Sleepless at Midnight

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Please come in. Would you care for some tea?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Her glasses slid downward with the movement and he watched her push them back into place, clenching his fingers to squelch the urge to go to her and do the deed himself.

  He dismissed Tildon with a nod and the butler left, closing the door quietly behind him. The soft click of the lock falling into place seemed to Matthew to reverberate in the quiet room, along with the rapid beat of his heart.

  For the sake of propriety, and to save himself from temptation, he knew he probably should have instructed Tildon to leave the door ajar, but he couldn’t risk anyone overhearing them. He cast about in his mind for something innocuous to say, but his mind was blank. Except for the image of her in his arms. Should he ask if she’d slept well? No—if he did, she might feel compelled to ask him the same question, and what could he say? Certainly not the truth. Because the truth was that he hadn’t slept at all. That he’d spent the entire night convincing himself she meant nothing to him. That he could forget her.

  One look at her had proved him utterly wrong. Indeed it had taken exactly one instant in her company to show the folly of all those hours spent telling himself whatever he felt for her was an aberration. Clearly it wasn’t.

  But until such time as he might locate the money, he needed to keep his feelings to himself. It would be unfair and cruel to dangle an offer of marriage before her that would most likely never come to fruition.

  “Do you have the written words you’d like me to look at?” she asked in a voice completely devoid of emotion.

  The question yanked him from his stupor and he nodded. “Yes. The list is on my desk.” He crossed the room, then held out the chair for her.

  She hesitated for several seconds before walking briskly toward him. When she stopped in front of the chair, he stood directly behind her. And had to grip the chair’s cherrywood spindles so as to not to reach out and embrace her. The back of her neck, that bit of ivory skin he knew felt like warm velvet and tasted faintly of flowers, was less than two feet away from his lips.

  The knowledge that he had only to take one step forward to brush his mouth against her skin had him drawing in a sharp breath—which only resulted in further torture. Her scent, that subtle floral fragrance that made him feel as if he stood in the midst of a sunshine-filled garden, invaded his senses and he had to grit his teeth to contain the groan that rose in his throat.

  Unlike him, she appeared perfectly composed, a fact that irritated him no end. Excellent. He couldn’t very well desire her if he were irritated. In fact, the more irritable, the better. She sat, and he pushed in the seat, then moved to stand beside her.

  “This is what I wrote after those final minutes with my father,” he said, pointing to the piece of ivory vellum on the desk. “He was nearly impossible to understand, the words halting and most of them not much more than mere whispers and stutters.”

  She ran her finger slowly down the list of words, saying each one as her finger passed over it. “Fortune. Save estate. Hidden here. Garden. In garden. Golden flower. Fern. Fleur-de-lis.”

  Continuing to look at the words, she said, “Tell me about your search thus far. Based on this, I’m guessing you’ve looked near all the golden or yellow flowering plants.”

  “Yes. Claiming a long suppressed interest in all things horticultural, especially yellow flowers—my favorite color—I consulted with Paul, who was only too happy to point out the multitudes of golden-hued blooms in the garden and everywhere else on the estate.”

  She turned and looked up at him. “Is yellow your favorite color?”

  “No.” His gaze shifted to her gown, then returned to her eyes. “I prefer brown. And you, Sarah? What colors do you prefer?”

  Her gaze held his for several seconds, a delicate wash of color suffusing her cheeks. Then she turned back to the vellum. “I like all colors, my lord,” she said, not so subtly emphasizing the formality of the last two words. “After digging near the golden flowers, did you then dig near the ferns?”

  “Yes. Near the acres and acres of ferns. Like the golden flowers, there are ferns all over the estate. Just when I think I’ve found the last bunch, another crop sprouts up. It’s kept me very busy this spring.”

  He leaned forward and pointed to the final words. “I’m not certain ‘fleur-de-lis’ is accurate. As I said, he was very difficult to understand.”

  “The literal translation is ‘flower of the lily,’” she murmured. “There are an abundance of lilies in your garden, of many different varieties.”

  “And I have dug in, under, and around all of them. After my initial search of the golden flower and fern areas proved unsuccessful, I drew a grid map of the estate grounds and have systematically searched each area. The rose garden, where you found me last night, is the last section left to search. Based on him saying ‘hidden here,’ I’m certain my father meant the gardens here at Langston Manor. Even so, I’ve searched the small garden area behind the London town house, as well as the conservatories both here and in London, but found nothing.”

  “That means you’ve already searched the areas where the irises are planted?”

  “Unless they’re roses, I’ve searched. Why do you ask?”

  She turned and looked up at him once again. Because he was leaning down, her face was less than a foot from his. He grimly noted the slight catch in her breath, the darkening of her eyes. Apparently she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed. Well, good. Because damn it, he disliked suffering alone.

  She cleared her throat then said, “I ask because although the literal translation of ‘fleur-de-lis’ is lily flower, the character itself is considered to be a symbol of the iris.”

  Matthew stilled. “I didn’t know that. Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze searched his. “Is that of some significance? I thought you’d already searched near the irises.”

  “I did. And found nothing.” A fissure of hope seeped through him. “But ‘iris’ could be an important clue because it’s not only the name of a flower.”

  “What else is it the name of?” she asked with a mystified expression.

  “Iris was my mother’s name.” That fissure of hope grew stronger. “And my mother’s most beloved part of the estate was an area my father had built especially for her, in honor of her favorite flower. And it’s the one place I haven’t finished searching.”

  Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “The rose garden.”

  Chapter 13

  Sarah looked into his beautiful hazel eyes and saw the hopeful excitement glowing there. Indeed she could almost feel it emanating off him in waves.

  He reached out and laid his hand over hers. “Thank you.”

  One touch. God help her, that’s all it took and her stern resolve to remain indifferent melted like sugar in hot tea. And that simply wouldn’t do.

  Slipping her hand from beneath his, she eased back the chair, then stood. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” she said, her fingers involuntarily curling into a fist to retain the heat from his touch. “We don’t know if those words mean the rose garden is the right place, and even if they do, that’s where you’re digging now anyway.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve been searching for nearly a year. With no results. I began this quest with high hopes, but as more and more time passed, it’s been increasingly difficult to remain hopeful. Lately, I’ve come to regard every day as bringing me one day closer to failure. This is the first time in months that I’ve experienced any hope. So I thank you.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “If it weren’t for the roses, this news would be perfect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t care for roses. Or more accurately, they don’t care for me. Every time I’m near them I sneeze.”

  “Ah. That explains the achoos I heard last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “I must say, they made it easy to find you
.”

  “Just as your scent made it easy for Danforth to find you.”

  “It is difficult to be stealthy with Danforth’s keen nose about.”

  “Even more difficult when you’re surrounded by flowers that make you sneeze.”

  The camaraderie she’d felt from their first meeting relaxed some of her tension and she couldn’t help but smile. “You’d make a terrible thief.”

  “If I were stealing roses, yes. Luckily that is the only flower that affects me that way.”

  “No sneezing around the tortlingers?”

  “None. Nor the straff wort. Nor around the…what flower is the scent you wear?”

  “Lavender.” She shot him a mock stern look. “Which, if you knew the first thing about flowers, you would know.”

  “I believe we’ve already established that my knowledge is severely limited.” Before she could reply, he said softly, “The scent of lavender doesn’t make me sneeze.”

  “I should hope not, lest you’d be sneezing all the time. It is extremely prevalent in your garden.” Refusing to contemplate the cause for the husky note in his voice, she said briskly, “I’ve an idea to propose to you, one which may appeal to you, especially given your sensitivity to roses.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If you’d like, I’d be willing to assist you in your rose garden digging. Neither my sister nor my friends would think it in the least bit odd if I joined you, as they are well aware of my love of gardening. Indeed, they’d think it more odd if I sat about with an embroidery hoop. You’ve numerous acres to cover, and if I assisted you, the work would get done twice as fast, which would mean half the time for you amongst the sneeze-inducing roses.”

  “You would be willing to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no missing his surprise. “Why?”

  “A number of reasons. I love being in the garden under any circumstances, and it is where I’d hoped to spend this afternoon anyway, while the group takes the horseback ride they were discussing at breakfast.”

  She linked her fingers together, drew a bracing breath, then continued with the speech she’d been rehearsing in her head for past several hours. “And I’d like to help you. I could claim that the reason is because I find the thought of this treasure hunt of sorts exciting and I’d therefore like to be a part of it—which is true. But in the interests of complete honesty, I also know how important it is for you to honor your father’s wishes and to put your family’s estate back to rights. I…I think there was a kernel of friendship forming between us before our very…ill-advised, um…kiss, and I’d like for that friendship to continue—platonically, of course. Especially as there is a chance you may marry one of my dearest friends.”

  She waited for his answer, all the while hoping that he wouldn’t discern that she hadn’t been completely honest with him. That her offer was also self-serving and born of a fact she couldn’t ignore—if he found the money, he’d be free from the need to marry an heiress. And even though her common sense and better judgment firmly reminded her that this man could have any beautiful society diamond he wanted, her heart couldn’t let go of the hope that if he were free to choose, he might choose her. A ridiculous, crazy, insane hope she’d tried mightily to kill, but one that remained stubbornly alive. And one that compelled her to help him. To speed up the digging process. And that gave her even more incentive to pray for his success.

  He studied her with an expression she couldn’t decipher then asked softly, “You’re not afraid to spend the afternoon alone with me in the garden?”

  Of course I am. “Of course I’m not.” Actually, it wasn’t him she was afraid of, but herself. Still, as she’d had more than two decades of practice at hiding her desires, surely she could do so for a single afternoon. “You agreed there would be no further intimacies between us, and you are a man of your word.”

  He said nothing for several seconds, just continued to look at her with that same unreadable expression. Finally, he quietly replied, “In that case I accept your offer. What time is the group going for their ride?”

  “Someone suggested leaving around noon, and they planned to discuss with you making a picnic of the excursion.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see that those arrangements are made and beg off from the outing. Shall we then meet in the rose garden at quarter past noon? I’ll bring a shovel and gloves for you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be there.”

  When Sarah arrived at the rose garden at precisely quarter past twelve, she was enthusiastically greeted by a woof from Danforth, who promptly sat on her shoe, and a mighty sneeze from Lord Langston, who’d pulled down the piece of white linen that completely hid the lower half of his face in order to say hello.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, watching him settle the cloth back in place.

  “Yes. As long as I keep this handkerchief in place.”

  She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You may not have the noiseless stealth of a thief, but you certainly have the look of one.”

  “Thank you. Your kind words warm my heart.” He held out a shovel. “As you can see, I’ve started on the row containing the yellow roses first. I dig a trench along the base of the bushes, about two feet deep. After about a six foot distance, I go back and fill in the hole. That way, if I have to abandon the project quickly, I don’t have too much of a distance to refill.” He glanced at the familiar worn sack she carried. “You brought your sketch pad?”

  “Yes. I thought in case we took a rest, I’d work on that sketch of Danforth I promised you.” Her gaze fell on the large knapsack near his feet. “Have you taken up sketching as well?”

  “It’s a picnic lunch, prepared for us by Cook while she packed the hampers for the horseback riding party. This way we won’t have to return to the house should we get hungry—unless you’d prefer to do so.”

  “Not at all. I enjoy eating outside, and often bring simple meals with me when I’m working in the garden.”

  “Excellent. Shall we start?”

  “By all means.”

  Sarah set down her leather satchel then reached for the shovel and leather gloves he held out to her. When she grabbed the handle, her fingers brushed against his. A heated tingle raced up her arm and she inwardly frowned at her body’s reaction. A quick look at Lord Langston showed him staring off into the distance.

  Clearly he hadn’t even noticed the contact. Which of course should have pleased her. And did—for the most part. She simply had to squash the tiny part of her that felt both confused and peeved that he was so unaffected when the barest touch of his fingers rendered her unable to catch her breath. Clearly she was entirely forgettable. Which, of course, she’d always known. But she’d never known how it felt to be forgotten by a man.

  Good that you’re getting a taste of it now, because if you find the money, he’ll forget you in a heartbeat, her inner voice warned ominously. He’ll still marry a beautiful young Society gem.

  ’Taking the shovel, she forced the voice aside and concentrated on the task at hand. They worked with a minimum of conversation, the sounds of their shovels digging into the dirt accompanied by the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. Sarah quickly established a steady rhythm, aided by softly humming to herself, as was her habit when she worked in her own garden. Danforth found himself a shady spot nearby, much as her beloved Desdemona always did. The thought of her pet brought a wave of nostalgia for home, although between the beautiful gardens and Danforth, this place felt nearly as comfortable as her own home.

  She’d just finished filling in another six foot trench that had yielded no results when Lord Langston asked, “Would you like to stop for something to eat and drink?”

  Sarah dug her shovel tip into the ground, and wiping her damp forehead with the back of her glove, turned toward him. And stilled. While she had no doubt that she looked like something that had been dragged behind a carriage for several hundred miles, he looked utterly p
erfect. And completely, unfairly so. After two hours of hoisting dirt in the hot sun, he should look like she felt—overheated, grimy, sweaty, and disheveled. And while he was clearly grimy, sweaty, and disheveled, on him it somehow looked masculine and delicious. And utterly perfect.

  Because she’d at first so fastidiously kept her errant eyeballs on her work rather than on him and had eventually lost herself in her task, she hadn’t noticed that he’d removed his waistcoat and cravat. But there was no missing it now.

  He’d pulled his handkerchief from his face and held it wadded in one hand. He’d rolled back his sleeves to his elbows, baring muscular forearms browned by the sun. His snowy shirt—which wasn’t quite so snowy any longer—was open at the throat, and she spied the shadow of his dark chest hair in the V-shape opening before the linen thwarted her view. The material was limp and wrinkled from his exertions and clung to his form in a way that brought a feminine sigh of appreciation to her lips.

  Raising one hand, he combed his fingers through his dark hair, which, like his skin, glistened from his exertions. He then settled his hands on his hips, drawing Sarah’s avid gaze downward. His spread fingers rested on dirt-streaked fawn breeches, as if pointing to his fascinating groin.

  Heat that had nothing to do with the sun scorched her as she vividly recalled what he looked like without his breeches. And the wickedly delicious sensation of his hard flesh pressing against the apex of her thighs.

  He sneezed, then asked, “Does that meet with your approval, Sarah?”

  Approval? Her gaze snapped up to his. His blank expression made it impossible to tell if she’d been caught staring, but she strongly suspected she had been. Good lord, she could feel the hot blotches of embarrassment creeping up her neck. She had no idea what he was asking that met with her approval, but since everything she could see looked fine, she said, “Yes, that’s…perfect.”

  With a nod, he set down his shovel then snatched up the knapsack. “There’s a lake on the property—lots of trees and shade.” He sneezed again. “And no roses. It’s only about a ten minute walk. Would you like to eat there?”