by Trisha Telep
She hoisted a brow. “Indeed?”
“Aye. In fact, there’s another law that once you pick a man’s roses, you’re obliged to stroll through the rest of the gardens with him.”
She pinned him with a stern stare, one rendered far less threatening by the twitching of her lips. “I know a Banbury tale when I hear one, Mr Broderick.”
“Ian. And I’m certain you do, but ’tis the truth I speak. Lord Marlington himself declared it a law.”
“For what reason?”
“Why, so the other flowers wouldn’t be jealous of the roses, of course. Ye wouldn’t want the other blooms to suffer from neglect, would you, Miss …?”
He swore something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain. “Mallory. Sophia Mallory.”
Sophia Mallory. Her name echoed through his mind like a siren’s call, and he suddenly knew precisely how Ulysses had felt – inexorably drawn, unable to resist. “’Tis a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mallory.”
“Thank you, although it’s Mrs Mallory.”
Disappointment crushed him. Of course she would be married, would belong to someone else. While Ian had done many things he wasn’t necessarily proud of, and he’d told her to always take what your heart desired, he wasn’t a man to pursue another man’s wife – no matter how much he might want her. Still, he couldn’t rescind his invitation at this point. “Your husband is welcome to join us––”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He passed away several years ago.”
Ian’s conscience kicked him at the wave of relief washing through him. Damn it, he shouldn’t feel such joy that any man was dead. Especially as his own loss had left him gutted – until he’d seen Sophia laughing and spinning in his meadow. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and lightly grasped her hand. Their palms met and warmth spread through him. “I’m sorry. I suffered a similar such loss and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.”
She stilled and for several seconds he thought she meant to pull away, wouldn’t have blamed her for doing so. But instead she gently squeezed his hand. “My sympathies for your loss.”
He would have thanked her, but bloody hell, the sensation of her skin against his robbed him of his ability to speak. Instead he brushed his thumb over the silky smooth back of her hand and simply nodded.
Her gaze locked on his and something that looked like heat kindled in her eyes, giving him hope that she felt this … whatever it was grabbing him by the throat. Had his very life depended upon it, he couldn’t have looked away. And he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to release her when she gently withdrew her hand. Indeed it required a Herculean effort not to snatch her hand back and press it against his chest, so she could feel his heart pounding, could know how deeply she affected him.
“You’re certain the earl wouldn’t object to you showing his private gardens to a stranger?”
He had to swallow twice to locate his voice. “He’d insist upon it – unhappy flowers wilt and if there’s one thing that makes the earl even more crabbity than usual, ’tis wilted posies. He’d issue you the invitation himself were he in residence. Indeed, he’ll have my head if his blooms are withered when he returns.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I can only hope ye’ll obey the law and save me from his wrath.”
Again she hesitated and Ian forced himself to remain quiet, to not give in to the unprecedented and uncharacteristic urge to drop to his knees and beg her join him. To spend the day with him. The day? He nearly laughed. More like a fortnight. A month. A decade. He wasn’t certain what had come over him, but whatever it was, there was no denying this fierce, overwhelming desire to spend more time with her.
“Very well, Mr Broderick. I shall save you this once.”
As they walked along he pointed out different plants and regaled her with humourous stories of life in Melrose, loving the sound of her laughter, enjoying her tales of England, every moment strengthening his attraction to her. When they paused by a trellis draped with fragrant roses, he paused and looked into her intoxicating eyes. “These are Marlington Hall’s finest roses. Would you like to gather some, Mrs Mallory?
She studied him and he tried his damnedest keep his expression blank to hide the want burning inside him, but wasn’t certain he succeeded, wasn’t certain it was even possible to do so. Wariness flickered in her eyes, followed by curiosity, and then … then there was no mistaking the flare of desire that kindled in her gaze, a heat that stole his breath. Stole his heart.
“Are you trying to tempt me with your roses … Ian?”
Bloody hell, the mere sound of his name on her lips drove every intelligent thought from his head. He searched his empty mind for something witty, for a clever rejoinder, but the blatant truth simply spilled out. “Yes. Are you tempted, Sophia?”
For an answer she held out her hand …
* * *
He’d wrapped his fingers around hers, a gesture that marked the start of the most incredible, happiest, bloody amazing six weeks of his life. Sophia became his friend. His lover. The axis upon which his world revolved. They’d stayed at the small secluded hunting lodge on his property, a place he’d never shared with anyone. She assumed it was the groundskeeper cottage, and he didn’t disabuse her of the notion. She didn’t speak of her past, didn’t ask about his. Instead they focused solely on each other and the moment. He wanted to tell her the truth, but the time never seemed right, even less so the longer they spent together. But one night, when her time in Scotland was nearing its end, after making love with a passion unlike anything he’d ever known, he watched her sleep and could no longer rationalize his deception. After vowing to tell her the truth the next morning, he’d gone to sleep. And woken up alone. She left behind only a brief note – and a man who was determined to find her. Little had he known how difficult that quest would prove. Because as he soon learned, she’d been equally dishonest with him about who she was.
Looking at her now, the darkness cloaking them, Ian fought to align his conflicting emotions. His profound relief that he’d finally found her. His anger at the way she’d left him. The enervating hurt that she could leave him. It didn’t help assuage his pain that rather than being pleased by his presence, she looked distressed and desperate to flee.
To ensure that she didn’t, he grasped her upper arm, then pulled her away from the arc of light spilling from the windows, behind topiary potted in an enormous stone urn.
“What are you doing here, Ian?” She tried to pull free of his hold, but he didn’t let go.
“I’m here to see you, Sophia. Or should I say Lady Winterbourne?” Before she could reply, he continued, “Nay, not Lady Winterbourne – that’s far too formal after the intimacies we shared. Do you recall those intimacies, Sophia? Those times when I was so deep inside your body you said it felt as though I touched your heart?”
She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him, and all the hurt and anger, frustration and confusion that had consumed him since that morning he’d woken up alone rushed to the surface and he stepped closer, forcing her back until her shoulders touched the rough stone.
“Look at me, damn it.” She complied with obvious reluctance, then regarded him with a dispassionate expression he’d never seen from her before. “Yes, I remember,” she said, her voice matching that blank look in her eyes. “You know who I am, my title. That I wasn’t honest with you. You’re obviously angry––”
“Yes, I bloody well am angry, but not because you’re a countess.” By God, it was all he could do not to shake her. “I don’t give a damn if you’re a scullery maid or a royal princess.”
A frown puckered her brow. “Then why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” An incredulous sound escaped him. “Surely it can’t surprise you that I’d come after you, especially after you left with no explanation––”
“I wrote you a note.”
“Aye. And a bloody inadequate note it was.”
“It said everything tha
t needed to be said.”
“Indeed?” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew the missive she’d left, and held it up to her. He didn’t need to look at the words – they felt etched in blood on his heart. “‘Dear Ian, please forgive my abrupt departure, but it is for the best. I’ll always treasure our time together and wish you every happiness.’” He crumbled the paper in his fist and leaned forwards until mere inches separated their faces. “I want to know how you could possibly think those words were in any way adequate after what we’d shared. Or why you leaving was ‘for the best’.”
Instead of appearing in any way cowed, she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no intention of answering any of your questions until you answer mine, the first of which is how did you gain entrance to this soiree?”
Reluctant admiration at her courage in the face of his ire washed through him and he leaned back. “I sent Lord Benningfield a note informing him I’d be arriving in London this evening and requested an invitation, which he kindly provided.”
She frowned. “Why would he do that?”
“Why wouldn’t he? He’d hardly turn away the Earl of Marlington.”
“I agree. But surely he’d turn away his groundskeeper …” Her words trailed off and realization dawned in her eyes. “Dear God. You’re not … you can’t be––”
“Ah, but I am – the crabbitty curmudgeon himself.” He offered her a formal bow. “Lord Marlington, at your service.”
Three
Feeling as if the flagstones shifted beneath her feet, Sophia stared in disbelief at the man she’d unsuccessfully tried to forget for the last six months. The man she’d had to force herself to leave. “The Earl’s name is William Ferguson,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Aye. And I am he – William Ian Broderick Ferguson.”
Her gaze drifted over his perfectly tailored formal attire – garments that clearly cost a fortune, and suddenly things about him that had seemed incongruous with a groundskeeper clicked into place. His love of literature and poetry. His regal bearing. His expertise at riding. The ease with which he conversed on any subject. Why hadn’t she seen the clues? No doubt because she was keeping her own secrets and therefore hadn’t wanted to too closely examine any discrepancies in his behaviour lest they lead to questions about hers. The fact that she’d been so utterly besotted with him clearly hadn’t helped her thought processes. Even as she realized he now spoke the truth, part of her still couldn’t quite believe it.
“You lied to me,” she said, not certain if she were more angry at him for his deception or at herself for not suspecting the truth.
His brows shot upward. “Now isn’t that a wee bit o’ the pot calling the kettle black – Lady Winterbourne.”
Botheration, he had a point, which only served to annoy her further. “I told you my true name. I merely omitted my title.”
“As did I.”
“I had reasons, valid reasons for not telling you I was a countess.”
“Just as I had my valid reasons for not telling you I was the earl.” He stepped closer and Sophia drew in a quick breath, one she instantly regretted as it filled her head with his scent … that intoxicating mixture of warm skin and sandalwood and something elusive that belonged to Ian alone. It required all her will not to throw her arms around him and bury her face against his neck and simply breathe him in. Tell him how much she’d missed him. Explain how it had required her every ounce of her fortitude to leave him. How she hadn’t been the same since the day she’d met him. Nor since the day she’d left him.
“I was on the verge of telling ye the truth, but when I awoke, you were gone.” He cupped her face between his hands and Sophia’s heart nearly stalled at the intensity of his gaze, at the hurt and desire and confusion burning in his eyes. “How, Sophia? How could you leave me like that?”
The question sounded tortured, and panic filled her at how badly she wanted give in to the yearning ambushing her. At how easy it would be to forget all the reasons she’d ended their affair so abruptly. Summoning a cool demeanour she was far from feeling, she said, “We both knew I had to return to England.”
“Aye, but not for another fortnight. And earlier that last night we’d discussed you remaining longer.”
Yes. Which had precipitated her leaving … while she still had the heart to do so.
A muted peal of laughter reached her and she recalled the hundreds of guests just beyond the french windows. If she were found out here, alone with Ian … she shuddered at the thought of the scandal that would ensue – the very sort of scandal she’d left him to avoid.
“What we shared was lovely while it lasted, Ian,” she whispered in a rush, desperate to end this confrontation and get away before they were discovered – or before she gave in to the overwhelming need to touch him. “But we both knew it was only temporary. I’m truly sorry I hurt you. That was never my intention.”
“It may have started as temporary, but that changed very quickly, and you bloody well know it.” His eyes narrowed and she locked her knees not to shrink under his sharply assessing gaze. “Or are you trying to tell me that my feelings were one-sided all those weeks?”
“I’m trying tell you – again – that our … liaison of last summer is over. And now if you’ll excuse me––”
Her words chopped off with a gasp when he slapped his large palms against the stones on either side of her head, caging her in. “Liaison?” He pinned her in place with a look that simultaneously froze and heated her. “The woman standing in front of me is no’ the same woman who shared my bed, my home, my every bloody thought for all those weeks. Which means one of you is a damn liar. I’ll give you one chance – one chance, Sophia – to tell me which one of you is false before I find out for myself.”
“There is nothing to tell. I’m the same woman and––”
His mouth came down on hers, ending her words, the raw passion and naked need in his kiss obliterating her every thought. She tried to remain unresponsive, fought to keep her longing and desire contained, but they ripped through her, a razor sharp sword that sliced through her resolve and shredded her good intentions. He ran his tongue over her bottom lip and the battle was lost. With a groan she was helpless to contain, she wrapped her arms around his neck and parted her lips. And instantly felt as if she’d arrived home after an arduous journey.
He crushed her to him, deepening the kiss. The irresistible heat of his body surrounded her, and she rose up on her toes, desperate to get closer. With a sound that resembled a growl, he curved one large hand around her bottom, pressing her tighter against his hard arousal. Dear God, he felt so good. Tasted so good. And she’d missed him so much. Wanted him so badly.
He lifted his head, ending their kiss, and Sophia barely refrained from moaning in protest. Clinging to his broad shoulders, her head flopped weakly forward. His heartbeat thundered against her forehead, in unison with his rapid breaths beating warm against her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the recriminations falling upon her like bricks.
One kiss. That’s all it had taken for every one of her fine resolutions and good intentions to crumble to dust. For him to render her breathless. Boneless. Just as he had from that first moment she’d seen him in the meadow, when he’d stepped into a shaft of sunlight and utterly dazzled her. Her momentary fear at finding herself alone with a stranger in such an isolated spot vanished when she’d looked into his eyes.
While those beautiful dark blue depths clearly harboured secrets, they also reflected a vulnerability and sadness that told her without any words that he’d suffered great loss. As she’d suffered the same, she felt an instant kinship with him, one that went far deeper than the physical attraction she’d felt. Between his commanding height, muscular physique, thick, unruly hair, bold features, and mischievous grin, he was nothing short of spectacular.
In spite of the fact that at five and twenty he was twelve years her junior, she’d been unable to resist him
– an affliction that given her current breathless, boneless state, clearly hadn’t lessened one iota. She’d tried so hard these last six months to forget him, the magic between them, bury her feelings, and she’d thought she’d succeeded. One kiss proved she’d completely failed.
Filled with self-directed reproach, Sophia pulled in an unsteady breath, then opened her eyes and raised her head. And found Ian studying her with grim satisfaction.
“Well, that answered that question,” he said in his hoarse Scottish burr. He leaned forwards to nuzzle her neck with his warm lips, rushing a sigh of pleasure into her throat. How such a firm mouth could be so wickedly soft, she didn’t know.
“Caileag bhrèagha,” he murmured in Gaelic against her skin. “My beautiful girl. The girl I met in the meadow.” He lightly sucked on her sensitive skin, then with a tortured sound he raised his head. Framed her face between his palms. And regarded her through very serious eyes that burned with suppressed passion. “As much as I’m aching to continue this right here, right now, ’tis not the place.”
She flicked a glance towards the windows and gave a tight nod. Dear God, she was fortunate they hadn’t already been discovered. “Not the place,” she concurred, “and discretion is called for. We cannot return to the ballroom together.”
He briefly glanced at her mouth then nodded. “One look at us and even the most casual observer would know we shared more than conversation out here and I’ve no wish to give rise to any speculation that could harm your reputation. There’s no need to return to the ballroom at all. My carriage awaits us in the mews.”
Without another word, he took her hand and led her down the terrace steps. Questions bounced through Sophia’s mind, begging to be voiced, but she shoved them aside. All that mattered now was escaping the party without being noticed.
Once in the garden, she followed him along the shadows near the high stone wall surrounding the property. His warm, strong fingers remained wrapped firmly around hers, guiding her safely over the uneven ground and shooting pleasurable tingles up her arm. Mental images of his big, sun-browned, calloused hands flashed unbidden through her mind. Removing her clothes. Exploring every inch of her skin. Teasing her feminine folds. Soaping her body as she lounged in his brass bathtub. Feeding her morsels of food he bought in the village. Bringing her more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed possible …
