Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  He bit back the sharp oath that rose to his lips and pushed away from the stone. Damn it, if there was anything more uncomfortable than cold, wet wool clinging to one’s buttocks he had no desire to discover what it was.

  Her gaze shifted to the fountain then to his hips and he saw her lips twitch. She raised her gaze back to his then said, her voice laced with amusement, “A dreadfully uncomfortable sensation I’ve endured myself on more occasions than I care to recall. May I offer you my handkerchief?”

  Humph. As if a bit of feminine lace would speed the drying of his soaked arse. Still, some of his annoyance evaporated at her empathy for his discomfort. “Thank you, but it’s barely damp,” he lied, forcing his features to remain impassive as a trickle of fountain water tickled its way down the back of his thigh.

  “Very well. Tell me, do you use anything special?” she asked.

  “To dry my breeches?”

  “To fertilize your plants.”

  “Um, no. Just the, er, usual.”

  “Surely your compost heap must contain something special,” she said, her tone and expression earnest. “Something out of the ordinary. Your delphiniums are extraordinary and your lanicera caprilfolium is the most fragrant I’ve ever smelled.”

  Good God. This conversation made him feel as if he wore a bull’s-eye on his wet arse while wandering about an archery field. “You’d have to consult with Paul, my head gardener, on that, as he is in charge of the post heaps.”

  A frown pulled down her brows and she blinked behind her lenses. “You mean the compost heaps?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  Her penetrating, narrow-eyed look made him feel as if he was a lad in knee pants who’d been caught doing something naughty. Definitely time for him to escape. Before he could so much as move an inch, however, she said, “Tell me about your night bloomers.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been trying to establish moonflowers and four o’clocks but have not been entirely successful. They must have enjoyed the rain last evening. Certainly more than you.”

  He stilled, suspicion immediately flooding him. “Me?”

  “Yes. I saw you returning to the house late last night. Carrying your shovel.”

  Damn. So he had seen someone at the window when he looked up at the house last night. He’d thought so. Clearly she was one of those nosy women who spent all their time peeking out windows and listening at keyholes—exactly the sort he didn’t want as a guest in his home. And now she was looking at him with an expression that suggested she wasn’t wholly convinced he’d been merely planting flowers. Double damn.

  “Yes, I’d visited the gardens,” he said lightly. “Pity the rain came when it did, forcing me to abandon my work with the night bloomers. And just as I was making progress. But tell me, what were you doing up at that hour?”

  His suspicions were further aroused when an unmistakably guilty look flashed across her features. Clearly she’d been up to something. But what?

  “Oh, nothing,” she said in a breezy tone that sounded decidedly forced. “Just restless and unable to sleep after the journey.”

  As a man who knew a great deal about lying, it was patently obvious she wasn’t telling the truth. So what the bloody hell had she been doing? He immediately ruled out the possibility of a passionate encounter. One look at her convinced him she wasn’t the type. Conspiring to steal the Langston silver? Or worse—spying on him?

  His jaw tightened at the thought. Could she have been the eyes he’d felt boring into him at the graveyard? Given the disheveled state of her hair, she looked as if she could have been caught in the rain. Had she left her room for a midnight stroll in the gardens and accidentally happened upon him? Or had she seen him leave the house and deliberately followed him?

  He didn’t know, but he had every intention of finding out.

  “I hope you didn’t suffer any ill effects from getting caught in the rain, my lord.”

  “No ill effects,” he said, her adroit maneuvering of the conversation away from herself not lost upon him.

  “And your night bloomers were healthy?”

  Damned if he knew. “Oh, yes. Those little devils are thriving.”

  “Thanks no doubt to your diligent checking on them late at night.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you check on them every evening?”

  Oh, yes, she was a nosy one. “It depends upon my schedule, of course.”

  “Of course. I’d love to see them. Which part of the garden are they in?”

  Damned if he knew. “Oh, they’re over that way.” He waved his hand vaguely in a wide arc that encompassed three-quarters of the garden area. “Just keep following the trails and you’ll happen upon them eventually.”

  She nodded, and a bit of the tension gripping him relaxed. As she was no longer looking at him as if his motives were sinister, she obviously believed his sojourn last night was a gardening mission. Excellent. And now it was time for him to make his escape.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miss, um…” He cleared his throat and coughed. “Danforth and I shall continue our walk.”

  She tilted her head and rested her gaze on him with a disconcerting penetrating look that made him feel as if he were a pane of glass she could see right through. “You don’t know my name, do you?”

  It was a statement rather than a question, and to his annoyance, he felt heat flush his face—which only added to his annoyance that she was right. “Of course I know who you are. You’re Lady Wingate’s sister.”

  “Whose name you can’t recall.” Before he could make any attempt at politeness or even admit she was correct, she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Please don’t concern yourself. It happens all the time. I’m Sarah Moorehouse, my lord.”

  It happens all the time.

  Matthew wasn’t certain whether it was her words or the matter-of-fact manner in which she stated them that had him regarding her more carefully. Yes, he could see how this unremarkable woman could and would be overlooked—a state of affairs to which she’d obviously inured herself. An unexpected fissure of sympathy eased through him, followed by annoyance at himself for not recalling her name. Troublesome and nosy or not, she was his guest, and he didn’t like the fact that he’d taken the same route that so many others before him clearly had.

  For some inexplicable reason, he was suddenly reluctant to leave. Surely merely the result of wanting to find out more about her—such as her penchant for peering out windows and perhaps tiptoeing through the gardens in the middle of the night. Yet with no desire to resume their earlier conversation, he nodded toward her sketch pad. “What are you drawing?”

  “Your fountain.” Her gaze shifted to the feminine statue. “The Roman Flora, is she not?”

  His brows shot upward in surprise. He might not know much about plants, but he knew his mythology very well. And clearly so did Sarah Moorehouse.

  “I don’t believe anyone has ever identified her before, Moorehouse.”

  “Really? The spring roses flowing from her lips are an obvious clue. And where else would the goddess of flowers be but in a garden?”

  “Where else, indeed?”

  “Although she was a relatively minor figure in Roman mythology, Flora is my favorite of all of the goddesses.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She is also the goddess of spring, a season dear to my heart, as it symbolizes the renewal of the cycle of life. I celebrate her festival every year.”

  “Floralia?” he asked.

  Her brows shot up. “You know of it?”

  “Yes, however, I’ve never celebrated it.” Intrigued, he asked, “What do you do?”

  There was no missing her surprise at his interest. “It’s rather silly, really. Just a bit of a private picnic in the garden.”

  Silly? Actually that sounded…peaceful. “Private? You celebrate alone?”

  She shook her head, dislodging a wispy dark curl that brushed along her cheek. “No
, not alone. A few select friends join me.” Her dimples winked and a teasing gleam flashed behind her spectacles. “Of course, it is a very coveted and exclusive invitation. Very sought-after, you know. Not everyone gets to sit upon the Moorehouse heirloom blanket and partake of the feast I’ve prepared.”

  “You’ve prepared?”

  She nodded. “Experimenting in the kitchen is a great passion of mine.”

  “I thought you said flowers were your great passion.”

  “’Tis possible to have more than one passion, my lord. I love finding new uses for the multitude of herbs and berries and vegetables I grow.”

  He was attempting to hide his surprise that an aristocratic young woman would even know the location of the kitchen, then recalled that she wasn’t of the peerage. Her father was…a steward? Physician? Yes, something like that. Her sister’s title was the result of her marriage.

  “This cooking you do…are you good?”

  “No one’s cocked up their toes.” Her grin flashed. “Yet.”

  A chuckle rumbled in his throat, feeling foreign there, surprising him. And he realized how long it had been since he’d laughed.

  “Tell me about this feast you prepare for your exclusive party to celebrate Floralia.”

  “The menu varies every year, depending on who is attending. This year I prepared meat pies and fresh scones with blueberry jam, with strawberry tarts for dessert, for myself.”

  “That sounds delicious. And for your guests?”

  “There were raw carrots, stale bread, a ham bone, warm milk, and a bucket of slop.”

  “That sounds…not nearly as delicious. And you claim no one has yet cocked up their toes?”

  She laughed. “They are the foods of choice when your honored guests include rabbits, geese, my dog Desdemona, a litter of kittens, and a pig.”

  “I see. I’m assuming the pig is an actual porcine and not a human of untidy habits?”

  “Correct. Even though the slop was for her, she managed to gobble up one of my strawberry tarts.”

  “Given the choice, I’d do the same. An interesting array of friends you have.”

  “They’re loyal and always happy to see me. Especially when I’m toting strawberry tarts.”

  “No horse guests?”

  She shook her head and something flickered in her eyes. “No. I’m afraid of them.”

  His brows shot up. “Of horses?”

  “No, strawberry tarts.” She flashed another grin. “Yes, horses. I like them so long as they stand at least twenty feet away.”

  “That must make riding difficult.”

  “Indeed. Riding is definitely not one of my passions.”

  He nodded toward her tablet. “May I see your sketch?”

  “Oh…it’s very rough. I’d only just begun.”

  Since looking at her rudimentary drawing was far safer than allowing the conversation to wander back to plant species he’d never heard of, he said, “I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

  She pressed her lips together, and he noted that the pressure coaxed her dimples to blossom. She was clearly reluctant, yet he could easily see that neither did she wish to offend her host. Good God, the drawing must be awful. Well, he’d take a quick peek, murmur a few encouraging words, then excuse himself. He’d certainly done his conversational duty and had learned enough for now. He had no desire to arouse her suspicions by prolonging their chat too long.

  She extended the tablet with what appeared to be extreme caution, as if he were going to bite her, but instead of being offended, he was amused. Usually women were all too eager to do whatever he asked. Clearly not the case with Sarah Moorehouse.

  He took the pad and looked down. Then blinked. Then turned a bit so as to better capture the soft predawn light. “This is extremely good,” he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

  “Thank you.” She sounded just as surprised as he.

  “If this is what you call ‘very rough,’ I’d be interested to see what you consider to be the finished sketch. The detail you’ve captured, especially here…” He stepped closer, until he stood next to her, then held the tablet in one hand while indicating Flora’s face with the other. “…here, in her expression, is amazing. I can imagine her smile about to bloom. I can almost see her coming to life.”

  He turned his head to look at her, and his gaze traveled over her profile, noting the short, straight nose that seemed too small to support her wire-rimmed spectacles. And the gentle curve of her cheek, the smooth skin bearing a small smudge of charcoal.

  As if she felt the weight of his regard, she turned to look at him, and he was struck by the fact that she was quite tall. The tops of women’s heads normally barely cleared his cravat, but she was nearly on eye level with him.

  She blinked behind her glasses, as if startled to find him standing there. The thickness of her lenses made her eyes appear slightly magnified, and he suddenly wished the wan light was brighter so he could discern what color they were. They didn’t look especially dark, so probably blue.

  “You’re quite tall,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. As soon as she’d uttered them, she pressed her lips together, as if the words had escaped without her permission. Even in the dull light he could see the flush that stained her cheeks.

  A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I was just thinking the same thing about you. ’Tis refreshing that I’m not having to stoop down to chat with you.”

  A huff of laughter passed her lips and she smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  His gaze dropped to her smile, to those intriguing deep dimples—which he now noticed flanked a very lush set of lips. “You’ve captured Flora’s expression perfectly,” he said. “Her air of happiness and serenity.”

  “Her mien is one of deep contentment and love,” she said softly. “Quite understandable, as she is in her favorite place—the garden, surrounded by what she loves most.” She looked down at her sketch and her voice took on a wistful note. “To spend one’s existence in a beloved location, with all the things you love most, that is…”

  “An enviable place to be?” he suggested, watching her profile.

  She turned back toward him and studied him for several seconds, a favor he returned. Although she was Lady Wingate’s sister, he could detect no resemblance between this woman and the stunning viscountess. No one would ever call Moorehouse a beauty. Her features were too…mismatched. Her eyes, magnified even more by her spectacles, were too large, her nose too small. Her chin too stubborn, her lips too plump, her height completely unfashionable. Her mousy-colored hair, based on its current untidy condition, appeared to be the unmanageable sort that refused to be tamed into submission. He tried to recall something, anything he might have heard about her, but could think of nothing other than the fact that she was apparently Lady Wingate’s traveling companion and a spinster. Based on that, he’d envisioned an older, dour, pinch-faced matron.

  Yet while she wasn’t beautiful, she was hardly old, dour, or pinch-faced. No, this woman was young. And robust. And clearly intelligent. And possessed an entrancing, dimpling smile that lit up her unusual face as if she’d swallowed a candle. A smile that offered an intriguing contrast to the wistfulness he’d detected in her voice. And large, doe-shaped eyes so devoid of guile that he found it difficult to look away from her.

  Yes, but she’s also nosy, and was doing something last night she doesn’t wish to confess.

  “An enviable place to be,” she repeated softly. “Yes, that describes it perfectly. Who could ask for anything more than that?”

  Me. He wanted something more than that. Something that had frustratingly remained out of his reach for almost a year. He yearned for it, yet despaired of ever finding it.

  Peace.

  Such a simple word.

  So bloody difficult to achieve.

  He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. “Are there any other sketches in your tablet?”

  “
Yes, but—”

  Her words cut off as he opened to a random page and looked at a beautifully detailed sketch of a flower, delicately tinted with watercolors. Beneath the sketch, printed in small, precise lettering, were the words narcissus sylvestris—which, since he recognized the bloom, clearly was Latin for…

  “Daffodil,” he murmured. “Very nice. You’re as talented with watercolors as you are at drawing.”

  “Thank you.” Again she seemed surprised by his compliment, and he wondered why. Surely anyone who looked at these pictures could see they were excellent. “I’ve painted sketches of several hundred different species.”

  “Another passion of yours?”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And what do you do with your sketches? Frame them for display in your home?”

  “Oh, no. I keep them in their sketch pads while I add to my collection. Someday I intend to organize the group and see them published into a book on horticulture.”

  “Indeed? A lofty goal.”

  “I see no point in aspiring to any other sort.”

  He shifted his gaze from the sketch and their eyes met. The sky had lightened enough that he could now discern that her eyes weren’t blue at all, but rather a warm, golden brown. Along with intelligence, he detected a bit of a challenge in her direct gaze, as if she were daring him to dispute her ability to see her goal to fruition. He certainly had no intention of arguing the point with her. It was apparent that in addition to being nosy, Moorehouse was one of those frighteningly efficient spinster types who marched on ahead, heedless of any hindrances to their progress.

  “Why aim for the ground when you can shoot for the stars?” he murmured.

  She blinked, then her smile bloomed again. “Exactly,” she agreed.

  Aware that he was once again staring, he forced his attention back to the sketch pad. He flipped through more pages, studying sketches of unfamiliar plants with unpronounceable Latin titles, along with several flowers he didn’t recall the names of but that he recognized thanks to his hours spent digging holes all around the grounds. One bloom he did recognize was the rose, and he forced himself not to shudder. For some reason the damn things made him sneeze. He avoided them whenever possible.