England would only happen if she joined him in America.

He hoisted himself out of the chair. “I’m ready for another lesson, Miss Wilson.”

Violet’s lips canted upward, but only at the edges. “We’re back to being formal again, are we, Mr. Sinclair?”

“We can be as formal or as familiar as you’d prefer.” His one open eye homed in on her. He was treading on dangerous ground here.

She harrumphed and strode past him. “Then come along. We’ll mark the task off your list and then get on with the packing. Even if we only pack one or two boxes today, it will be a start.”

Violet didn’t yet grasp the concept that learning her methods with the Lady Banks happened to not be the only task left. He hoped to show her within the next hour his real agenda, the other empty box on his checklist.

He followed her into the part of the greenhouse where she had positioned her pride seedlings. She showed off her little sprout, touching the new leaves lightly, testing the soil to make certain it had enough water. Parker stood back a pace while he witnessed her tender touch. In his mind’s eye, he could see her with a child, going through the same motions—checking its flannel nappy for dampness, stroking its arms and legs lightly, giving it a bath. He took another step back and brushed his hand over his eyes. Dear God. This had to be the worst idea he’d ever come up with. He dashed around to the other side of the table, as if putting a barrier between them would also dam up his bawdy, delicious, naughty thoughts.

She shifted her gaze from her darling sprout to him. “Are you ready to begin taking notes?”

Already, he’d forgotten the reason they were in this room and his promise to take careful notations of the process. He carted over a small bench, its legs scraping the wooden floor, and sat. He opened his satchel with a flourish and removed a notepad and pencil. “Now I am. You’ll have to forgive me for sitting when you aren’t, but my body is still recovering from the beating I took yesterday.”

She nodded. “Perfectly all right. So then, let’s get started.”

He’d mistakenly thought sitting would further aid in his attempts to keep his hands to himself. He forced his fingers to uncurl from the tight fists they were in, and wrapped them around the pencil and sketchpad. His vision became unfocused when Violet leaned over the table to show him the dried pollen she’d cultivated several days prior. If he merely extended his hand, he could caress her breast and tease the nipple he’d gotten a glimpse of earlier. He held on to the edge of the table and refocused his good eye on the pollen. His own pollen maker cried out for relief.

“Notes, Parker. You promised this time you’d take notes.” Violet tapped the blank page in front of him, corralling his runaway thoughts and putting them back in line. “Can you see well enough to write with one eye closed, or should I jot down the steps for you?”

He straightened in his seat, willing his body to behave. “I can see plenty well with one eye. And I did see plenty a bit earlier.” His one good eye caught hers and he winked at her, amused by her sharp intake of breath.

She patted her out-of-control curls. “A gentleman would not mention it, sir.”

“Well, I’m no proper English gent then. I’m an American.” Parker patted his chest.

“And Americans are callous and crude?” Violet spoke in a low voice, which wobbled on the final word.

Did she really consider him callous and crude? If so, she’d never agree to come to America with him. Perhaps he fought an uphill battle for her affections. Perhaps he should throw in the towel. Perhaps he’d be better off merely taking notes and wrapping up his business here. He glanced at her as she bent to her work, thought of the bare shoulder he’d seen earlier, and groaned internally. Just get through the next few days, Parker, and you’ll be safely on your way home.

• • •

How did Parker manage to turn her world upside down with a mere glance? Violet attempted to control her wild thoughts, which were dashing every which way. The sooner they could get through the steps in the hybridization process and she could escape from the cloistered hothouse area, the sooner she could begin to put her life back in order again.

She cleared her throat. “The next step is to find a healthy, clean bloom on the female plant and remove its petals.”

“Similar to what you were doing to yourself this morning?” Parker’s eye twinkled in amusement. At least he’d enjoyed her embarrassment. Her cheeks flared as his gaze floated down her body, stopping momentarily at her breasts before coming back up to her eye level.

She cleared her throat. “Moving along. After we denude the flower, we pluck off the pollen from the bloom.” Parker’s brow climbed his forehead at her mention of baring the rose, and she gritted her teeth. “I’ll brook no more crude comments from you, Mr. Sinclair.”

He splayed his hands out, and his one good eye widened with innocence. “I didn’t utter a word.”

“You don’t need to talk to get your lascivious comments across, you cheeky American. Please don’t act the child. We are discussing serious business. Read back to me what you’ve written so far.”

He glanced at his notepad and flashed her a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid I got caught up in the spectacle of what you were doing and neglected to write anything down. Take me through the steps once more, please.” He picked up a discarded petal from the Lady Banks rose, lifted it to his nose for a sniff, and rolled it between his fingers. The lump in Violet’s throat grew as he caressed the petal. She attempted to speak, but no sound emerged. What would be the sensation if his fingers slid over her cheek in such a fashion?

She broke from his mesmerizing one-eyed stare and denuded another bloom, plucking off the pollen. She then took a small brush, rolled it into the dry pollen harvested from the male plant, and applied it to the stigma, relaying to Parker in exacting detail every step of the process. She took a quick glance over her shoulder, pleased to see Parker finally writing things down. Perhaps they could get through this item on Parker’s list unscathed.

“I’ll apply the pollen two or three more times before I’m finished, since once is never enough.” She packed up her supplies and straightened. And froze. Parker stood directly behind her, and his arm snaked out to encircle her waist.

“You are correct, dear Violet. Once is never enough,” Parker whispered, his breath tickling the back of her neck. “I’ve been needing to take you into my arms again ever since our first time. There’s something about your hothouse that heats the blood as well as the air.”

Violet’s breath caught in her throat as his hand glided up from her waist and encircled her breast. Just a touch, so gentle she could barely feel it. But it set her on fire. She twisted around and faced him.

“Can I kiss you with your poor lip so damaged?” She ran her finger lightly over his split lower lip.

“If you don’t kiss me, I’ll surely perish.” Parker nudged her cheek with his nose.

She rose on her tiptoes, holding on to his shoulders for balance. Her kiss started off softly, his broken lip uppermost in her mind. He’d been beaten up because of her. The last thing she needed to do was to inflict more pain. He tugged her closer, and she could feel his manhood bumping up against her, sending a bolt of white-hot need to the spot between her legs, suddenly damp and sticky. Similar to her Lady Banks’ stigma.

He curled a hand around the back of her head and deepened the kiss, his damaged lip forgotten in the face of pure lust, pure need. Violet opened her lips and accepted his tongue’s exploration. He tasted of eggs and butter. A sizzle of heat ran down her spine, making her knees weak and her toes curl in her sensible work boots. Parker cupped her bottom through her gown, lifted her, and sat her on the table, which had been recently used as a place of instruction. Only now the instructor had become Parker, and she a willing student.

He leaned her back onto the table and stood between her legs, slowly moving the skirt up to expose her thighs. Her breathing became ragged as he continued to ply her with kisses, removing her attention from the way he lifted her skirts. His fingers caressed the delicate skin on her thighs, making her entire leg tingle and her center twitch in anticipation. For what, she only had a vague idea, but she couldn’t wait to find out more.

His hand kept moving higher and higher until he fingered the cloth of her drawers. Even then, he took his time, running a finger around the edges of the material, the whole while kissing her so she couldn’t get a breath, couldn’t slap his hands away and beg him to stop. Couldn’t beg him to continue.

His wicked, clever fingers found the slit in her drawers and shifted inside, tugging gently on the wedge of hair he found there. She gasped, she moaned, she quivered. Her body rose to meet his hand as he explored.

Then, he touched the spot that had been pulsating, waiting for him. “Ooh, Parker,” she whispered as he caressed her sweetness as if she were a rose petal. Her body tightened under his ministrations. His thumb continued to caress her while his finger slid inside her. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Violet whispered into his neck as she crested for the very first time, her entire body shivering in delight. Her hands were on his shoulders as he lowered her skirts again and sat her upright. “When is it your turn?” Violet brushed her finger over his poor abused mouth before she placed a hand tentatively on the front of his pants, over his bulging shaft.

He removed her hand hastily. “I can’t continue with you, Violet. I can’t compromise you. I’m about to leave the country.” He helped her off the table and took a step back.

Her eyes filled with tears as she brushed soil off her hips and back and straightened her skirts. “So I’m merely a passing fancy? Are you truly cut from the same cloth as Davey? It’s only unfortunate that you didn’t have a bet going. You got a whole lot further than he ever did.” Her voice broke, and his arms circled her again, tugging her close, kissing her cheek.

“Never consider yourself only a passing fancy. You’ve made me live again, to consider starting over again with a wife and family. No one has been able to do that in all the years since Sarah died.” He kissed her hair, breathing in her essence. A few tears escaped as she stood in his embrace. “Your place is here and mine is thousands of miles away.”

“And you can’t forgive the British for what they did to you and your family.” She backed away. “Am I right?”

He plowed his hand through his long dark hair that she had only recently admired as it fell over his brow. Now, it drove home the fact he happened to be a disheveled American, not a proper Brit. She’d best keep in mind with whom she dealt until he left.

He raised his hands as if to disagree with her assessment of their situation. Then, he lowered them and shrugged. Words were not needed.

She strode quickly past him, out of the hothouse and into a cooler part of the greenhouse. She hid behind her desk, waiting to see what he would do next.

Her heart broke as the door closed behind him without a further word. She picked up her black pen to cross off Day Fifteen with tears in her eyes. Then she stopped, because she still had to suffer through a dinner and dance with Parker yet tonight. Dear Lord, how would she be able to face him again? In front of her father and Lord Weymouth? To discuss the merits of her work in a succinct manner when her thoughts were so disheveled? Lord Weymouth would certainly see her for the fool she was and never put in a good word for her with the Royal Horticultural Society.

Her hand shook as she lowered the pen. She would patch together her broken heart and get through the evening, not letting Parker see how he so devastated her. Then, she’d work twice as hard as she would normally, to get him packed up and on his way in just a few days instead of stretching things out. That had been her plan this morning, hadn’t it? And nothing had happened to change her plan. She closed her eyes and relived the sensation of Parker’s hand gliding up her leg to her center. Quite a bit had happened, actually. She sighed—a long, contented, satiated sigh—and then picked up her pen again. She could at least cross off half an “x.”