When You Wish

by Alexandra Ivy

  Cedric felt his muscles stiffen. This man had condemned his aunt as a lunatic and Bart as a danger to the neighborhood. It was only because he hid behind his position as a man of God that Cedric had not already bloodied his nose.

  “I see,” he said, his voice a quiet threat.

  Impervious to the danger in the air, Mr. Allensway smiled in a patronizing manner.

  “Although I am, of course, very fond of Lady Hartshore and her brother, their odd behavior is bound to shock any God-fearing gentleman. I hope you will encourage them to behave in a circumspect manner when in the company of Mr. Winchell.”

  Cedric thought he heard a faint gasp from behind him, but his attention remained firmly centered upon the vicar.

  “Circumspect?”

  Mr. Allensway gave a lift of his hands. “In a manner more fitted to their position.”

  Sheer fury flared through Cedric. Why, the vain, annoying little twit!

  “I suggest, Mr. Allensway, that you take leave of Mayford with all possible speed,” he said in clipped tones.

  “But, my lord . . .”

  “Now.”

  “If you would just mention it to Lady Hartshore.”

  “You have to the count of ten to be out of my sight, Mr. Allensway.”

  “But . . .”

  “One, two, three . . .”

  This time not even the supremely dense vicar could miss the danger lying thick in the air.

  Hastily pulling open the door, he gave a jerky bow. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Still bent over, he backed into the hall and hurriedly closed the door, nearly catching his pointed nose in the process. Clearly his fear of the murderous cook had suddenly been overcome by an even more potent fear.

  Glaring at the closed door, Cedric resisted the urge to follow the man and physically toss him from the estate.

  “One day I shall take great delight in throttling that puffed-up fool,” he muttered, then, realizing he had allowed his anger to overcome his good manners, he slowly turned to regard the silent Miss Cresswell with a wry smile. If she wasn’t certain that she had landed in Bedlam before, this morning should have convinced her.

  It wasn’t every household that possessed a cook who chased vicars through the halls with a carving knife. Nor a lord who threatened to throttle his guests.

  “Forgive me, Miss Cresswell. Mr. Allensway seems to possess an alarming ability to rile my temper.”

  Her expression was impossible to read as she slowly rose to her feet.

  “Perhaps I should join Lady Hartshore.”

  Unwilling to allow the rare moment alone with this maiden to come to an end, Cedric reached out to place a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Hold a moment.”

  She instinctively stepped from his touch. “What?”

  “I brought you a surprise.”

  He moved toward the mantel even as he heard her give a choked sound.

  “No . . . you should not have,” she stammered, then, as he picked up his trifling gift and turned to reveal it to her, she gave a faint gasp. “Oh.”

  Decidedly pleased by the sudden hint of color in her cheeks, Cedric retraced his steps so he could press the dusky pink rose into her slender fingers.

  “Do you like it?”

  She slowly lifted the flower to sniff its heady aroma. Cedric felt a sharp stir of desire as the soft petals brushed her mouth. Good heavens, where had the image of her laid upon his bed, covered in nothing more than rose petals, come from? All he knew was that the sudden image was doing very dangerous things to his lower body.

  “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

  With an effort Cedric reined in his delicious but highly improper thoughts.

  “It is my own hybrid.”

  His soft words appeared to catch her off guard.

  “You created this?”

  He smiled. “With a little help from God.”

  “How lovely.”

  “I have been seeking the perfect name,” he confessed as he stepped even closer to her slender form. “This morning it at last came to me.”

  For once she did not scurry from his proximity.

  “What is it?”

  “Wood nymph.”

  Her breath caught. “Oh.”

  Pleased with her ill-concealed pleasure, Cedric gently brushed her cheek.

  “Do you approve?”

  For a breathless moment her features softened, and he realized he had slipped past her brittle facade. Then, with the most wretched timing, the door to the parlor was thrown open and his aunt stepped into the room.

  “Fredrick told me that the vicar is here,” she claimed in dramatic tones.

  Muffling a frustrated curse, Cedric watched the stoic composure stiffen Miss Cresswell’s features. Blast his deceased uncle. Why did he not rattle chains and float around the attic like other self-respecting ghosts? His habit of chattering like a magpie to his wife was creating all sorts of trouble.

  With a faint sigh, Cedric turned toward his aunt, knowing whatever progress he had made with Miss Cresswell was now lost.

  “Do not fear. I have already sent him on his way,” he assured the older woman.

  Lady Hartshore gave a shake of her head. “I wish he would not visit. It is very upsetting for Mrs. Borelli.”

  Cedric grimaced, knowing that while he had rid them of the vicar for the moment, it was only a temporary reprieve.

  “I fear that we will be seeing a good deal of Mr. Allensway over the next several weeks. He has a visitor arriving whom he hopes to impress.”

  “Oh, dear.” His aunt pressed a hand to her bosom. “I do hope that nothing untoward occurs.”

  “I will speak with Mrs. Borelli and request that she keep her knives sheathed,” he promised.

  “Yes, perhaps she will listen to you.” Lady Hartshore smiled, but her expression was far from convinced. They both knew the flamboyant cook rarely accepted advice from anyone. If she desired to threaten a guest in the house with her cleaver, that was precisely what she would do.

  “I should be on my way,” Cedric murmured, realizing he had accomplished all he could for the moment.

  “You will not stay for luncheon?” his aunt demanded in obvious disappointment.

  “No, I must see to the thatching on old Peter’s cottage. But I do hope that you and Miss Cresswell will agree to join me for luncheon tomorrow at Hartshore Park.”

  Cassie clapped her hands together. “What a lovely notion. We would be delighted, would we not, Miss Cresswell?”

  Cedric turned to catch the ripple of dismay that crossed Miss Cresswell’s delicate features before it was sternly dismissed.

  “Delighted,” she said in bland tones.

  With a decidedly mocking smile he offered her an elegant bow.

  “Until tomorrow, my dear.”

  Six

  Stepping into the vaulted foyer of Hartshore Park, Emma attempted to still the peculiar flutters in the pit of her stomach.

  She was a fool to have come.

  Why hadn’t she feigned some illness? A headache. A sudden chill. A brain fever. Leprosy.

  Anything to keep her safely in the privacy of her chamber.

  Because that dratted Lord Hartshore would have instantly known the truth, a small voice answered in the back of her mind. He would have known she was being a coward. And that was something she couldn’t bear.

  Why could he not be like other gentlemen? she seethed.

  She was accustomed to polite indifference, cool dismissal, or even the cut direct. She was unprepared for his determined effort to ruffle her hard-won composure.

  How did a lady ignore a gentleman who defied all normal conventions?

  He laughed at her impervious demeanor, mocked her desire to be treated as a servant, deliberately stirred the embers of her anger, and caressed her without warning. Good heavens, he kissed her without warning.

  It was utterly frustrating.

  And yet ...

  And yet, when she had gone
to sleep last night, it had been with a pink rose on her pillow.

  Emma gave a sharp shake of her head.

  Clearly, her short time in Kent had already addled her once nicely predictable wits. The sooner she returned to London, the better.

  Stepping into the foyer, the butler performed a dignified bow.

  “Welcome, Lady Hartshore,” he murmured.

  “Winters.” Lady Hartshore smiled warmly at the elderly servant. “How well you are looking.”

  There was a faint softening of the dignified expression. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “I hope your family is in good health?”

  “Quite good,” he assured her, then waved an arm toward the staircase. “Lord Hartshore is in the library.”

  “We will show ourselves in.”

  “Very good.” With another bow the butler silently disappeared into the shadows.

  Emma took a step toward the stairs, only to be halted as Lady Hartshore laid a hand on her arm.

  “Oh, I have just recalled, I must have a word with Mrs. Freeman,” she stated in firm tones. “The library is the first door on the right, my dear.”

  Emma’s eyes widened with dismay. She had no need for directions. For goodness’ sake, she had been carried to the room in the arms of Lord Hartshore mere days ago. She could no doubt find it with her eyes closed. She had no desire, however, to arrive without the presence of Lady Hartshore.

  “Oh, but . . .”

  Unfortunately the older woman did not remain to hear her protests as she bustled down the hall with determined steps.

  Drat.

  How did she keep being forced into situations where she was alone with Lord Hartshore?

  Not even engaged maidens were allowed to spend such time alone with their fiances.

  With decidedly reluctant steps she climbed the sweeping stairs. She even halted on several occasions to study the framed oil paintings that lined the paneled walls.

  Not a difficult task, she acknowledged as she peered at a stunning Raphael. Trained by her father, she could easily discern that it was a true masterpiece. The colors were vibrant and the strokes possessed a bold genius.

  With a tiny sigh of appreciation Emma forced herself to continue up the steps and toward the open door of the library.

  She could delay the inevitable no longer, she acknowledged. Lord Hartshore had no doubt already heard her hesitant steps and was wondering what the devil could take so long to traverse such a short distance.

  As if to prove her point, Lord Hartshore abruptly stepped into the hallway, bringing with him a powerful force that filled the very air.

  Sunlight filtered from the library to slant across his dark features and shimmered in his golden eyes. His broad frame was outlined with faithful precision in a sapphire-blue coat and buff breeches. And, as always, a smile that could melt the most frigid heart curved his lips.

  Really, she silently told herself, that smile was beyond the bounds of decency. No gentleman should be allowed to trot about, flashing it indiscriminately at unsuspecting females.

  Perhaps sensing her dark thoughts, Lord Hartshore allowed that bothersome smile to widen.

  “Welcome to my home, Miss Cresswell,” he said in smoky tones.

  Quite without warning Emma felt the palms of her hands begin to sweat.

  It was the most peculiar thing.

  “Lady Hartshore is with Mrs. Freeman,” she said abruptly, as much to remind herself her time alone with this gentleman would be short-lived as to explain the woman’s absence to Lord Hartshore.

  “Good,” he said firmly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This gives me the perfect opportunity to show you my home.” He held out his arm in invitation. “Shall we?”

  There were no doubt a dozen perfectly legitimate reasons for her to decline his invitation. Unfortunately at the moment Emma could not think of a single one.

  Cursing Lady Hartshore for abandoning her, Emma stiffly moved forward to place her hand on his arm.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he led her down the long corridor.

  The golden eyes held a distinct twinkle as he glanced down at her set features.

  “To my very favorite room, Miss Cresswell.”

  She did not doubt that he intended to bring a blush to her cheeks, and she hastily averted her face to study the pretty pier tables and satinwood chairs that lined the hall.

  A faint chuckle echoed through the air, but thankfully he remained silent as they turned a corner and headed down a narrow set of stairs.

  Emma had lost all sense of direction as they traveled down one hall and then another until at last he pushed open a door to reveal a vast iron-and-glass conservatory.

  She felt her breath catch at the beautiful flowers that were banked along the marble pathway. At the far end, a pretty fountain sparkled in the sunlight surrounded by wrought-iron benches that beckoned one to be seated and simply appreciate the beauty of nature.

  “Oh,” she breathed, fully appreciating the warm, musky scent of earth and roses.

  “Come,” he urged softly, leading her down the narrow path. “These are my English varieties,” he explained as he pointed to the closest rose plants. “On the other side are the ones that I purchased in China, and farther along are those I have selected from Europe.”

  Emma gave a faint shake of her head. “It is amazing.”

  They continued toward the fountain, then Lord Hartshore halted beside a separate bank of blooming roses. Emma recognized the wood nymph the moment her gaze caught sight of the dusky pink buds, and her heart gave an odd twitch.

  “These are the roses that I am crossbreeding,” he said with a hint of satisfaction.

  “Do you care for all of these?” she demanded in disbelief.

  “With the help of my gardeners.”

  Briefly forgetting just how unnerving she found this man, she glanced up to meet his watchful gaze.

  “Why roses?”

  “I find them fascinating,” he admitted without apology. “Did you know that both the Greeks and Romans used roses in their festivals? And the Egyptians called a particular bloom the Holy Rose?”

  “No.”

  “And, of course, there is the long-held belief that the essence of the rose is medicinal as well as beautiful.”

  “It is rather an unusual occupation.”

  “Not that unusual,” he denied. “It is said that Josephine is a keen rose-breeder and that she has collected dozens of varieties at her Palace of Malmaison.” Abruptly leaning forward, he plucked one of the pink blooms and pressed it into her hand. “For you.”

  “Will you truly call it wood nymph?”

  “I can think of no more perfect name,” he said, reaching out to stroke a velvet petal. “Like any good wood nymph, it is beautiful in an unassuming manner, it has an enchanting allure, and while it is fragile to the touch, it possesses sharp thorns for the unwary.”

  Her lips gave a reneged twitch at his audacious words. “Very poetic.”

  “I have my moments,” he murmured.

  Oh, yes, he certainly had his moments, she acknowledged with a small shiver.

  Dangerous moments . . . when he seemed able to make the very air crackle about her.

  “Perhaps we should return to Lady Hartshore,” she said in oddly breathless tones.

  “I am certain my aunt is happily chatting with the servants. This was her home while married to my uncle, and she hired much of the staff. She considers them all a part of her family.”

  Emma did not doubt his words. Lady Hartshore had already proven to be a countess without pretensions. There was no one she did not halt to converse with, including servants, tenants, and, on unnerving occasions, her dead husband.

  “I still think it best to return and await her.”

  With a bold disregard for propriety he lifted his hands to trace the line of her shoulders.

  “There is no hurry.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath, willing herself not
to become lost in the golden warmth of his eyes.

  “My lord.”

  “I like seeing you among my roses,” he said as he stepped close enough to bathe her in the heat of his body. “Such a combination of beauty is quite heady.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He smiled as one hand moved to cup the back of her neck. “I am going to kiss you, Miss Cresswell.”

  She shivered as a delicious tension clutched at her stomach.

  “Now?” she absurdly blurted out.

  “Yes, now,” he whispered, lowering his head to claim her lips in a kiss that sent a shock of poignant sweetness to the very tips of her curled toes.

  Emma knew she should protest.

  It was utterly improper to be kissing the nephew of her employer. Especially a nephew who had been a wretched nuisance since she first encountered him.

  But the hands that rose to push him away instead smoothed over the chiseled muscles of his chest.

  Her lashes fluttered downward as his free arm wrapped around her waist. With a slow insistence the kiss deepened, making Emma tremble with a building excitement.

  Magic.

  That was how Lord Hartshore described this fierce awareness that jolted to life when they were near each other.

  And just for the moment Emma was willing to believe him.

  What other explanation could there be for the manner her heart thundered in her chest? And how her body willingly arched toward the hardness of his frame?

  She felt his tongue gently trace the outline of her trembling lips before he pulled back to gaze at her flushed face.

  “What are you doing to me, Miss Cresswell?” he murmured in a husky voice. “You are a distraction I had not anticipated.”

  A shiver raced down her spine at the hunger that abruptly blazed in the golden eyes.

  “We should not be doing this,” she whispered in uneven tones.

  A sudden hint of amusement softened the male features. “Quite possibly not.”

  “My lord.” With an effort she forced her hands to push at the hard strength of his chest.

  For a moment he gazed down into her wide eyes, and Emma trembled with the effort to not sway forward. A traitorous part of her longed for him to ignore her protest. To simply sweep her back against him and to drown all common sense in the heat of his kisses. Slowly his gaze lowered to her parted lips, and Emma caught her breath as she waited for his dark head to swoop downward.