“People will come from all over England to visit Nettlebloom Garden,” the earl declared.
“Nettlebloom Garden?” The viscountess sat up. “Nettlebloom?”
“Of course.” The earl frowned. “What else would it be called?”
The viscountess rose from her sofa. “This is utter nonsense. It’s Rosebriar Garden.”
“Why would that be? The garden is on the Nettlebloom estate. It’s only logical—”
“You men and your logic!” She stamped her foot. “I’m the one who recommended James as the architect. I’m the one who worked with him to plan it. I made sure he had all the materials and help he needed. I…”
James shrank back in his seat as the tirade continued. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, but wasn’t sure how he could accomplish that politely. The rest of the guests also shifted uncomfortably.
The earl, to his credit, didn’t return Lady Stormont’s fire, though his cheeks darkened, and the grip on his glass tightened.
How fortunate that he wasn’t sitting between them. It was bad enough to be in the same room. He turned his head away, as if he could convince them he couldn’t hear their argument. As soon as he did, he heard a distressed cry coming from the corner, away from the room’s entrance.
Edwina ran in circles around what looked like a miniature canopy bed. Inside, nestled on layers of satin, were five tiny kittens.
He’d heard that the cat had given birth a few weeks earlier. But when Lady Stormont had told him about it, she’d said there were six kittens. Apparently one had gone missing, and the mother was distraught.
How could she have lost a kitten? Surely it wasn’t old enough to walk away. A glance at the arguing earl and viscountess assured him he could tiptoe out of their sight. He stepped over to the cat boudoir, careful not to get too close. Edwina spared him a glare as she continued to circle the pile of pillows. The five kittens inside slept peacefully, their tiny backs rising and falling in contented slumber. But Edwina focused on her one missing baby, nuzzling the covers to check under each corner.
A vision appeared in his mind, one of a woman standing over a crib, watching over her human baby. The child had her mother’s golden locks and slept peacefully, knowing she was loved unconditionally. He felt an urgent desire to be part of that tableau.
The feeling hit him so unexpectedly and so hard that he put a hand to his midsection, as if the thought had struck him a blow. Was it possible he’d met the one person who understood him? Who could abide his idiosyncrasies and be his compass, not only literally but in all things?
The argument between Lady Stormont and Lord Godolphin had heated to the point where James felt his absence would go unnoticed, so he decided to help Edwina locate her kitten. Surely he or she couldn’t have gone far. He held back the heavy draperies, separating the various layers to peer between them. Satisfied that no kitten hid behind the first window, he moved to the second. Nothing there, either. Edwina followed him, checking as James pulled the drapes back so she could see. He was about to go to the third window when a movement caught his eye. On each side of the windows, a knob attached to the wall allowed the drapes to be held back with a thick braid. Perched on top of one of the knobs was a miniature version of Edwina.
“Hello, there,” James said softly. “How on earth did you get up there on your own? Your brothers and sister can hardly walk, let alone climb.”
Gently, he picked up the shivering kitten and made to return her to the silken comfort of her bed. But before he could take a step, a flying missile knocked him to the ground. His breath whooshed out of his lungs as he landed on the floor, but he had scant time to recover before sharp claws dragged across his face. He heard a scream — was it his? He raised his arms to cover his face, but the furious mother refused to stop.
“Edwina! Stop that!” Lady Stormont tried to pick up her cat, but the enraged mother was determined to exact justice on James for daring to touch her child. It wasn’t until Lord Goldophin and other guests stepped in, pulling James away from Edwina, that he was able to escape.
“Edwina, whatever upset you so?” Lady Stormont cradled the cat like a baby, stroking her head.
“I made the unforgiveable mistake of finding her missing kitten and picking it up,” James informed her. “It had apparently climbed up the drapery to the tie knob and couldn’t get down.”
“Oh, dear. Edwina, my love, the man was just trying to help you.” She looked around. “Missing kitten? Which one?”
“Er, I apparently dropped it when Edwina att— er, took me to task.”
The adventurous kitten had landed on the tea tray. She nibbled delicately at the treats, heedless of the commotion around her.
“Goodness, I can’t imagine how the kitten climbed up so high. The rest of them aren’t even walking yet!” The viscountess set Edwina down next to the kitten, and the mother licked her baby while continuing to glare at James.
“Perhaps this one is... advanced. I’m relieved that all of them are safe. I’ll take my leave now.” Standing among the well-dressed society members, he was painfully aware of the scratches on his face and hands and his torn shirt. Some of the women appeared quite alarmed, and he held the sides of his jacket together to cover his bare chest.
“I’ll ask Clive to find some ointment for your cuts,” the viscountess suggested.
“Er… I’m certain I have some at my home.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to remain anywhere near the protective mother.
“Please allow me to send you in my coach,” the earl offered.
“Thank you, my lord. I would be grateful for that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Selina’s orders for the week were complete, and the shop was empty. She was tired from standing at her work table, so she decided to treat herself to tea. She put her kettle on the fire and sat down to wait. Richard’s diary lay on the side table, and in a break from her usual routine, she picked it up to read.
December 25, 1814. Their last Christmas together, before the accident. Her hands trembled as she held the diary. Before focusing on Richard’s words, she reached for a handkerchief to catch the tears she knew would fall. She was nearing the end of the diary, even though she’d stretched it out by reading only one or two entries each night.
My dear wife was happy, I think, with the gift I chose for her. She’s always so clever with her hands, painting, decorating our home with little bits of nothing. I know she loves flowers, because she fills the house with them from the first blossoms of spring to the last blooms of autumn. So I found a way she can have her flowers all year long.
By chance, I heard a woman telling her friend she’d discovered a way to create flowers from silk. I looked at her bouquets and they were so well made they looked real. I introduced myself, purchased a bouquet, and persuaded this woman, Mrs. Barnes, to come to our home and teach Selina how to create these flowers, and thankfully she agreed to the sum I offered her.
She expressed delight over her silk bouquet, and even greater happiness at the thought of being able to create them for herself. I look forward to seeing what my clever wife will do, but the greatest gift of this season has been the satisfaction of making her happy.
Selina sighed as she closed the book. She remembered Mrs. Barnes. They’d spent many happy hours together, and the one lesson had evolved into a weekly routine. They’d decorated every corner of the house, and when they’d run out of places to put them, she’d come upon the idea of putting them on her hat.
Making flowers and putting them on hats was what supported her now. She had Richard and his thoughtful gift to thank for her ability to support herself. He was gone, and she needed to be thankful for the years she’d had with him and carry on.
The bell above the shop door sounded, and she put the diary down. Her spirits lifted at the sight of the tall, handsome gentleman who’d entered her shop. But her happiness deflated as she realized something was wrong. He moved slowly, as if he’d aged overnight. He was dressed for a formal
tea, but his collar was torn. His hair was a mess, and his face bore angry red scratches.
She hurried toward him. “You’re hurt. What happened?”
“Edwina.”
“Lady Stormont’s cat? Goodness, we need to get something on those scratches. Please come with me.” Leading him to her workroom, she bade him sit. She poured some tea from her kettle into a basin and began to wash the scratches on his face. The tea, she knew, would help his wounds heal. She carefully cleaned the deep cuts, wincing inwardly when he flinched. His large hand tightened on her arm, distracting her momentarily. What would it be like to lean into his strength, to have him beside her always? She focused on her task, moving from his face to clean his hands.
“Whatever did you do to anger Edwina so?” she asked.
“I made the egregious error of picking up one of her kittens.”
“How old is the kitten?”
“Perhaps a few weeks old. I wouldn’t have presumed to pick her up, but she’d managed to climb up to where Edwina couldn’t see her, so I tried to help her down—”
“—and Edwina assumed you were trying to run off with her. Oh, dear.” She finished her ministrations and looked around for something to bind the injuries with. Her glance went to the table linen fabric left from re-styling her gown for the garden club meeting. Picking it up, she began to tear it into strips.
“Wait.”
She paused in mid-tear and cast a curious glance at him. He rose from the chair and fingered the fabric, turning it to examine the embroidery.
“This is fine linen. Much too expensive to use for binding wounds.”
“It’s of no use to me any more. They’re the table linens from… from long ago.”
“From dinners held at Milton House. When you were Lady Milton.”
She nodded. “But those days are over. They do no good rotting away in a trunk. Now I can use the lace for decorating hats, and the fabric is better put to use for mending dresses, or binding wounds.” She finished tearing the strips and wrapped his left hand, which had sustained the worst of his cuts.
When she’d left Milton House, she’d thought all happiness had been lost to her, and she’d kept the linens as a way to cling to the past. Using some of fabric to alter her dress had been difficult, but not as painful as she’d expected. And now, tearing and using the linen seemed natural and right.
“Thank you.” His voice had deepened to a rumble, and when her gaze met his she was lost, drowning in the depth of his eyes. He stepped closer, and her heart beat faster, her breath caught and held as she waited for…
The doorbell might well have been heraldry trumpets announcing the arrival of a monarch. They jumped apart, and she signaled for him to stay in the workroom while she greeted her visitor. He nodded his understanding, and she took a steadying breath before entering the showroom.
Thankfully, her visitor was there to pick up an order, and the transaction was handled quickly. She returned to the workroom to find James studying the various projects on her work table.
His eyes shone as he looked up. “Each time I see your work, I’m in awe of your craftsmanship. These blossoms are exquisite.” He pointed to a daffodil she’d just completed that afternoon. “If this is an example of the bouquet you’re assembling for my mother, I know she’ll be delighted.”
His praise brought her more joy than she’d ever felt from her customers. “I’m honored you think so highly of my work. I assure you the rest of the bouquet will be of the same quality.”
His eyes darkened. “I would like her to meet you. Perhaps when my parents return from their travels, I could introduce you.”
She swallowed. “I would like that very much.”
He left then, after thanking her again for treating his wounds. She watched him go, wondering when and how this gentle man had found a place in her heart.
She recalled Mrs. Pennywinkle’s words at the market. “You two would be good for each other.” Would it be possible to begin again?
Chapter Nineteen
James walked back to his townhouse, thankful for the cold air to bring him back to his senses. He hadn’t meant to go to her. Lord Godolphin’s carriage had taken him to his own door, but he hadn’t gone in. He knew there were bandages and ointment inside, and that Henson would either send for a physician or treat the wounds himself. But that hadn’t been what he wanted.
He wanted a personal connection. Craved it. Only two people had ever shown him the warmth and encouragement he’d always wanted from his parents. Ralph, his parents’ gardener, and his wife Anna had made him feel valued. It was Ralph who had patiently taught him how to care for the plants around the estate, which were the weeds to be removed, and which to leave alone. It was Anna who’d tended his scrapes, fed him when he’d forgotten to go inside for meals, and held him when his favorite pet had died. Anna had comforted him when his sister had taunted him. It was Ralph and Anna who had celebrated his graduation from Oxford with a specially baked cake and a small gift.
His feet had delivered him to Selina’s door. There had been no hesitation, no wondering if he’d taken the right turn. It was as if a magnet had pulled him to the right place.
Whether it was the tea she’d put on the cuts, the linen she’d wrapped on them, or the pleasure of her company, he felt better already. Henson, upon seeing James’ injuries and hearing about his scuffle with Edwina, had been most solicitous and had drawn him a bath, and arranged for his evening meal to be served in his room.
James sighed as the hot water eased his aches and pains. Leaning back in the tub, he closed his eyes and recalled his time in Selina’s workroom. She’d given him the nurturing connection he’d craved and much more. His hands still tingled from her touch, and the linen cloth she’d wrapped around them contained the scent he’d come to associate with her. Lavender was known to have a calming effect, and was often used as an antiseptic. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d used her lavender-scented tea to treat his cuts.
He’d felt connected to her in a way he’d never experienced before. Gazing into her beautiful blue eyes, he’d known she felt it, too. Had it not been for the customer’s untimely interruption, he might have gathered her in his arms…
While she’d been with her customer, he’d explored her workroom. She was tidy and organized, despite working on several projects at once. She was creative, as each cluster of blooms was unique. The room was uncluttered, yet her personality was clearly reflected in the eclectic furnishings, from the fine furniture to the whimsical draperies, handmade and tied back with bits of lace and buttons. The effect was a functional yet comfortable setting.
The most difficult part of the evening had been leaving. He could have stayed for hours, but realized propriety wouldn’t allow it. And that realization led him to another conclusion.
He wanted Selina Davison in his life. No, he needed her in his life.
To make that happen, he needed to court her. To make her aware of his intent. But he’d never courted a woman. While most of his university friends had found their mates, married and begun their families, he’d never met anyone who stirred him the way she did. Who made him feel valued and capable. Who made him want to hold on and never let go.
But how did one go about courting a woman who had been married to an earl and had become a successful entrepreneur? Was there a chance for him?
Lady Stormont had invited him to a fête at her home to celebrate the opening of the gardens. Though he knew he should accept, he hadn’t wanted to go. But he could endure it, if Selina went with him. Perhaps the viscountess could be persuaded to invite the Dowager Countess of Milton. He went to his study, took out his writing tools, and wrote.
Selina’s encounter with James left her in a state of confusion. She’d never dreamed she could react so strongly to a man. It was an entirely different visceral response than she’d experienced with Richard. Her husband had been devoted, and she’d enjoyed his attention. But what she’d felt in her workshop had been more powerfu
l, more… intoxicating.
She needed to connect with Richard again. He was gone, but she reached for him in the only way she knew. Even though she’d already read a diary entry that day, Selina sat down to read another. The next entry was dated just after Christmas:
My greatest fears have come into fruition. It appears the physicians were correct when they told me I would probably never have children. Curse the fates for robbing me of an heir! Why couldn’t they have bypassed me and taken away the by-blows of some rake who thinks nothing of spreading his seed, leaving a sea of illegitimate brats?
I mourn for the babes I will never hold, the heir who will not take up the title. But my heart breaks more for my dear Selina. Every month she weeps upon finding the evidence she is not with child.
I feel like such a failure. I know she longs to have our child, and I can’t give it to her. I fear for the day she will look at me with hatred, and know I will not be able to bear it. For now, all I can do is hold her, comfort her, and pray she’ll stay with me.
The book dropped from her hands. Richard had known he was infertile. Their childlessness hadn’t been her fault.
Why hadn’t he told her? She had spent their entire marriage believing she was to blame. Her mother-in-law had certainly told her so. “If you really wished to be with child, you would now have a house full. You know Richard would be a good father. Apparently, you don’t want to share his attention.”
The woman’s accusations had caused her incredible pain. But what was it that had caused the physicians to conclude that he wouldn’t have children? If it had been the fault of a childhood malady, surely his mother would have known. She checked the diary again. They told me I would probably never have children. Perhaps Lady Milton had refused to believe the doctors’ forecast. She’d probably hoped they were wrong.
Why, if Richard had known the cause, hadn’t he shared that with her? Why had he allowed her to shoulder the blame the entire duration of their marriage? If she had known, would she have held it against him? Of course not.
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