A Trace of Roses

by Connolly, Lynne

  Dorcas touched him, rejoicing at the freedom she had to do so. She stroked his neck, and did what she’d longed to do when she first clapped eyes on him; she rubbed her palm against the stubble on his cheeks. She couldn’t reach his chin, otherwise she would have continued her daring exploration. He seemed to like it, nudging her, breathing a barely-there laugh against her hot skin.

  With a gasp, he lifted his head. Their gazes met, brown on blue, both sets of pupils wide and startled. His hair was tousled and Dorcas smiled at the sight of the havoc she’d wrought there. “I have to get you back soon.”

  Whether he meant he wanted her back in his life quickly, or that he needed to get her home, she didn’t know. Neither did she care. Either meaning worked for her, especially spoken in that dark-of-night voice that had her heart beating faster, her breath coming shorter. She didn’t want to leave her perch on his knee, or lift her head from his shoulder.

  He dropped a swift kiss on her lips. “Come. I’ll take you to the orangery, but I dare not come within sight of the house. Not yet, although I will, I promise you.”

  She wanted to prolong their time here. She stroked him below the lump on his head. With a sigh, he rolled his neck and closed his eyes. “That feels so good.” His eyes snapped open. “What were we saying? Ah, yes. We must go.”

  The effort to wrench his thoughts back to getting her home made Dorcas smile.

  A thought jumped into his mind. “What was in the bags? The seeds, I mean,” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t read Chinese,” she confessed. “I examined the contents, and there were bulbs as well. I’ve planted some, and labeled them with the lists that came with the seeds, but since I only did it this morning, we—I—won’t know what they are. I have an idea, of course. I only ordered them as curiosities. Assorted seeds and bulbs, I said, and that’s what they sent me.”

  He kissed her again. “The roses.”

  “Yes,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. “The roses. I’ve done what I can with them, but I don’t know if anything will work.”

  “I’m truly sorry about those. I never intended for them to be treated so badly.” His eyes narrowed. “In fact, it is unusual for anyone who works for me to be so careless. I will get to the bottom of it. I’ve left Johnson in London to make discreet inquiries. But I wanted to be here. With you.”

  She tried to smile. “I ordered more, despite Gerald’s horror at the price. They won’t come for a while.”

  “I ordered more, too,” he confessed.

  Sitting here, with the birds trilling and the scent of damp grass in her nostrils, her anxiety seemed a world away. But his words brought them back to her, and the familiar tension tightened her stomach and straightened her spine. She tipped her head back a little.

  Tenderly, Grant lifted her off his lap and stood. He stared at her and then drew away, leaving their hands linked once more. “You’ll need to change for dinner,” he said.

  This man who looked exactly like the workers he was living among knew the ways of society better than she did. “I’ve completely forgotten about that. But you’re right.”

  She didn’t want to leave, but she did. At the end of the path, she looked back. He was still watching her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Dorcas was leaving for the orangery in the morning, she met her brother crossing the back hall. Their steps echoed in the empty space as Gerald walked over to her and she came to meet him. They’d shared breakfast with the rest of the family so it wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen one another for weeks. Actually, Dorcas had never spent that long away from her brother. Ever.

  How odd, to recall that now. “I can guess where you’re going from the way you’re dressed,” he said. He glanced at her clothes. “I remember that jacket. You wore it all the time at Bunhill Row. Silly me, I thought you’d thrown it away.”

  She read condemnation in his voice. “What is the sense of ruining another caraco jacket when I have this one?” She moved her arm. “It’s comfortable, and if I ruin it, it doesn’t matter.” The mid-green jacket was closely fitted to her body, but was badly faded and worn at the seams. Still respectable, though, and she had a crisp new man-style shirt on beneath, riding-habit style. Her skirt was of the same fabric, worn over a pad rather than hoops. She had to admit she looked more like a kitchen maid than a lady. She’d increased that appearance by tying a plain linen cap over her hair and her plainest, oldest bergère straw over that. None of this had been accidental. She would be visiting the camp again if she found the chance. And she would.

  She jiggled the basket in her other hand. “I even have something to eat, though I doubt a maid would have this.” Not the contents, at any rate, and she’d packed it carefully, with Grant in mind.

  He studied her again, then sighed. “Be back in time for dinner at four. We have visitors tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Local dignitaries.” His chest lifted, but he didn’t let the second sigh through. “Duty. I could use all the help I can get.”

  Ah, yes, meeting strangers was not Gerald’s favorite occupation. “I’ll be there,” she promised. “But please don’t send for me unless you absolutely have to. I want to try some delicate procedures today.” Or she would have, if she wasn’t going to the camp. She wanted to dissect some seeds, and soak others. She still had no idea what they were, but some were sprouting already.

  “It’s good to see you so happy, Gerald,” she said.

  He smiled and nodded. “I couldn’t have done any of it without Annie.”

  “I know.”

  She didn’t take that amiss. While she and her sisters had done their best to support Gerald, he hadn’t fallen head over heels for them, as he had for Annie. And the immensely practical and accomplished Annie had taken him in hand, gently guided him to do the best he could, and consoled him when he failed.

  She really was wonderful.

  Dorcas left the house by the side door again, even though she didn’t have to sneak out or worry. The walk to the orangery bedewed the hem of her skirt, but she ignored it. At least it wasn’t the filth of the streets. She was so used to dodging horse and dog muck, and other, worse things, that she still looked out for them, and concentrated on what was in her path.

  Halfway there, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. It bathed her face with warmth and her anxiety ebbed away. She’d learned that trick in London, to remind herself that she wasn’t alone, that what she did didn’t matter very much in the greater scale of things. Concentrating on her heart beating, her lungs working, being in the present helped her more than any drug when she had a headache coming. But now, with no sign of one starting, she let herself enjoy the moment.

  Her limbs loosened, and a smile spread over her face, although she hadn’t put it there. It had come of its own accord.

  She would never forget this moment, time out of mind.

  When she lowered her face and opened her eyes, anxiety returned, and the constant clicking of thoughts started again. But they mattered less, because of that moment. More of those would help. And her concentration and love for her plants helped, too.

  One of the gardeners was standing by the orangery, enjoying a pipe. Dorcas felt an affinity with him, enjoying the day and what it held. She wouldn’t disturb his peace. She smiled and nodded, and he touched the brim of his hat in salute.

  A peaceful day, despite the turmoil that had returned to plague her. The news that someone was trying to harm Blackridge—Grant, that was, worried her desperately. But now that his man knew who she was, surely he’d come to tell her if something was wrong.

  And although he was concerned about her roses being ruined, he didn’t understand the importance of them. He was disturbed because she was distressed, not because the roses were dead. A man who couldn’t understand what she found in her plants, why garden design was so important to her would only cause her unhappiness in the long run.

  But she had to marry someone. And, o
h! Those kisses!

  As she examined the seeds she’d planted yesterday, and chose more to experiment with, Dorcas let her mind go to work. Her problem lay somewhere in the back of it; she just needed to pull it out. Or let it grow. Either would work.

  The watch she’d tucked in her pocket chimed. With a small exclamation, she pulled it out and pressed the button at the top that flicked it open. Goodness, she’d been working for two solid hours without rest. Only now did her stomach complain.

  Time to leave. Dorcas gathered her things together. She hadn’t bothered with a cloak today, as the sky was blue and the sun seemed determined to make the most of the day. Her jacket and petticoat were of fine wool, a little too warm for the day, but she’d stripped off her jacket sometime during her work, and she needed to locate it.

  That took longer but, eventually, she found it under a pile of sacks. How on earth had it gotten there? Ah, yes, she vaguely remembered tossing it aside when it got in her way.

  After shaking out the jacket, and dislodging a few ants, she shrugged into it. Once, it must have been a fashionable garment.

  She shook out the pleats at the back, designed to drape over a hooped skirt, but sadly flat over her hip pads. She’d have to look after it, otherwise her maid, appalled when she saw what Dorcas meant to wear that day, would contrive to dispose of it. Perhaps she should leave it here, to be worn on overcast or chilly days.

  Glancing in the nearest pane of glass, she smoothed her hair back under its linen cap, and decided that would do. She had chosen her clothes with great care this morning, determined to appear normal to the men at the camp, so as not to draw attention to herself, or to Grant. His life might depend on it.

  Having sent chills down her own spine, she left the orangery and went around to the end, where a path led towards the camp. How many people had used this as a shortcut between the camp and the house? Surely she wasn’t the first woman to be attracted to the power and strength of the men who worked there. True, Grant had increased the activity there, but there had always been a small mine in that place.

  Yes, maids, giggling and ogling the big, strong, half-naked men toiling at the mine. There must have been many more underground, digging the coal. They’d come out at the end of the day, filthy and sweaty…

  Good Lord, what was she thinking?

  The heat between her legs was decidedly de trop. She had never ogled, never thought of men in those terms before.

  It was all Grant’s fault. He’d moved from a friend to a potential lover—that was so different to a husband. A husband had a role to play, taking care of his wife, looking after his business, and procreating children. When Dorcas thought of Grant, “procreating” wasn’t the word that came to mind.

  And yet she was facing the crude jokes of the men in the camp again. Their comments had seriously disturbed her, but she had done her best to steel herself to face them, and she would not let them drive her away.

  At the end of a tightly-manicured hedge, a turn led to the stile that would give her access to the mine. Whoever designed this part of the grounds had been determined to hide the works, as she’d had no idea it was even there when she’d first come down to the orangery.

  No yellow cloud today, thank goodness. Only a wisp of smoke, the pungent smell reaching her as she turned again.

  A pair of arms grabbed her from behind and a hard, hot body pressed against hers. She hadn’t had time to be afraid before she recognized Grant. His scent, the shape of him, and the murmured words of greeting against the top of her head all told her who had pulled her close.

  He released her enough to allow her to turn in his arms. She dropped the basket first, pleased when it didn’t tip over. “I was bringing you food,” she said, willingly tipping her head back to receive his kiss.

  With an essentially masculine grunt, he deepened their embrace and before Dorcas could regain her senses, she was responding as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She slipped into his embrace, spread her hands over his strong back and kissed him right back.

  He was so big, he enveloped her. When he finished the kiss, he only drew away a little, and gazed down at her, smiling. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Oh! Good morning.”

  Shyness suffused her at his easy use of the endearment. Was she really his sweetheart, or was it something he said to everyone?

  With a short laugh, he kissed her again, a smacking buss of a kiss. She enjoyed that, too. “What’s in the basket?”

  “Food,” she said. “I thought it would look good in the camp if I brought you food.”

  He groaned. “Do you know how much I miss good food? I can sleep in the open, work with my hands, but the food is ghastly. And it’s always covered with coal.”

  “Black?”

  “And gritty,” he said firmly. “And so am I. I shouldn’t think of molesting you like this, but when I saw you, I couldn’t resist holding you. You feel good here, you know.”

  “Where?” She looked around, at the empty field and the hedge. In the distance, across the field, smoke went up from their eternal fire, but another hedge blocked her view of the mine.

  “Here. In my arms.” He hugged her tight before releasing her. “I didn’t want you to face the same reception you had yesterday, so I came to find you. As close as I dared.”

  “You introduced me when they laughed. I thought…” She bit her lip.

  Releasing her hands, he tugged off his coat. “Would you sit on this with me, if I lay it down? Or are you too grand for that?”

  She snorted. “Me? You’re the duke.”

  “Not today, I’m not. Today I’m a steward sent by a duke to explore the possibilities of expanding the mine. It was either that, or go and haul the coal myself. Which I would have done, if I’d had to.”

  While he spoke, he spread the coat on the grass by the path and took her hand to steady her as she sat.

  Dorcas didn’t need his help, but she liked it.

  Once she’d settled, smoothing her skirts decorously, he joined her, and pulled the basket over to sit between his legs. “Now what have we here?” He pulled the blue cloth away from the basket. And groaned, a deeply sensual sound that did things to Dorcas’ equilibrium.

  He pulled out the bottle. “Wine?” He dug deeper. “Roast chicken? And good bread, the kind that isn’t full of strange pieces of grit. Oh, you angel!”

  In a trice, he had the cork out of the bottle, using a penknife he pulled from his waistcoat pocket. He took a deep, appreciative sniff. “This won’t take the lining of my stomach with it. It smells divine.”

  He laughed when she produced the pottery mugs from the basket. “You’re a magician, dear heart.”

  The wine made a glugging sound as he poured it. Apart from the sounds of nature, birds and the sound of the gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the hedgerow behind them, the world was peaceful and quiet. The distant clang of metal from the site across the field melted into the atmosphere, too far away to concern them.

  Dorcas cradled her mug between her hands and took a sip. The uneven surface of the pottery gave her another texture to savor, along with the soft grass and earth beneath them.

  They tucked into the food. She’d remembered napkins. Glancing at him, she laughed.

  He stopped eating and raised a brow. “What is it? Share the joke with me.”

  “Even with your hands you eat like a duke.”

  He stopped, and put the stripped chicken bone down. “I never thought of that. But I tend to eat on my own.”

  “Keep it that way,” she advised him. “Anyone watching you eat will know for sure you’re not a rough worker. As hungry as you are, you don’t tear into the food.”

  He found a hunk of bread, and leaned back, propped himself up on one elbow as he ate. “And what would you know about that?”

  “I’ve seen enough workers eat. Where I used to live, we didn’t meet many dukes. Honest workers were the order of the day. And dishonest ones,” she added, remembering
a few of those, too.

  “I see. So you’re a connoisseur of the table?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Just that we lived among people who worked for a living. We did have some genteel neighbors, too, so don’t think we lived completely isolated from good company. My brother belonged to several clubs and visited the coffeehouses every day. We paid visits. Did you know that some City merchants are wealthier than some aristocrats?”

  “Actually, I did,” he said, before taking another bite, his sharp, white teeth digging into the bread.

  He finished his mouthful instead of talking with his mouth full, another sign of a gentleman. “I do business in the clubs and coffeehouses, too. Some people presume that my sort are above everything, that we hand all our business to others. Well, some do. But we all engage in something, even if it’s only hard living. I prefer to oversee all my investments, as well as my estates. That way, if something goes wrong, I know who to blame.”

  “And if it goes right, do you preen?”

  She put down her empty mug. Just as well, because he pulled her into his arms again, and kissed her soundly. “No, Madam, I do not. I congratulate myself quietly on a job well done, and look at the next task.”

  “Does your brother help?”

  He paused, regarded her, his gaze steady. “No,” he said eventually. “My brother is not well.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. We manage. Maybe you’ll meet him one day. He’s not a recluse exactly, though he prefers not to move in society.”

  “I would like that.”

  He shook his head. “Enough words.”

  Apparently with one appetite sated, he was starting on another. His kiss took any objections she might have had and threw them to the four winds. Apparently, she couldn’t resist him. He was dangerous.

  Even as she luxuriated in his kiss, she knew that. But he pushed all her arguments away. Without saying a word, he did it. She might find herself overwhelmed, as she was now. If the kiss had started with him trying to quieten her, it didn’t carry on that way. When she sighed, and let her body relax into his, he responded by gentling his hold on her. Easing her back against his coat, he kept his weight off her but continued to kiss her. Carefully, he explored her mouth, demonstrating a tenderness that spoke volumes for a man of his size.