by Lower, Becky
“You must have been following to the letter the guidelines the Society has developed. In fact, tonight is a bit of a cause for celebration for you as well as a celebration of the American in our midst.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” Violet’s voice quavered.
Lord Weymouth took hold of Violet’s hand, and Parker noticed her tremble. A hot bolt of jealousy seared its way through his body. This man, this lord, had the ability to make every one of Violet’s dreams come true. All Parker had to offer was a new beginning. She’d have to start over with her work should she choose to come with him to America, throwing years of exacting science away on a whim.
Lord Weymouth didn’t relinquish her hand. “I have a missive from the Royal Horticultural Society. They’ve asked me to personally extend to you the invitation to become part of their lecture tour this summer. They’re most impressed with your work.”
Parker couldn’t tell if her tremor when Lord Weymouth touched her was due to the invitation from the Royal Horticultural Society he dangled, or due to true interest in the man himself. After all, he was a baron, and marriage to him would be quite a feather in her cap. By the way their host eyed Violet, as if she were a prime slice of meat and he the stealthy prey, Parker didn’t stand a chance. Especially when he noticed tears sparkling in her eyes.
“My Lord, are you certain they want me to be a lecturer? I feel as if I’m still learning.” Violet’s voice shook. All her dreams were coming true. He truly didn’t stand a chance.
• • •
Violet’s stomach knotted when Lord Weymouth placed his hand over hers at dinner. She’d thought the evening with Parker and the baron would be a disaster when she’d first found out about her required involvement. Then, the incident with Parker in the greenhouse added to her discomfort, and now, Lord Weymouth had opened the door to new possibilities for her, both with his access to the Royal Horticultural Society and, if she hadn’t been mistaken, his display of a romantic interest in her. But then, she had proven herself to be a dunce time and again when it came to understanding men, so quite possibly she had mistaken his glances.
At least she hoped that to be the case. She studied him discreetly while at dinner. His dark hair had begun to thin on top, but she supposed that because he had the title, most women would overlook his sparse head of hair. He was not overly tall, yet his patrician features made him appear much taller. Could she possibly bend her mind to find him appealing as a suitor? She didn’t think so, at least not when she compared him to Parker, a very tall man with a full head of dark hair. And blue eyes, not brown, like Lord Weymouth’s. And like Davey’s.
No wonder the succulent meal offered held no appeal. She delicately cut her portion of duck, chased her peas across the plate, and buried her fork in her mashed potatoes. The plum pudding finally appeared, signaling an end to the formal dinner. Violet breathed a sigh of relief, but then her breath caught in her throat as she recollected the second part of the evening involved dancing. She glanced around the table. There were only two other women at dinner, with four men, so Violet could tell she’d not be able to graciously sit out a dance. But perhaps she could feign a headache or dance with the other men in the room and avoid Parker altogether, although the way Lord Weymouth had examined her at dinner made her stomach jump even more than the thought of dancing with Parker.
“Violet, dear, why don’t you lead things off with young Mr. Sinclair?” Lord Weymouth put an end to her plans before she even had a chance to put them into action. “As the youngest in the room, you two need to show us old folks how it’s done.”
She controlled her grimace and smiled at Lord Weymouth. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.” Extending a hand to Parker, she waited for the string quartet in the corner to begin playing. Her head had swirled all during dinner with thoughts of both Parker and her hybridizing. Lord Weymouth held the key to making all her dreams with the Horticultural Society come to fruition. And possibly, he appeared interested in her on a personal level. With a bit of effort on her part and giving a care to her appearance, she might become a baroness, of all things. Lord Weymouth might be twenty or so years older than she, but he needed a new wife and children to pass the title on to, as was his duty to the crown. A future with Parker would mean her work over the past few years would be for naught. She could forget the adulation from the Horticultural Society and the thought of going through life with a title. She’d be far better to hang her hopes on Lord Weymouth rather than the American. So why did she feel so empty?
Parker’s hand around her waist warmed her, and her rampant thoughts dissipated. He dipped his head to her level, and whispered in her ear, “You are by far the loveliest woman in the room. No wonder Lord Weymouth has stared at you all evening.”
She gasped at his words, and her gaze ricocheted around the room. Lord Weymouth indeed watched her and raised his glass of brandy when he caught her glance. She lost her breath. Parker’s head remained close to hers, and he nipped her earlobe before straightening. When his teeth grazed her, she immediately became damp, just as she had in the hothouse earlier. But they were standing in front of her father and the lord! She had to control the full-body tremor his closeness caused. Bloody American. Fortunately, the music ceased and they parted. The minute Parker’s hand left her waist, she trembled again, this time from the coldness that enveloped her.
“Lovely.” Lord Weymouth came to their side as the couple left the floor. “You have grown into a most delightful woman, Violet. I insist on having the next dance.”
Violet allowed herself to be led to the dance floor again. Lord Weymouth placed his hand on her in the exact same spot where Parker’s had been moments ago. But instead of his hand providing warmth and comfort, she felt nothing but ice. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, but instead of Parker’s earthy scent, Lord Weymouth smelled of brandy and mothballs. Conversation swirled around them, but there were only two items Violet could concentrate on: Parker danced with one of the other ladies, and Lord Weymouth placed his leg between hers as they twirled around the room. Even with all her petticoats, she sensed his intrusion into her space. And the way his gaze wandered over her swell of bosom made her skin crawl. Would this nightmare of an evening never end? She figured she’d be uncomfortable around Parker tonight, but she hadn’t counted on Lord Weymouth’s attention. She couldn’t wait to call an end to the evening.
Mercifully, the music ceased, and Lord Weymouth led her to her father, who had been standing alongside the dance floor.
“I hate to put an end to what has been a most delightful evening, my lord, but we must leave soon. Mr. Sinclair needs all his strength in the next few days in order to pack all the roses bound for American soil. And you’ve certainly given Violet something to fill her head.” Edgar shook Lord Weymouth’s hand and signaled to Parker.
“I’ve enjoyed the evening very much, my lord.” Violet curtsied and blew out a small breath. Lord Weymouth noticed the movement of her chest, and his gaze raked over her one more time, staring at her décolletage as she dipped into her curtsy. He latched on to her hand again.
“Allow me to escort you out, my dear.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, tugging her close. “We’ll need to meet again soon so you can share your work with me.”
“Yes, of course, my lord.” He assisted her up into the carriage, his hand lingering on her waist. She bit her lip, needing to spout a nasty retort, but holding back. She reminded herself of his stature in the community and his position as one of the nursery’s most important clients. She must keep her tongue under control. But chickens would have to grow teeth before she’d allow herself to be alone with him. She glanced over at Parker sitting next to her father. Their gazes met and he smiled. Her earlobe, where his teeth had been earlier, became warm and she brushed her finger over it.
His smile grew.
She glanced away. Bloody American.
Chapter Twenty
Days Sixteen through Eighteen
Violet c
alled upon all the emotional resources she’d accumulated over the years in order to be in the same space as Parker over the next few days without shedding any tears. Her greenhouse had never appeared so small before. Each accidental touch sent a current through her body, but she reminded herself he would be off within days without so much as a backward glance at her or her country. Despite how tenderly he’d behaved during their dinner at the Weymouth estate, how carefully he’d held her as they’d danced, how he’d scandalously nipped her earlobe, how unhappy he’d appeared when she’d danced with the lord, she still would not allow herself to show her feelings. She could not. He may not have had a bet with Carson, but he didn’t need the lure of money to be a callous man nonetheless if he could turn his back on her and disappear after all they’d shared. And how much more she wanted to share with him. It helped to allow herself to be mad at him. And to keep being mad at him until he left Salisbury.
For her part, she kept track of which plants he indicated for purchase, prepared a final invoice for the goods, and made certain the plants were well watered and ready to be packed up. If by chance their hands met while they were sorting out the roses, she recoiled from the contact as if he were on fire. In a way, the description matched him exactly. Molten heat, and her broken heart quivered at the casual touch. His swollen eye had opened a bit, and she caught his hurt-filled glances, but she couldn’t waver. Her heart couldn’t survive another encounter with a man who considered her a mere plaything. His schedule had him leaving in only one more day in order to make Portsmouth with his shipment by the time the next boat sailed for America, and he would soon be only a memory. She’d continue to work on her roses, and the next time a man came near her making promises he had no intention of keeping, she’d recall the jagged edges inside her and consider twice before she melted at his touch.
The rose portion of the greenhouse emptied rapidly, and by the afternoon, eighteen tables stood nearly bare. Only a few of the most fragile shrubs remained to be packed up the next morning after Parker settled up with her father.
He returned to the greenhouse one final time in the afternoon, hot, sweaty, dirty, and delicious. Violet had to tamp down her emotions and talk to him sooner or later. They couldn’t leave things hanging as they had.
“Done for the day?” Banal conversation, but she supposed it beat the silence they’d worked in for two days straight. And it beat the scathing comments she wished to hurl at him. Violet glanced at him and lost her breath as his intriguing blue eyes pierced her.
“Not quite,” he replied as he stared at her. Into her. Almost as if he could see her broken heart. “We need to talk about what happened.”
“No, we don’t. What we need to do is wrap up the loose ends with your order and get you on your way back to America. To Mr. Jefferson.” Violet flung an errant curl back from her face and stared him down.
“You’re right about wrapping up loose ends. But you’re one of them.” He raised a hand, as if to stroke her cheek, but then lowered it without touching her. She took a breath.
“I don’t feel there’s any more to be said on that particular subject, Parker. Mr. Sinclair.” She dropped her gaze.
He stepped forward, invading her space. Surprised, she glanced up at him as his arms encircled her. And she allowed it, since it would be for the last time. She gulped as he tightened his hold on her. He didn’t say a word, even though he’d been the one to say they needed to talk. He simply held her. Afraid to breathe, afraid any movement would break the tender moment, she burrowed her face into his neck and let a few tears dribble onto his skin. He smelled of sweat, sunshine, earth, and man. She’d lock the captivating scent away in her head forever.
He raised a hand and brushed it over her hair, holding her head in place next to his collarbone instead of backing away from her tears. Then, the hand ran down her spine and encircled her waist. It might be wrong to allow him such familiarity, but she craved his touch as much as a rose shrub craved water.
He kissed her curls, his breath warm on her head. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Violet. I never intended to be carried away by your enticing body. I’m not Davey.”
She stepped out of his embrace and backed off a pace. “Then why? Why would you encourage me? Make me feel things I’d never experienced before?”
Parker plowed his bruised knuckles through his hair and pierced her again with his gaze. “Because you made me come alive again, a sensation I haven’t had in a very long time. But your life is here, in England, in your greenhouse, with your Lady Banks experiments, lecturing for the Royal Horticultural Society, working for your father. Mine is thousands of miles away. I see no other solution.”
Sadly, neither did she.
• • •
Parker had to get away. Violet’s silent tears on his neck were about his undoing. If he’d stayed in their tender embrace a moment longer with her lovely scent filling his nostrils, he would have thrown caution to the wind and begged her to come to America with him. And if he stole a valuable employee as well as his daughter from him, Edgar would quite possibly refuse to do any more business with his employer. He couldn’t take that chance.
He stepped away from her. “I’ll be back in the morning for the remaining plants. Then, I’ll be on my way to Portsmouth by no later than noon.”
She nodded and he gazed at her, drinking her in for one of the final times. Her eyes were still shiny, but she’d ceased crying. Parker could almost see her straightening her spine. He had no right to her, but he would never forget her. She’d made him hope to live in the present again, not the past.
He picked up his satchel, strapped it over his shoulder, and left the greenhouse without a backward glance. He couldn’t afford to steal another glance, because if he did, he’d be crawling back to her, pleading with her to give up everything she held dear to be with him. Since he’d been in England, he’d developed a severe lung fever and gotten beaten up twice, and the humid air had made his limp a constant instead of only when his body was tired. He certainly didn’t present a picture of health. Another concern. What if, in an impulsive moment, she agreed to accompany him to the wild American country and then he fell ill and died? She’d be alone in a strange land with no one to turn to for help. He’d seen that scenario more than once over the years.
No, he must leave empty-handed. Leave with nothing more than the merchandise he’d come here for. With hundreds of roses. And without a Violet.
The day’s backbreaking work should have rendered him exhausted, but he wound up tighter than ever as the day progressed. He lit several candles in his room at the inn and sat at the crude desk, going over the purchase paperwork again to make certain he hadn’t missed anything. He opened his sketchbook and ran the pad of his thumb over one of the rose bed drawings marked with each particular variety’s location. He could see in his mind the grouping he and Violet had created as the roses took root and grew into a healthy display. In a few years, the bed would have the appearance of having been there forever. He’d love for Violet to see what they had created then.
Perhaps he could arrange for her and her father to visit, to meet Thomas Jefferson, to spend some time falling in love with America. Falling in love with him. Several women over the years had attempted to capture his attention because he had a home and some money tucked away. Perhaps there could still be a chance with Violet.
“Dammit man, what are you doing?” Parker brushed his hand over his eyes, brushing away the vision of Violet strolling the grounds of Monticello with him. She would never set foot in America. Her roots in England were way too deep. Meeting a former president had no meaning to her, held no charm. She’d much rather meet the King of her own country. And now, with Lord Weymouth’s connection to the Royal Horticultural Society, she had come one step closer to fulfilling her goal, even if it meant that old man slobbering all over her nubile body. If Parker were to uproot her, take her from all she held dear, would she wither and die, much like a plant that’s been uprooted from the
ground?
He’d been telling her she had a much stronger fortitude than she ever thought. Perhaps the time had come to test his theories. Perhaps he should get on his knees and beg her to come to America with him. Or perhaps the time had come to truly put an end to this emotional seesaw and say a final goodbye.
Parker’s mind ricocheted between the polar opposite ideas for most of the night. When the candles had burned down to nubs, he finally blew them out and lay on the hard mattress with images of sweet Violet’s lips against his as he pleasured her in the hothouse. He finally gave up on his idea of getting some rest and let his mind run free. Each encounter with her played out in his mind, from their first meeting until their last tender moment. He would relive those moments, those memories, only once more and then would bury them deeply. To not think of her ever again, was the only way he could bear to let her go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Day Nineteen
Bleary in both mind and eyesight from lack of sleep, Parker trudged up the hill to the greenhouse. For the final time. That sobering thought followed him, raining down on him as if it were a dark, ominous cloud on what should have been a wonderful, sunshine-filled day. So close to leaving England, heading home. Even with a bum leg, he should be jumping up and clicking his heels together instead of feeling as if he were chest-deep in quicksand.
He entered the building and took a cursory glance around, searching for the object of his fantasies. His heart ached as he searched the greenhouse, which had been his second home for weeks. Not finding anyone, he sighed with disappointment before he elected to get to work by himself. He checked his list and found his notes on the final sixteen rose varieties he had to pack up. One by one, he located them in the greenhouse, their green tags indicating the correct plant. He watered each carefully and then wrapped wet newspapers around the base of the shrubs, as Violet had shown him. They were low on newspapers due to the volume already packed for shipment, and he quickly ran out.
