RED ROSES MEAN LOVE

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  A dimpling grin curved her lips. "I didn't realize 'shall we walk together' was a query of such dire, serious proportions."

  A frown bunched his brows. The damn woman was teasing him again, in that light, breezy way that made his heart speed up. As if it weren't already thumping along due to her damn breeches.

  His expression must have mirrored his thoughts for she followed his gaze and looked down at herself. And gasped.

  "Good heavens! My breeches! I'd forgotten I was wearing them." She hugged her arms around her slim waist and took two steps backward, her expression stricken. "Oh my. Please excuse my attire. I sometimes wear these when I walk at night so as not to trip on my skirts. It never occurred to me that I would run into anyone this late. I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't offended you."

  He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Damn it, if only he were offended. Instead he was aroused. And fascinated. "I'm not offended. Just surprised."

  "I imagine you are. Please forgive me." She retreated another step. "If you'll excuse me…"

  "You no longer wish to walk?"

  His question clearly surprised her. "Do you?"

  He shrugged with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. "I can't see the harm in taking a stroll together." He was, after all, perfectly capable of controlling himself for the duration of a stroll. Without a doubt. Most likely.

  He extended his elbow and ignored the warning bells clanging in his brain. After a moment's hesitation, she took his arm and slowly led him down a narrow path.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked, glancing over at him.

  Unsettled. Frustrated. Amused as hell. "Fine."

  "No more throbbing pain?"

  Stephen looked skyward. Hell yes, he had throbbing pain, thanks to her. But not the sort she meant. "No."

  "I am glad to hear it."

  "As am I." If only it were true.

  They strolled along in silence for several minutes until she stopped beside a grouping of flowers. Slipping her hand from his elbow, she bent and touched a delicate bloom.

  Looking up at him from her crouched position, she asked, "Do you like flowers, Mr. Barrettson?"

  Flowers? Other than something he sent to his various mistresses on occasion, Stephen never thought about them. "I suppose."

  She picked the flower and stood, holding the yellow and purple bloom up to the moonlight. "Do you know what sort of flower this is?"

  He glanced at it. "A rose?"

  Laughing, she tucked the bloom through the top buttonhole of her linen shirt. "It is a pansy."

  "I'm afraid all flowers are roses to me."

  "Pansies were my mother's favorite flowers. She planted them every year." Slipping her hand back through his arm, she led him farther down the path. "Mama's name was Chloe, which means 'blooming.' It suited her perfectly. She loved flowers, and this garden thrived under her hands. She knew what each and every flower stood for."

  "Each flower stands for something?" he asked, surprised.

  "Oh, yes. Just as people's names have meanings, each different flower symbolizes a feeling or emotion. The language of flowers dates back hundreds of years, gathering contributions from mythology, religion, medicine, and from the emblematic use of flowers in heraldry during the sixteenth century."

  She picked a stem with small white bell-shaped flowers clinging to it. Extending the bloom to him, she said, "Smell this."

  Stephen gingerly pinched the stem between his fingers and brought it to his nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance.

  "Do you know what flower that is?" she asked, watching him.

  Stephen inhaled again. "Small roses?"

  She laughed and shook her head. "Lily of the valley. It symbolizes 'purity.'"

  They continued walking slowly down the path. Hayley pointed out at least a dozen different flowers along the way, telling Stephen their various meanings. It amazed him that she was able to tell one from the other, for in spite of the full moonlight, it was still quite dark. He watched her bouncing hand indicate the fragrant blooms, and tried to remember what they all meant, but he was soon hopelessly confused. It was damned near impossible to concentrate on her words when she was smiling at him, her scent surrounding him, and as hard as he tried, he could neither forget nor ignore those damn breeches. Her hip bumped his and his own breeches suddenly felt too tight.

  After several moments, they approached a large grouping of roses. "Now these are roses," he said, proud of himself, and relieved to think of something besides her.

  "Correct," she said, smiling. "They're my personal favorite."

  "What do they mean?" he asked, curious in spite of himself. If someone had told him a week ago that he'd be wandering through a garden in the middle of the night discussing flowers with a virginal country spinster who somehow inspired a wealth of lustful urges, he would have laughed himself into a seizure. Yet here he was. And most amazing of all, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  "Roses have many meanings, depending on their color and how in bloom the buds are."

  Reaching out, she snapped a yellow bud from a tall bush. She stripped its small stem of thorns, inhaled its sweet fragrance, and handed it to him.

  "For you," she said with a smile.

  "Me?" he asked in surprise, accepting the stem. To the best of his memory, no one had ever given him a flower before. He lowered his head to the bloom and inhaled. The bright yellow flower smelled exactly like Hayley. "What does a yellow rose stand for?"

  "Friendship."

  Stephen raised his head and their gazes locked. "Friendship?"

  She nodded and smiled. "Yes. We're friends, are we not?"

  He stared at her for several long seconds, transfixed by the sight of her. Shiny waves of chestnut hair rippled over her shoulders, falling down her back in a silken mass. Several tendrils escaped the simple ribbon holding the curls away from the loveliest face he had ever seen. Her expressive eyes gazed at him in an open, warm, and artless manner. When was the last time a woman had looked at him in such a way? Never. No one had ever looked at the Marquess of Glenfield like that.

  The women he knew, the shallow females of the ton, looked at him with calculated interest, plotting ways to lure him into buying expensive baubles, scheming to become his marchioness, and offering him their charms in the bedchamber in exchange. No woman had ever offered him friendship.

  He cleared his throat. "Considering the fact that you saved my life, and have kindly opened your home to me during my recuperation, I would certainly have to agree that you are my friend," he finally said. "I hope someday I may repay you for all your kindness."

  "Oh, that's not in the least bit necessary. I greatly enjoy your company. It's so nice to have another adult to talk to." She cast him a grinning sidelong glance. "Besides, I've grown quite attached to Pericles. You realize your horse is the real reason we allowed you to stay."

  "Then I shall have to thank him," he responded with a smile.

  They stood for a moment, simply looking at each other, and Stephen found himself entranced. With the moonlight gleaming against her hair, highlighting her creamy skin, it almost appeared as if a halo surrounded her. She looked like an aqua-eyed angel dressed in a linen shirt and breeches.

  She reached out and touched his sleeve. "Are you all right, Mr. Barrettson? You look disturbed."

  Stephen glanced down, his gaze riveted on her hand resting against his forearm. A warm shiver rippled through him, setting his blood to humming. Why did this woman's slightest touch have such a disturbing, profound effect on his senses?

  "Mr. Barrettson?"

  The concerned note in her voice yanked Stephen out of his reverie. He raised his eyes, all but mesmerized by the young woman in front of him. Her brow was furrowed in obvious concern for his well-being.

  "I'm fine, Miss Albright," he replied softly, his gaze wandering slowly downward until it settled on the flower tucked in her buttonhole. Reaching out, he touched a petal with one finger. "What flower did you say this was?"

  "
A pansy."

  "And what do pansies stand for?"

  "They mean 'you occupy my thoughts.'"

  "'You occupy my thoughts…'" he repeated. Seemingly of their own volition, his feet moved, drawing him a step closer to her, and then another, until only several inches separated them. He'd half expected her to retreat, but she didn't move; only stared at him with wide eyes.

  The tips of her breasts brushed his shirt every time she inhaled. An image of her crushed against his length flashed through his mind, and his entire body quickened in response. He needed to step away from her. Immediately.

  Instead, he gently brushed a wayward curl from her cheek and discovered that his fingers were not quite steady. "You're occupying my thoughts right now," he said, his voice coming out in a husky rasp.

  "I … I am?"

  "Yes." Stephen's gaze probed hers. He wanted very much to kiss her, but to his utter amazement he was experiencing an unprecedented battle with his conscience, an inner voice he'd thought long dead.

  You'll be gone from here in a fortnight. Don't risk hurting a woman who has shown you nothing but kindness. She's an innocent country girl who doesn't know how to play the sophisticated games of love you're used to. Leave her alone!

  Stephen was just about to perform an incredible, not to mention previously unheard of, noble gesture and move away from her, when her gaze drifted down to his mouth. He could practically feel the soft caress against his lips. Stifling a groan, he mentally buried his conscience in a deep grave and leaned forward until a mere hairsbreadth separated their lips.

  His inner voice made one last valiant effort to speak, but he shoved it firmly aside and brushed his mouth across her full lips.

  That first gentle caress, really nothing more than a mingling of breaths, left Stephen unsatisfied and hungry for more. Cupping her face between his palms, he kissed her again, his lips teasing, circling, tasting hers.

  Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't the flood of sensations that engulfed him.

  His blood rushed through his veins, pounding through his system like a raging river. Her flowery, feminine scent surrounded him, invading his senses, drugging him. A breathy, pleasure-filled sigh escaped her, and his body tightened in response.

  Heat vibrated through him, and when she gently placed her palms against his chest, he knew she would feel his hammering heart.

  Lost in her, he deepened their kiss, running the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips. She opened up to him like a blooming flower, welcoming his invasion of her silky mouth. She tasted warm, and indescribably delightful.

  The instant their tongues touched, Stephen felt her melt against him like wax to a flame. Emitting a low moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with equal fervor.

  Her abandoned response staggered him, stealing what small control he still possessed. His loins leapt to life with a tingling throb that quickly grew into a pulsing ache. When she sweetly offered him her tongue, rubbing it slowly against his own, he groaned deep in his chest. Crushing her to him, he captured her lips in a series of long, slow, drugging kisses that sent shock waves sizzling through his entire system.

  He untied the ribbon binding her silky tresses and dropped the strip of satin to the ground. Gathering the soft, fragrant waves in his hands, he entwined the strands around his fingers while his mouth plundered hers with a searing, relentless hunger.

  "Stephen…" she sighed in his ear when he bent his head to kiss the side of her neck.

  Hearing her moan his name in that passion-thickened voice forced another deep, aching groan from his chest. He pressed hot, urgent kisses down the long column of her neck, and when her shirt impeded his progress, he untangled his fingers from her hair and made quick work of the top several buttons.

  His lips caressed the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat, then dipped lower to the sloping curves of her breasts swelling over the lacy top of her chemise. Stephen inhaled deeply, then touched his tongue to her velvety, rose-scented skin. Dear God, she felt like an angel and tasted like heaven.

  While Hayley clung to his shoulders, Stephen glided his lips slowly up her throat. When his mouth once again found hers, she parted her lips, welcoming the urgent thrust of his tongue with an answering thrust of her own.

  He felt as if he'd been set on fire. His palms wandered restlessly up and down her back, slipping down to cup her buttocks, hauling her up tight against his straining arousal. The feel of her full breasts crushed against his chest, nipples hardened into pinpoint crests, strained his body to the breaking point.

  His control, an aspect of himself he could always rely upon, hovered on the edge of oblivion. His loins felt as tight as a fist, aching and heavy. His hands trembled with the urgent need to cup her breasts … to wander lower … inside her breeches.

  Unless he planned to divest her of her clothes and lay her down right here in the rose garden, they had to stop. Now.

  With great reluctance and no small amount of willpower, he raised his head and dragged a ragged breath into his lungs. He looked at her, unable to squelch his surge of masculine satisfaction at her bemused, desire-filled gaze.

  "Good heavens," she said in a breathless whisper. "I had no idea kissing could be so … so…" Her voice trailed off into nothingness.

  "So … what?" Stephen asked in a husky rasp he didn't recognize as his own voice. He kept her locked against him with one arm wrapped around her waist and brushed a dark curl from her flushed cheek with his other hand.

  "So thrilling. So intoxicating." She sighed. "So absolutely wonderful."

  "Has no one ever kissed you before?" Her unguarded, tremulous response convinced him she was innocent, but she was hardly fresh from the schoolroom. Surely someone had kissed her.

  "Only Jeremy Popplemore."

  "Who is Jeremy Popplemore?"

  "A young man from the village. We were betrothed for a short time."

  He felt like someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water on him. "Betrothed?"

  "Yes."

  "And he kissed you?" Stephen asked, growing more inexplicably annoyed by the minute.

  Hayley nodded. "Oh, yes. Several times, in fact."

  "What happened to him? Why didn't you marry?"

  She hesitated before answering. "When my father died, I informed Jeremy I wouldn't leave the children once he and I wed, and he experienced a change of heart. He made it clear that while he cared for me, he had no desire to take on my entire family. He urged me to leave the children in Aunt Olivia's care, but I refused." She shook her head. "Good heavens, Aunt Olivia requires nearly as much care as Callie does. After my refusal, Jeremy traveled to the Continent. I have not seen him since, although I understand he recently returned to Halstead."

  "I see." Stephen's gaze probed hers. Her eyes clearly expressed her feelings, and he easily read the hurt reflected in them.

  A sudden desire to smash Jeremy Pop-whatever in his selfish face washed over him. The thought of another man kissing her, his hands touching her, filled Stephen with an unwelcome but no less powerful rush of jealous possessiveness.

  "He certainly taught you how to kiss." The bastard. His frown tightened into a glowering scowl and hot anger pumped through him. Had the bastard taught her anything else?

  Her eyes widened. "Oh, but Jeremy didn't … I mean, he never. We never…"

  "Never what?"

  "Jeremy never kissed me as you just did," she blurted out.

  The violent urge to smash Jeremy Pop-whatever's face lessened considerably. "No?"

  "No. You're the only one who…" She dropped her chin.

  Compassion tightened his chest as he thought of her sweetly offering her heart to a callous fool, who refused her because she was too kind and loving to abandon her young siblings to the care of a dotty aunt.

  He was just about to tell her that Jeremy Popincart was a fool when she gasped.

  "Heavens! My shirt!" Turning her back on him, she immediately set about adjusting her clothes. "
Dear God, what you must think of me."

  I think you're wonderful. The thought sprang unbidden into Stephen's mind, catching him off guard. He'd never thought such a thing about any woman. Wonderful? Damn it, he must be losing his mind.

  When she turned around, Stephen stifled a groan. She'd fastened her shirt incorrectly, and her hair lay about her shoulders in wild disarray. The urge to kiss her again slammed into his midsection, rendering him speechless.

  "I must go," she said, her voice sounding one step from panic. "Good night." She ran down the path as if the devil himself pursued her.

  Stephen expelled a pent-up breath. Her scent still surrounded him. He could still feel the imprint of her body on his.

  Damn.

  He'd gone out in the garden to relieve his troubled mind. Now his mind was more troubled than ever, and on top of that his body ached with relentless need. What the hell was I thinking?

  But he knew what he was thinking.

  And now that he'd tasted her, touched her, he didn't know how to stop thinking about it.

  As far as he was concerned, resting and relaxing in the countryside was highly overrated.

  In fact, all this relaxation would probably kill him.

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Knowing sleep was out of the question after his interlude in the garden with Hayley, Stephen walked slowly back to the house and entered the library. He lit a lamp then headed directly for the brandy decanters where he tossed back two drinks in quick succession.

  The potent liquor stole through his veins, relaxing him somewhat. Relieved, he poured another generous drink and flopped down in one of the wing chairs near the fire. What the hell am I doing?

  He took another sip of the brandy and realized with no small amount of chagrin that his hands were not quite steady. He felt hot, bothered, and damned uncomfortable in his tight breeches.

  He'd known kissing Hayley was a mistake, but for some unfathomable reason he had been unable to stop himself. There was something about her—something he could not define—that attracted him like a moth to a flame. Bloody hell, the woman left him shaking.

  He sipped his brandy, trying to banish the memory of her in his arms. He failed miserably. She was soft. So incredibly soft and responsive. He could almost hear her sighing his name, her eyes darkening with budding passion.