by Lucy Monroe
Not only had his anger frightened her, but he had also hurt her by ignoring her after their return to the ball. She had waited several minutes after he disappeared into the shadows before returning to the ballroom, allowing her body a chance to recover from his kisses and the blush that she had felt heating her cheeks, to fade. He had already come inside and stood, talking in a far corner to both of his brothers-in-law, Lord Ashton and Mr. Drake. He did not look her way.
Though she had understood his desire to forestall gossip after their time together in the garden, she had longed to look into his eyes and see if he had been as affected by their kisses as she. Nothing could come of it, but she did not want to believe the overwhelming feelings had all been on her side.
She had wanted, no needed, his reassurance that her forward behavior had not given him a complete disgust of her person.
She watered a Slater’s Crimson China, reaching out to touch one red petal. The small bush lent itself to pot growth in the conservatory beautifully, so she had several. She liked their lack of hardiness in the cold climate, feeling a kinship with the beautiful flowers that would not survive without her constant care. She and they were both flawed, but lovely to look at.
She stared at the rich petals, her eyes blinded by images from the previous evening. Images that both enthralled and shamed her.
Ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance. Ladies did not sneak off to dark garden walks and allow gentlemen liberties. Ladies did not allow men they had met for the first time that night to teach them to kiss. Ladies did not allow that kissing to turn carnal, but she had. She had done it all. The Angel, who was no angel at all, had kissed a man in the most carnal way possible...with her tongue.
And the memory had the power to elicit more feeling than she had experienced in six long years. It was as if her body and heart, shriveled after a long drought, now thirsted for the excitations his touch caused. It was insidious, this need his kiss had born in her and she could not succumb to it.
Not that she was likely to have the chance, she thought as she put down her watering can and once again picked up the pruning shears.
He had said he would come to call, but after the way he ignored her completely for the last half of the ball, she did not believe he would follow through. He undoubtedly regretted their intimacy in the garden. The thought depressed her, so she pushed it away as she cut several crimson blooms. Their deeply colored petals would make pretty candy for the vicar’s children.
"Your grace, the Viscount of Ravenswood requests the pleasure of your company in the drawing room."
Calantha turned her head at the precise tones of her aging butler. Thomas stood waiting her response, just as if there were some chance she would tell him to inform the viscount that she was not at home. She should. For so many reasons...to spare her pride, to protect her heart from feeling again, to prevent him from coming to know her better, to avoid the risk of her fascination with him.
"Please have tea brought to the drawing room, Thomas," she said as she handed him her basket and stepped toward the conservatory door that led to the house.
"Yes, your grace."
Thomas was one of the few servants that had accompanied her on her move from Clairborne Hall. The current duke, her dead husband’s younger brother, had planned to retire the dignified servant to a small cottage on a parsimonious stipend. Knowing that Thomas supported his granddaughter and her three children on his domestic wages, Calantha had hired him as her own butler. The granddaughter lived in a nearby cottage and her rambunctious children came to call on their grandfather at least once a week. Much to the older man’s dismay, who found their frolicking a sore trial to his dignity.
Evidently, you could take a butler out of a duke’s household, but you could not take the pomp and propriety of such a household out of the servant.
The sound of his very gently cleared throat stopped Calantha’s progress to the door. "Yes, Thomas?"
"If I may assist you in returning your apron to your maid, your grace?"
Her gaze flew down to the India cotton that covered the pale blue muslin of her gown. Oh dear, she still had on her gardening gloves as well. She hadn’t even seen Jared yet and she was already at sixes and sevens.
She quickly removed the apron and gloves. "Am I all that is presentable now?"
Thomas did not smile. "Your grace is always perfectly presentable."
"Thank you, Thomas."
He left to dispose of her apron and gloves and she made her way to the drawing room and the man waiting for her.
***
She stood in the doorway and watched Jared pace from one end of her small parlor to the other. Thomas insisted on referring to the chamber as the drawing room, but it was too small for so grand a title. Jared dominated the uncluttered room with his restless walking, making it appear even more miniscule than it was. The easy grace of his movements once again transfixed her and she did not make her arrival known until he pivoted and once again faced the doorway.
She forced herself to walk sedately toward him.
She stopped and gave him a half-curtsy, setting her face in what she hoped was a mask of polite immobility. "Good afternoon, my lord."
He surprised her by bowing slightly in return. Their short acquaintance had not led her to expect the customary civilities from him. "Calantha."
She indicated the rose brocade sofa near the fireplace with her hand as she seated herself on one of the matching chairs facing it. "Won’t you take a seat? I’ve asked Thomas to bring tea."
Could he hear her heart beating its rapid tattoo in her bosom? Her hands fluttered against the pale blue skirt of her gown before she realized it and clasped them together to stop the telltale action. How unusual. In the normal course of events, she had to stir herself to movement – particularly when she was around gentlemen.
His brows raised in silent mockery. "You don’t need to be nervous, mon ange. I am not going to ravish you, regardless of what you may think after my actions last night."
It was not his actions that worried her. "I did not believe you would. You are far too much the gentleman, Jared."
A bark of laughter erupted from his throat. "How can you say I am such a bloody gentleman after the way I accosted you last night?"
She was too honest a woman to allow him to take the blame for the previous evening’s events, regardless of her own shame in admitting her part in them. "You did nothing against my will."
He stared at her as if trying to weigh the sincerity of her words. Then memories of the stolen moments in the garden flowed between them and his eyes grew almost black with some unnamed emotion. She felt her own lips soften, almost as they were preparing for a repetition of the wanton caresses.
She sucked in air, trying to calm the sensations pouring through her, but it did no good. Not in the face of Jared’s silent perusal and blatant male hunger. It beat against her like the wind on the moors. Only rather than chill her, it caused a fire to ignite deep in her belly. The strangest sensation occurred in her bosom and her nipples tightened against the silk of her chemise.
His gaze lowered from her mouth to the skin exposed by the square neckline of her morning gown as if he could somehow sense the effect his presence had on her body. How could he have known, when she was so shocked by it? His face tightened in feral lines, looking almost cruel with desire, the emotion she had not been able to place swirling in the dark orbs of his gaze. It was an emotion with which she had no experience, but now recognized.
She waited for him to speak or to act, unsure what she would do if he opted for the latter.
Luckily, the tea tray arrived along with an obviously curious maid, breaking the erotic spell that had once again been in danger of overcoming her sense.
She served the tea, concentrating on performing the task with utmost care.
"You move like a duchess," he said.
She stirred one lump of sugar into her tea with precise movements. "I am a duchess, or was one anyway."
&n
bsp; "You said last night that your father was a vicar?"
It was something she had shared in common with her one true friend. Mary had also been the daughter of a Vicar. Only her savior had been a local viscount and he had paid for her education, not asked for her hand in marriage. Calantha had often thought her friend would have preferred the latter, but the idea of a viscount marrying a mere vicar's daughter was anathema amidst the ton.
Jared was no doubt even more surprised that this vicar’s daughter had managed to snag herself a duke. "Yes."
"Did your family have connections to the Clairbornes?"
"No." Her family had very few connections at all. Her Season had been the gift of her godmother and fate had intervened to see that she came to the duke’s notice.
"You’re doing it again."
"What?" She did a quick assessment of her actions serving the tea, looking for mistakes. It was a reaction born of habit and one she had tried to stop.
"Forgetting to talk like a woman. My sisters would be very disappointed in you." His voice held a teasing note.
She did not smile in response. "I think you are right. Lady Ashton is kind, but I fear she finds my company dull."
He frowned at her. "Irisa told me just this morning that she likes you."
She felt heat steal into her cheeks in pleasure at the other woman’s words. "As I said, your sister is kind."
He shrugged, as if her opinion of Lady Ashton was merely confirmation of fact. "How did you meet the duke?"
Blunt. He was so very blunt.
She felt the heat drain away from her cheeks and she set down her teacup. "He asked for an introduction at a ball."
He looked at her assessingly. "He must have been very taken with your beauty."
"Yes." Then, she forced herself to elaborate. "He liked the idea of his duchess being an angel."
"You said last night that you aren’t an angel."
She inclined her head in agreement. "I’m not. It was a source of trial for both the duke and myself that I was unable to live up to his standards of perfection."
Why had she said that? Did she want Jared to realize how far short of the ideal she fell? And, yet, after her wanton behavior last evening, he must have some idea.
"Were you happy in your marriage?"
Where had that question come from? Perhaps Jared thought it strange he had been required to teach her to kiss and sought to know the reason for it. She didn’t answer him immediately, but poured more tea into his cup. Finally, she decided that she had shared enough of her soul.
"How could I have been unhappy?" she asked by way of avoiding a direct answer, "I was the wife of a duke. It was a life well above my expectations as the daughter of a poor vicar."
His eyes narrowed and his mouth took on an ominous cast, as if she disappointed him. She wanted to call the words back, tell him the full truth. That she would have given every beautiful silk gown, every single jewel, her place in society, all of it, for one day of happiness in her marriage. One day that she did not have to live up to the exacting standards of her title.
She thought he would make some cutting comment about her shallowness, but instead, he asked, "What happened to your parents?"
"They died of a flu epidemic early in my marriage." She did not believe the pain of that loss would ever completely fade, but she forced her voice into unemotional tones.
He surprised her and said, "I’m sorry."
She found herself admitting, "I wanted to nurse them, but Clairborne thought it a poor idea. He said he was concerned for my health."
"It hurt you not to be able to go to them, didn’t it?" Jared asked with unexpected insight.
She could not deny it. "Yes. I asked Clairborne to at least allow me to send a servant with ginger-rose tea to help with their stomach upset and fever."
"Did he?"
"No."
"Why not?" His exasperated tones reminded her how little he liked her one-word responses.
"He said that my mother was quite capable of instructing her servants in mixing the tea, since she had taught me the recipe to begin with." Calantha met Jared’s gaze squarely. "I obeyed my husband and my parents died."
The bleak words hung in the air between them.
"They died of the flu, Calantha. Not by your hand."
"Yes, of course." She offered him the plate of teacakes.
He could not possibly understand. He would never allow someone else to dictate his actions as she had done. She knew that even if she had gone to her parents, they probably would have died, but at least she could have said goodbye. At least they would have known she cared.
"Try the lemon sponge torte. It’s Cook’s masterpiece."
He accepted the cake. "It has a slight flavor of roses," he said, after taking a bite.
Pleased that he had noticed, she said, "I distill rose water and Cook uses it in several dishes."
"I would like to see your conservatory."
"If you are finished with your tea, I could show it to you now," she said with shy enthusiasm. Had he meant it? The idea of sharing her sanctuary with Jared seemed right.
He set down the tiny china plate and stood.
She took that as an affirmative answer.
***
Calantha led Jared into her conservatory and he felt as if he had entered another world. The glassed-in room was large, twice as big as the parlor she had served him tea in and it was filled with blooming plants. Dozens of large pots with rosebushes ranging in size from two to four feet high lined the walls, while baskets of other colorful flowers and fragrant herbs hung from the ceiling. A long table took up much of the center of the room.
He reached out to touch the soft pink petals on one of her roses. "This reminds me of my Celeste, though the bush is much smaller."
She didn’t immediately reply and he turned to find her watching him with a dazed expression.
She inhaled and then seemed to gather herself. "It’s one of my favorites. Mama brought the bush from her garden at the vicarage."
"Your parents lived here?" That surprised him, but perhaps it explained why she lived in a house that amounted to little more than a cottage, rather than the more sumptuous surroundings expected of a duchess.
Although she had tried to hide it, he had seen the residual ache left by her parents’ deaths in her expression when she spoke of it earlier.
"Yes," she said and then in an obvious effort to talk in paragraphs, added, "Clairborne bought this house for them right after our marriage so my father could retire from parish work and spend more time on his studies."
"Is that why you choose to live here rather than the dowager house at Clairborne Park?"
"I am not the dowager duchess since the current duke is my brother-in-law, not my son. However, when I informed him I would not be making my home with him and his wife at Clairborne Park as his mother does, he did offer the use of the dowager house. I chose to live here because this house belongs to me."
He tried to understand the cool challenge in her tone. "Didn’t Clairborne leave you any other estates?"
Not all of a duke’s property was necessarily entailed, only that granted by the crown as part of the title.
"No." She reached out absently to pick a yellowed leaf off of a stem. "Do you cultivate your roses for the hips and petals?"
He stared at her for several seconds, wondering why Clairborne had not left the Angel better provided for. But she had gone cold and pale; as she had each time he had asked a question directly related to her dead husband and he decided not to push her further on the subject.
"Yes, for both medicines and food." He didn’t add that he grew the flowers primarily for the satisfaction their beauty gave him.
She nodded, her attention focused on a bush with small yellow blooms while the sun turning her honey-colored hair into liquid gold. "Did you know that the fossilization record of roses go back thousands of years?"
"No." He knew that the study of such things had become very popular
among the ton, but was taken aback that such a lovely creature would be interested in Natural History. "My reading is limited to estate management."
And essays on the cultivation of roses, he added silently.
She lifted her gaze from the flowers, her blue eyes, serious and intent. "I find fossil records quite fascinating. If I were a bit braver, I would do my own digging, but I content myself with reading the results of the exploits of others."
"Many members of the ton would say that you are more courageous than wise."
Her eyes widened. "Why?"
He stepped closer to her until only a handwidth separated them. "You are not afraid to be alone with Lord Beast."
She didn’t step back, but reached out to touch him as if she could not prevent herself from doing so. The feel of her small hand against his waistcoat paralyzed him. She stood there, staring at her hand against him as if she could not believe she was actually touching him.
Then she lifted her face so their gazes met. "I would fear a beast, but I do not fear you, Jared."
Bloody hell, he wanted to kiss her again and so much more. He wanted to feel those tiny hands against his skin without the barrier of his clothes between them. She was so damn innocent. Kissing her had been like kissing a bloody virgin and it was that knowledge that stopped him from lowering his mouth and ravaging her own like he desperately wanted.
"I did not expect you today," she said.
"I told you I would come." He had had no choice.
His honor demanded he keep his promise to Mary; his concern for Hannah demanded he make sure of Calantha before doing so. The little girl would meet the Angel only if he were certain Calantha would do nothing to add to the Hannah's grief.
"But you ignored me." She sounded hurt by the admission. "Afterward in the ballroom."
Because he had wanted to protect her from having her name linked with his. He stepped back and she dropped her hand from his chest, her face for once mirroring her emotions completely. Disappointment, confusion and desire all played for prominence in her expression.
