by Sara Bennett
Lady Longhurst’s eyebrows lifted in surprise—to introduce oneself was a social faux pas. She took Marissa’s hand with care, as if it might bite, her sly sideways glance at Valentine seeming to invite him to join her in appalled amusement.
Marissa also gave Valentine a glance but hers was far from ambiguous. “Perhaps you should tell Lady Longhurst what we’re doing here, Lord Kent?” she suggested meaningfully.
“Yes. Of course. Hum, Lady Longhurst, we are here to find a rose,” he began.
“A rose?” She clapped her hands together like a child. “But I am famous for my roses!”
“Then you will understand,” he said, and proceeded to explain the story of the Crusader’s Rose.
After a few sentences, Lady Longhurst gestured for them to be seated, and arranged herself gracefully on a sofa. She was watching him intently as he spoke; indeed, thought Marissa, hanging on his every word. And while this was obviously flattering, and most men would be flattered, Valentine seemed far more intent on his story than his audience.
When he finished, Lady Longhurst sighed and placed a hand on her breast, blinking her pale eyes as if the emotion was too great for her. “I am quite overwhelmed,” she gushed. “And you believe the rose is here? At Canthorpe? In my garden, Lord Kent?”
“I very much hope so, Lady Longhurst.”
“Then you must look at once,” she declared, rising lightly to her feet. “And I will come with you.”
Pleased at her enthusiastic response, Valentine jumped up after her, and disappeared through the sitting room door. Marissa sighed and also followed, only to run into him as he hastily returned to the sitting room. The pleasant shock of his big body against hers shook her momentarily, and then he clasped her elbows, steadying her, as he stepped back.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I’m like a boy today, thinking only of my quest and—”
Before Marissa could answer him, Lady Longhurst was calling out, “Lord Kent? The roses are this way!”
Valentine spun around and went striding in her direction, but this time he remembered to keep a firm grip on Marissa’s arm.
“We can reach the rose garden through the conservatory,” Lady Longhurst said when they reached her, and led them into a well-lit saloon with glass doors, which she proceeded to open.
The warm, heady scent of earth and vegetation was suddenly very strong, as if they’d stepped into an Amazonian jungle. Marissa couldn’t help but stare at some of the stranger plants, with their twisting root tendrils and huge flat leaves and faintly alarming flowers. Her parents would be entranced in such a place—they would probably refuse to leave—but Valentine barely gave the contents of the conservatory a glance. His mind was on the roses—his rose—and when Marissa was prone to linger, his hand tightened on her arm and he hurried her out through some more doors and into the garden proper.
“This is more like it,” he growled, as he gazed over a sea of lush, well-tended bushes.
To Marissa’s startled eyes there were roses of every imaginable color, as well as every size and habit. They climbed, they drooped, they sprawled in huge bushes, or were upright and neatly trimmed. Instinctively she bent to press her face to a pink cup of soft petals with yellow stamens, breathing deeply of the heady perfume.
“Oh, how lovely,” she whispered. “What is this one called?”
“One of the Albas. ‘Celestial,’ I believe.” Valentine dismissed it with a single glance.
He began to make his way down the rows of plants, searching, occasionally pausing but never for long. Marissa watched him, torn between wanting him to find his rose and selfishly wanting him not to find it just yet. But she never really believed he wouldn’t find it, with so many roses to choose from, because surely it must be here, somewhere? It must be here, she told herself.
Lady Longhurst was trotting along after him. Marissa could see her mouth opening and shutting as she chatted away, her breathless voice too low to carry. It was possible Valentine was ignoring her, but Marissa was of the opinion he was so involved in his search he simply didn’t notice. Perhaps Lady Longhurst was of the same opinion, and not being a woman who was used to being ignored, she chose to do something about it. The next time Valentine paused to inspect one of the bushes, she tucked her hand into his arm, giving him a smile when he started with surprise. When he moved on, she continued to cling to him, refusing to take second place to her roses.
After a few steps Valentine turned his head, searching around, and it occurred to Marissa that he was looking for her. His gaze, across several rows of plants, was so beseeching she almost laughed aloud. Valentine, her Valentine, was not interested in the flattering attentions of the beautiful Lady Longhurst. He was only interested in finding his rose.
And her.
Valentine could feel Her Ladyship’s soft breast brushing against his biceps. At first he thought it must be accidental, but when he looked down her pale eyes were staring up at him and he was startled to find them full of the sort of invitation he had no intention of accepting.
For the first time it occurred to him that Lady Longhurst was far more interested in him than the roses. He looked up, searching for Marissa, and saw her standing alone on the far side of the garden, watching him. She was surrounded by roses of every color, adrift in their perfume, and he wanted…he wanted…
Valentine felt his body tense with need as he imagined taking her in his arms and rolling her naked in a bed of rose petals. He wanted her with a desperation that was making him irritable and ill. Feverishly he reminded himself that if the rose was here, now, then his quest would be over. He’d be a hero, a celebrity, and it would be the perfect moment to claim her as he longed to.
And Marissa would be dazzled by his fame, too dazzled to see him as he really was. Staid, boring, and a beast.
He glanced at Lady Longhurst, still attached like a leech to his side, wishing he could shake her free. She must have thought the glance, and his introspection, was all for her, because she gave him a meaningful little smile, her eyelashes fluttering.
“Lord Kent, I am a little light-headed,” she murmured, leaning on him heavily. “I wonder if you might escort me back to the house?”
There was a seat some steps away, set in a bower dripping with white roses. Valentine led her in its direction, gently but firmly peeling her fingers from his arm, and sitting her down.
“Rest a moment, Lady Longhurst. I must continue my search.” He stepped away from her, smiling to take the sting out of his rejection.
Her mouth hung open in shocked surprise. Quickly she snapped it closed, turning her face from him. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “Search for your rose. I will try not to faint until you are done.”
Valentine felt a pang of guilt, but a moment later it was gone, when Lady Longhurst shot a vicious glance across the garden at Marissa, who was working her way along the row of roses, stopping to smell each and every one.
He set off again. He tried not to grow disillusioned and disappointed, but as the number of roses to be searched grew smaller and smaller, it was difficult to keep his hopes up. The garden, though beautiful, did not hold what he was looking for. Eventually he reached the last row and the last rose, and stood a moment, asking himself if he’d missed something, if he’d inadvertently bypassed the Crusader’s Rose.
But he knew he hadn’t.
His hands tightened into fists at his side. “Are these the only roses you have, Lady Longhurst?” he called to her, the desperation plain in his voice.
Lady Longhurst shrugged, not trying to hide her irritation. “There are some wilder species in the woods,” she admitted, pointing toward a wooden gate that led into a wilderness section of the garden.
It seemed unlikely his rose would be there but he couldn’t leave without making certain. Just in case.
A small, warm and familiar hand slipped into his and squeezed. Marissa’s calm and sensible voice said, “Let’s look then. We can’t give up yet.”
Valentine nod
ded jerkily, swallowing down his sense of failure.
“Come with me.” Lady Longhurst was on her feet again, looking anything but faint, a flush in her cheeks and a sting in her smile.
For the next hour they tramped through woodlands and peered into grottos and arbors, where statues of scantily clothed nymphs and horse-legged satyrs lurked in the shadows. Although Valentine tried to keep his hopes up, he’d already accepted the Crusader’s Rose wasn’t at Canthorpe and his sense of failure weighed him down.
Somehow Lady Longhurst had hold of his arm again, and Marissa trailed dejectedly behind them as they made their way back through the rustic wooden gate.
“You could always stay a little longer,” Her Ladyship said in a voice meant just for him. “There may be places I have forgotten and will only remember later, when you are gone. Lord Longhurst is in London, and I am sadly lonely, so you will not be intruding.” The last sentence was spoken with a trace of desperation.
“I am not sure—”
“Miss Rotherhild, too, of course,” she added hastily, with a wave of her hand to include Marissa. “I’m sure I can find something for her to do while we are busy.”
Her Ladyship was propositioning him. He couldn’t pretend otherwise, although good manners insisted he try. The strange thing was, his discomfort was laced with a growing sense of masculine pride. First Marissa and now Lady Longhurst wanted him. Was Vanessa wrong about his physical attractiveness?
He smiled.
Lady Longhurst, taking this as encouragement, clutched on to him, her voice rising in pitch. “My gardener is a modern man. I fear he does not appreciate the older style of rose. He has replaced a great many of the original plants with more modern varieties.”
“That is a great pity,” Valentine said, his smile gone.
“Oh, don’t give up. There may still be hope,” she went on. “What about this rose, Lord Kent?”
“No.” Valentine dismissed her offering with a brief glance.
“Or this one?”
“Unfortunately, no, Lady Longhurst. You don’t seem to understand that the rose I am seeking is unique. I cannot substitute it with another at a—a whim. It is like…like the woman one loves—no other will do.”
She blinked, as if tears were in her eyes, but he noted they were perfectly clear. Suddenly he was tired of her games and her “modern” garden. He wanted to leave. He wanted to ride home with Marissa by his side. He wanted to…to…
Valentine almost groaned aloud. He’d been longing to claim Marissa, like Richard de Fevre coming home from the Crusades claimed his wife, like Lancelot claimed Guinevere. Triumphantly push himself deep inside her and gaze into her eyes as he made her his for now and forever. But he hadn’t found the rose. He wasn’t famous or a catch, the sort of man a beautiful woman might regard with pride.
He was the same Valentine Kent he’d always been, and the knowledge was turning his temper ragged.
“The rose I’m seeking is not here, Lady Longhurst,” he said stiffly.
“Oh.” She shrugged and smiled. “Why not stay anyway?”
“I don’t think so. But I do thank you for your generosity in allowing us to see your garden.”
“But you will take some refreshments?”
She sounded a little desperate, as if she was afraid of being on her own, making it difficult to refuse. So they sat politely, making conversation, until eventually it was possible to escape.
“Oh, Lord Kent,” Marissa said breathlessly as she rode at his side, the village and Canthorpe receding behind them. “Look at this rose, surely it will do?” She sounded uncannily like Lady Longhurst.
He frowned down at her. “That is not kind.”
“Perhaps you can stay and help me prepare for bed? I find myself all thumbs today,” she added, with the nearest thing to a leer he’d ever seen on her face.
Despite his low spirits Valentine chuckled.
“What a dreadful woman.” Marissa was herself again as she gave a shudder.
“I would have liked her a great deal more if I could have found my rose in her garden.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t find the rose,” she said gently, “I really am, Valentine. But just imagine if you had found it at Canthorpe? You’d never be able to escape Her Ladyship’s advances.”
“I found it rather flattering,” he retorted with a smug smile.
Marissa gave an unladylike snort.
“I’m not that sort of man.”
Marissa stared at him as if she’d misheard. “The sort of man who what?”
Valentine shifted awkwardly in his saddle. “The sort of man women pursue.”
“Do you really believe that?” She sounded bemused, her dark eyes searching his.
Valentine knew there was no escaping this conversation. The time had come. Reluctantly he drew his horse to a halt and turned to face her.
Chapter 20
Marissa had never seen him look so serious. There was clearly something heavy weighing on his mind. Something other than the rose. She didn’t for a moment believe what he’d said about his attractiveness to women. Valentine was the most charismatic man she’d ever met. No, whatever he was going to say must be serious indeed for him to be regarding her in such a stern manner.
He’s going to ask you to leave.
No matter how she tried to ignore them, the words repeated over and over in her head, taunting her.
Valentine dismounted and came to help her down, his hands firm and warm about her waist. She had to stop herself from melting into him, drawing back as soon as her feet touched the ground. There was a fallen log within the glade, looking almost as if Lady Longhurst’s gardener had arranged it himself. Marissa sat down, fussing with her skirts, while she waited anxiously for him to say whatever it was he intended to say.
He took his time tethering the horses, then took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, before finally approaching her. Resting a boot on the log beside her, he began to twist his hat in his hands, staring into the distance. And all the while she said nothing, waiting, her sense of dread growing.
“I suppose I have to go back in time,” he said. His gaze brushed hers briefly. “When my father died at Waterloo I decided I would take on his job of finding the Crusader’s Rose and restoring it to the family. It seemed important, a task I could make my life’s work. I know you find that ridiculous, Marissa. You’ve made it very clear what you think about botanical pursuits.”
“I did think that, yes,” she agreed.
“Did think it?”
His eyes searched hers, looking for something, but when he didn’t find it and she didn’t oblige him by answering his question, he gave up and sat himself down on the log beside her. With his elbows resting on his knees and his head bent, he continued to fidget with his hat.
“I’ve realized just recently—when George was talking about Von Hautt—that I had a romantic idea of my quest for the rose. That it made me like one of the knights of the Round Table. Brave and honorable. Von Hautt said something similar, but I have grown up and he obviously hasn’t.” He gave a short laugh. “As I grew older I began to see my quest for what it was—the important restoration of an ancient rose—a piece of history that would otherwise be lost to the world, and my family in particular. While I sought the rose I learned more about roses in general, and now I am somewhat of an expert in the field.”
“You are the leading expert in the field.”
He gave a wry smile.
Marissa, feeling that something more was required of her, said, “Go on.”
“That is the thing. I am an expert, well-known to others in my field of expertise, but my life is spent in solitude. I am not an exciting character. The past few days are the most exciting I have ever spent where roses are concerned, and that’s mainly because of you, Marissa.”
“It has been most enjoyable,” she agreed.
“But this has been an anomaly. I live a staid and insular life, rarely does something out of the ordinary ha
ppen. I am busy with my studies and my correspondence. Sometimes I lose track of time. I rarely accept invitations. I rarely travel to London, and when I do it is to visit libraries or museums, never to socialize with my peers.”
He was watching her closely but Marissa didn’t know what he expected. Cries of shock and horror? Surely he realized her own life had been more or less the same as his, before she was sent off to Miss Debenham’s Finishing School?
He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Marissa, are you listening to me? Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
She rested her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the warmth and strength of his body. “I’m listening,” she said. She turned her nose into the cloth of his jacket, breathing in his scent, then stretched up to nuzzle his jaw, enjoying the masculine scratch of whiskers.
He turned his head, blindly seeking with his lips for hers, and they kissed. Lightly at first, a mere touching of flesh to flesh, and then deeper, more passionately, as the ever-present desire took hold.
Marissa forgot to breathe. Her skin was hot, her body melting, and she wanted him so much. She wanted to be able to touch him every morning and smile at him across the breakfast table, to soothe him when he was upset and to laugh with him when he was happy. She wanted children with his eyes, and the years to stretch on, both of them growing old together at Abbey Thorne Manor.
A moment later she was floundering, trying to keep her balance. He’d stood up so abruptly she was left reeling. Catching her breath, she clung to the log, staring up at him as he loomed over her, his chest rising and falling heavily.
“No!” he burst out, an agony of regret in his face and voice.
“Valentine?” she whispered, bewildered and hurt and now very frightened.
She didn’t understand. Valentine had hoped, coward that he was, that she would catch on without him having to spell it out. That she would guess his meaning and…And what? Walk away? Agree with him and display horror at the very idea of joining her life to his?
