“M-m-my what?” she asked, unable to pull her gaze from the earl’s intense glare.
He lifted his soil-covered hands and pointed to a rather rumpled plant. Her gaze fixed on the wilted, silvery gray leaves and the mounds of fresh soil heaped around its base.
It appeared as though he were moving the plant—or digging it up.
“I-I-I don’t know what—”
“For one claiming to have a great interest in plants, I would have thought you a bit more diligent in their care.” His tone was sharp, his words direct, and his face one of utter disappointment.
Her heart caught in her chest, her hands trembling with shock. “But I-I-I did nothing, my lord.”.
“Precisely. You left this poor plant bruised and battered, tossed to the side, with little thought to its care. It is fortunate I stumbled upon the licorice root—”
“You know what it is? I-I-I did not think you held an interest in plants.” Indeed, the night before last, he had claimed ignorance in the field, admitting his lack of knowledge in plant identification.
Yet, here he was, correctly naming a crumpled plant.
“One does not need to possess an interest in plants to properly identify a species of flora.”
“But the evening prior, you were unable to distinguish between f-f-feverfew and chamomile.”
“Yes, until someone suggested books as the source of their knowledge.” He stood, brushing the earth off his hands and onto his buff-colored breeches, leaving a trail of dirt on the light-colored surface. “Did you know Plumburn’s library is well-stocked with books on precisely this subject? I cannot claim to know any other library so thorough in its collection of books on plant identification.”
“Books,” Henrietta muttered, unable to say anything more. Blood pounded in her ears. He had ventured into the library? To seek out books based on her recommendation?
And even more impressive, utilized his knowledge to correctly identify the ill-abused plant? Her entire body numbed with shock. Never had anyone placed any merit in her interests. At least no one outside of her father.
“Yes, books,” said the earl flatly. “In particular, one opened to a page detailing the uses of licorice root.”
She blinked. “I came to harvest peppermint and marshmallow, along with a few other herbs taken from my supply.”
A scarred brow lifted over the black cloth covering his eye. “You deny uprooting this plant? When a book, the same item you referenced two evenings prior, can be found open to a page identifying this very plant and suggesting evidence to your crime?”
“Are you accusing me of m-m-malevolence?”
He prowled toward her, his walk as lithe as a cat cornering its prey. “You are a guest at a party I initiated for the sole purpose of acquiring a wife. As such, you, along with your sisters and three other misses, compete for my hand. Why not temporarily remove a girl or two by striking them with an illness to increase your odds of being selected?”
Her chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The nerve of the man! He believed her capable of harming another? To win him as a prize?
Plumburn was the treasure she sought. Not some conceited, self-absorbed earl intent on accusing her of a crime she did not commit.
Why, she was almost of a mind to give up the blasted books, the cherished paintings, the beloved herb garden to Lady Georgiana or Miss Saxton. They could have the brute who came with them. Henrietta wanted no part of him.
But she wanted the damn garden. And the books. And the paintings.
She balled her fists and ground her teeth, her tongue unable to voice her objections, and turned away from the earl. Her mind racing, her blood boiling, she stalked down the path and back toward the kitchens.
A heavy hand gripped her shoulder, halting her mid-stride. “If I have offended you—”
“If?” She shrugged off his hand and turned to face the scoundrel. “You spout false accusations with no evidence, other than an open book, and then suggest I-I-I wish another harm to further my chance to become a future countess, and you d-d-dare say if?”
“What else am I to presume?”
“That I-I-I have a conscience, sir. And a sound moral guide. I-I-I have no ill designs on the other ladies present. And while I-I-I do not deny I covet the role of countess, I-I-I covet the position of Plumburn’s mistress above the title of your wife.”
The nostrils on his straight nose flared. “It appears I have made a mistake.”
As apologies went, the earl’s was lacking. His words were not filled with remorse but heated with anger, laced with a bitterness she had not earned nor deserved.
“You have.” Henrietta tilted her chin. She brushed past him and bent over the bedraggled plant. The leaves, while bruised and limp, were still identifiable as licorice, as the earl had correctly indicated.
She could not, however, afford to be impressed by his quick study and knowledge retention. Someone was uprooting a powerful plant and doing little to hide the fact. Licorice had a vast array of healing properties, but could be dangerous when used incorrectly. If too much was digested a multitude of discomforts could be inflicted, some more severe than others. Proper identification of an herb was one thing. Knowing its medicinal properties was another.
As much as she loathed giving credence to the earl’s assumptions, it was possible someone was gathering flora for malicious intent. As he had been so crass to point out, the ladies present were all vying for his hand, save for her sisters, of course. But, it was also possible someone was simply gathering them for their personal use, noble or otherwise. Perhaps the individual suffered from a digestive disorder too embarrassing to divulge, or a rash on the skin wrought by an irritation one wished to keep hidden.
Or worse, one did not fully understand the uses of licorice and were inflicting unnecessary duress on themselves.
Her stomach twisted. She bit her lip and fingered the pinnate leaves. “Some of my supplies are missing.” Her gaze did not leave the plant.
His grave baritone voice filled the garden. “Your supplies?”
“The plants I-I-I had gathered in my basket two evenings past. I have gone over the contents thrice.” She lifted her head to peer at him. “Multiple pieces are gone.”
“Has anyone had access to your supplies?” he asked, his voice lowering.
“I-I-I have a small room in the kitchen allotted to my personal use. Few have access to its contents and even fewer know of its existence.” She stood to her full height, just beneath the earl’s eyes. “I-I-I do not know what game is afoot, but should the plants be used in the wrong combination or administered in large proportions, severe complications could result.”
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his jaw, leaving a dark smudge against his fair skin. “It appears we have a mystery on our hands.”
She focused on the trail of earth on his face, momentarily forgetting the battered plant at her feet. “You have a bit of soil, there.” She pointed to the soft flesh just beneath her jaw.
He blinked, seeming startled by her observation. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dirt,” she repeated. “There.” She tapped her finger against her skin, indicating where his smudge resided.
He rubbed his palm against his throat, the soil on his hands making the spot worse.
Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “No, there. Do you have a handkerchief?”
He pulled a linen square from his waistcoat pocket, his eye never leaving hers. “You seem to have an affinity for my handkerchiefs, Lady Henrietta. I shall endeavor to have one on my person whenever I am expected in your company.”
Henrietta bit her lip, preventing a smile. “Yes, well, this time it is not I but you who require its use.” Taking his offering, she lifted it to his jaw and rubbed along the smooth expanse of skin, her blood pulsing loud in her ears.
His fingers slipped around her wrist, halting her movement. An entire swarm of butterflies fluttered in her stomach. His gaze locked onto hers, sending her heart into a ne
ar fit of palpitation. “I-I-I’m sorry—” she uttered, but her words were silenced with his mouth covering hers in a kiss.
…
God, did she feel good.
Simon’s mouth moved over hers, the full swell of her bottom lip catching between his teeth, sending thick swells of desire coursing through his veins. Five years he had denied himself womanly pleasures.
And now he sought to make up for lost time.
His fingers slipped through Henrietta’s hair, working loose the pins. The glossy strands fell cool and soft like silk against his hands.
He was on fire, his blood thundering loud in his ears. Heaven help him, he deepened the kiss as lust filled him with a hunger so intense he had to restrain himself, lest he bruise her delicate pout.
He wanted her, her innocence, her surprising resolve in the face of his accusations. But most of all, he wanted her to want him. And not the damn house.
Lady Henrietta gasped, her breath catching as he lifted his mouth to draw air. She pulled away, stepping backward, her fingers touching her swollen lips.
“My lord.” His handkerchief was bound tight in her grasp. Her gaze darted between him and the soiled square, confusion and disbelief contorting her elfin-like features.
He had been brash, heated, and crude in his behavior. He had no right to assert his will over her. And yet, he had been a man possessed, unable, and quite honestly unwilling to fight the baser urges flooding through him.
He ought to apologize. But no words came to his lips. She had openly stated her disinterest in him as a husband. She wanted Plumburn, and as she was a daughter of the former earl who had spent her youth here, he understood why.
But comprehension did not necessarily equal acceptance because he had taken her, anyway.
He was a beast, half a man undeserving of her attentions. His forceful kiss evidence enough his loutish reputation was well-earned. But, damn if he didn’t want to prove her wrong—like she did him, with her sincere insistence of innocence.
Truth be told, he had believed the open book a ploy to lure him into the gardens for a tryst, possibly followed with entrapment, were he to be caught in an uncompromising position with any of the eligible misses. Anne had been one for games, her desperation for his attentions inflaming her to provoke him with trickery.
Curious, he had gone out to the gardens to find not Lady Henrietta, as he had presumed, but a plant thrown to the side in haste. His thoughts had veered toward further suspicion when he identified the plant as the same one in the book: licorice. An herb with healing properties, yet toxic if administered in high doses.
With Lady Georgiana’s sudden illness and Lady Isabella’s following, he had immediately assumed the worst. Anne had been capable of such plotting and animosity.
Lady Henrietta, however, was not. The anger flaring in her eyes at his accusation vindicated her.
“Forgive me,” he uttered, forcing the words. He didn’t want her forgiveness. He wanted her small hands on his body, clutching his flesh as she writhed with pleasure from his lovemaking.
Damn.
She nodded, her gaze falling to the path. She looked so lost, so confused, he ached to hold her in his arms.
But he was not what she wanted.
“I acted the fool,” he continued. “I did not—”
“Please.” Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Do not make it worse.”
Worse? Dear God. Was it possible she thought him inept? Lacking in skill? Or was she so horrified a man with only one eye had sought her affections?
“I-I-I must ready for dinner. The hour grows late.”
“Lady Henrietta, please, allow me—”
“You have done enough, my lord.” She held up her palm to halt his advance.
He did not infringe on her space, however desperately he wished to exonerate himself.
“Why?” she whispered.
Simon frowned. He had expected her to turn and leave, eager to be rid of his presence. But she held her position, standing in front of him, her forehead creasing. “Why what?” he asked.
“Why did you kiss me?”
Never had a woman questioned his advances. He was momentarily flummoxed with her unexpected inquiry. “Because I desired to do so,” he said truthfully.
The creases on her forehead deepened. “Y-y-y—” She huffed and wet her lips, nearly undoing him with the quick flick of her tongue. “Oh, bother.” Lady Henrietta threw down his handkerchief and stepped forward. Tilting her head upward, she stood on her toes, and placed her lips over his.
Shock disabled his ability to move, let alone breathe. Flutter-light against his mouth, her lips touched his, as though a butterfly danced across them. She tasted like honey, sweet and familiar. He was intoxicated, drunk on her inexperience, and enflamed by her boldness. His immobility was gone as quickly as it came, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close.
Her lips lifted, pausing as he ran his hands up her back and the curve of her neck. No doubt he frightened her with his intensity, his unsated hunger.
Then she nipped at his lip and pressed harder, seeming eager to meet the passion he wished her to reciprocate.
Blood thrummed in his ears, deafening him to all but the seductive little moans escaping from Lady Henrietta’s lips.
Jesus.
He pressed his palms against her cheeks, thrusting his fingers through the rich fall of her hair, deepening the kiss. His breath was ragged, his cock hard, and his mind void of everything but the pleasure wrought by the pressure of Lady Henrietta pressed against him, warm and supple in his arms.
She broke the kiss and peered up at him, her eyes dark and hooded. “I-I-I—”
Simon pressed his forehead to hers. “I fear I have kept you from readying for dinner, Lady Henrietta.”
He pulled back, releasing her from his hold and leaving her before his body willed his mind to do what he really wished—take her right there in the gardens.
Chapter Eight
Lord, forgive her.
She was a horrible person. A horrible, driven and desperate person. But a horrible person, nonetheless.
And one lacking a father’s direction.
For, had he been alive, he would have surely advised Henrietta not to go against all her inhibitions and kiss a man, especially one tainted with scandal and in possession of a reputation so dark, even the devil cringed at his name.
But had her father been alive, she would not be in her present circumstance, desperate to keep his memories alive through acquirement of their ancestral home. Then again, if her father lived and the current earl kissed her as he had—as though his last breath depended upon it—she still would have defied convention and kissed him back.
Something had stirred deep within her with the earl’s intimate touch. Something carnal. Something she wished to explore if only to see what would come as a result.
Because I desired to do so.
A shiver of excitement ran down her spine.
“You look different.”
Henrietta blinked. Sarah sat beside her, eying her with a speculative air as their shared maid pinned her sister’s locks, readying her for dinner.
“Oh?” Henrietta stared into the vanity looking glass, praying none of the dirt from the earl’s hands remained on her skin. Nothing appeared different. Her eyes were the same, still the color of brandy, as her father had often complimented. Her sloped nose occupied its same space, and even her lips had diminished from the full swollen pout, due to the earl’s advances, to their quite ordinary shape.
“Yes,” Sarah said definitively. “Different. Though I cannot place what is different…or why.” One of her dark brows lifted.
Was it possible a kiss had the potential to change one’s appearance? Henrietta touched a hand to the delicate crucifix dangling between the swells of her breasts.
Albina had insisted Henrietta wear pink for the evening’s meal, likely because the dress was the most revealing in her armoire. A scooped and generous neckline amp
ly displayed her fuller chest, the light rose color of the gown bringing a delicate flush of pink to her cheeks. No doubt the color of her gown was to be blamed for Sarah’s speculation—and nothing more.
“My gown,” Henrietta said. “It is of a different shade than my usual selection.”
Sarah snorted. “No. It is not the gown. It is…your air. The way you carry yourself. You seem more confident somehow.”
“Lady Georgiana reports a turn in her health. Her throat is no longer swollen. My tea seems to have brought her some relief.”
Sarah winced, the maid tugging on a strand of her hair too exuberantly. “You have rendered many tonics before and they have never made you appear thus. It is almost as if you’ve taken on a sort of glow.”
“The candles, then. They are beeswax, and not the usual tallow we utilize.”
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“I see it too.” Albina stepped toward them, her hazel-green eyes highlighted by the pale sea-foam color of her gown. “You are a woman changed.”
Henrietta stood, pushing away from the vanity. “You are both ridiculous. I am simply proud of my accomplishment and delighted by Lady Georgiana’s recovery.”
Sarah sat still, poised at the looking glass, until the maid finished and left the room. She then turned, directing her assessing gaze to Henrietta. “He kissed you.”
Henrietta’s palms dampened. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“She isn’t.” Albina strode forward, her face split wide with a grin. “You shared a kiss with the earl.”
“I did not,” Henrietta lied. Her gaze darted about the small room, her fingers clenching the fine drape of her gown. “I am simply distracted. As I said, Lady Georgiana’s recovery—”
“Did you come upon him in the garden again?” Sarah asked.
“The Earl of Amhurst?”
“No, Mr. Livingston,” Sarah quipped. “Of course, I mean the earl.”
“Well, I—”
“Goodness,” Albina breathed. “Was he as accomplished as his reputation recommends?”
“Albina,” Henrietta gasped. Her hands had turned clammy. No doubt from the rapid beating of her heart and shortness of breath. “I did come across the earl in the gardens—but with his fingers deep in dirt.”
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