by Sara Bennett
She blushed deeply as she realized what she’d said, and her elderly companion hid her mouth with a gloved hand, as if she might be laughing.
Valentine had never been jealous of George, he had no reason to be, but now there was a strange tightening in his chest. Marissa Rotherhild was too good for his thoughtless brother. Suddenly, Valentine found himself considering ways to steal her all for himself.
Lord Kent was not at all like George, Marissa thought in bewilderment. George was always fashionably dressed, neatly turned out to the last button, and here was Lord Kent looking as if he’d been sleeping in his clothing. He hadn’t shaved, either. Marissa could plainly see the prickly stubble on his jaw, the same honey color as his hair, which was also rather long and untidy. Her fingers itched to comb it back from his brow and, surprised by the strength of that urge, she folded them into tight fists, just in case she actually acted upon it.
“George has clearly made a good impression on you, Miss Rotherhild,” he was saying, with a note in his voice that made her think he might be making fun of her.
“I’m sure George makes a good impression on everybody he meets, Lord Kent,” she replied rather coolly.
“My daughter and son-in-law are under the impression George is an enthusiastic botanist,” her grandmother spoke behind her. “He is invited to all their meetings and has been attending regularly.”
Lord Kent’s eyes widened. They were very blue, Marissa thought. Piercingly so. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing eyes quite that spectacular shade of blue. Someone had once described the Aegean Sea to her, and she thought that perhaps Lord Kent’s eyes were that exact color.
“George interested in plants?” he cried. “Good Lord, whatever next?”
“Do you mean the boy isn’t an enthusiast?” Lady Bethany said with a touch of satisfaction. “I thought as much.” She sank down into a brocade covered chair, evidently tired of waiting to be asked by Lord Kent who seemed to have forgotten his manners.
“George never said he was an enthusiast, Grandmamma,” Marissa said, casting her elderly relation a quelling glance.
“Well he certainly gave a good impression of one,” her relation retorted, completely un-quelled. “Professor Rotherhild was even considering taking him on a trip to see the lichen in Yell.” She shuddered. “That’s in Shetland, Lord Kent, and a more windswept and godforsaken place you would be hard-pressed to find.”
Lord Kent, who had been listening to their exchange in silence, suddenly spoke. “Rotherhild! I knew I had heard the name before. Of course. Professor Rotherhild is one of Britain’s foremost experts on lichens and mosses.”
“My father,” Marissa said quietly. “My mother prefers insect-consuming plants. She has several in the conservatory and feeds them with—”
“Please, Marissa, I beg you, don’t remind me.” Again her grandmother shuddered. “My daughter does not take after me, Kent. I cannot think where she got her love of such unpleasantness.”
Lord Kent’s lips twitched and he looked down into Marissa’s face with those eyes. “And what is your specialty, Miss Rotherhild?” he asked her in a deep voice.
“I have no specialty, Lord Kent.”
“Well, that is a pity.”
“I find that being in the presence of my parents has dulled my own enthusiasm for botany. George says…” But she remembered in time that what George had said wasn’t very complimentary to his brother, and changed the sentence to, “George says not everyone feels the same way about plants.”
“Does he indeed?” Lord Kent fixed her with his piercing gaze, as if he knew she wasn’t telling the entire truth.
He was correct. The truth was the first time she’d met George he’d said that growing up with Professor Rotherhild, in her case, and his brother, in his, had instilled in them a fierce determination to keep as far away as possible from anything even vaguely resembling a plant.
“Your brother?” she’d asked George, surprised and pleased that they had something in common.
“He’s an obsessive rose collector, Miss Rotherhild.”
“At least roses are attractive to the eye, and the nose.”
“Oh, but the thorns!”
They’d laughed, and Marissa had felt as if she’d finally found someone who understood her predicament. And, indeed, as they conversed she learned that he had grown up in similar circumstances, suffering through dinners where heated discussions took place over obscure plants and hardly being noticed at all while her parents read aloud from the latest paper on their favorite subjects. Her grandmother sympathized but she didn’t really understand. For her, other people’s foibles were amusing, grist to the mill of her caustic tongue, but Marissa was unable to laugh at her parents’ peculiarities. She felt ignored and isolated, even though she knew they did not mean to be cruel. Now George had made her feel she wasn’t entirely alone.
Indeed, it was as if she’d found a soul mate.
That was why it had been so important for her to come to Abbey Thorne Manor for the weekend party. George was the man she wanted to marry, she was absolutely certain of it, and when he’d extended the invitation she’d been determined to use the weekend to convince him that she was the perfect woman for him.
And now he wasn’t here to greet her and from the way Lord Kent was acting it was possible there may not be a weekend house party taking place after all. George had mistaken the date or, worse, forgotten her.
She was reminded, painfully, of the day her parents forgot to arrange her tenth birthday party, so engrossed were they in their latest find, and she had to explain to several disappointed friends that there would be no food and no cake and no games. The echo of her humiliation was still fresh as she’d faced the pity and scorn in their eyes.
Lord Kent sighed. Marissa glanced up, startled, wondering if he’d read her feelings in her face. He was staring at her with something like sympathy, but to her relief he did not ask her what the matter was.
“Do sit down, Miss Rotherhild. If anyone can find George then it is Morris—he knows all my brother’s hiding places. We will soon unravel this mystery.”
Marissa perched on the edge of a chair beside her grandmother and clutched her reticule in her gloved fingers. Lady Bethany reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.
“Never mind, my dear. At least we have had a jaunt into the country, and just think, if we’d been at home in London we may have been forced to travel deep into Scotland to help collect your father’s lichens and mosses. I doubt I could survive another visit to Yell.”
That was true, Marissa thought, but it still didn’t help to make her feel any less disappointed about George.
And how was she going to tell the Husband Hunters Club that she’d failed to capture her chosen husband before she’d even begun?
“Ah, Morris. Any news?”
Marissa looked up, hope shining in her eyes. But Morris’s mouth was down turned and he shook his head with a gloomy air. “I’m very much afraid Mr. George is nowhere to be found, my lord.”
“You’ve looked everywhere?”
“I have.”
“Should you…should you begin a search for him beyond the estate?” Marissa asked, stumbling over her words, as it suddenly occurred to her that George may be in trouble. Yes, that must be it! She should have known it. George was missing. He would never abandon her like this unless there was something wrong.
Morris and Lord Kent exchanged a glance.
“I very much doubt a search will be necessary,” Lord Kent said, his tone thoughtful, “but we shall see what the day brings. Now, Morris, can you arrange for some rooms to be prepared for Miss Rotherhild and Lady Bethany? And inform Mrs. Beaumaris we will have extras for luncheon. There is no reason for them to travel all the way back to London just because my feckless brother isn’t here to greet them. They have come for a weekend party and we shall have a weekend party.”
Morris looked as if he’d been skewered but swiftly rose to the occasion. “I…certainly, my
lord.”
Lord Kent nodded, and then gave a brief bow to the women. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have some business to complete. We will meet again at luncheon.”
The door closed behind him and the two women were alone.
“Should we stay, Grandmamma?” Marissa asked tentatively. “Perhaps we should make our excuses and leave. If we take our time returning to London my parents will have left by the time we arrive.”
But Lady Bethany was adamant. “No, Marissa, we are not leaving. I want to stay. I declare I haven’t been so amused by a situation for years. Our host is a one of a kind.”
“Well, Lord Kent did seem very…”
“Underdressed, dishabille? Indeed he did. Not your usual English gentleman to be sure, but very manly, my dear. He quite melted my insides, and I haven’t felt like that since…well, such fond memories are not for your innocent ears.”
Another of her grandmother’s wicked recollections, Marissa thought wryly. Was Lord Kent manly? Certainly there was something about him that was very earthy. The unbuttoned shirt and the triangle of masculine throat she couldn’t help but notice, as well as his unshaven jaw and ill-fitting jacket. She had a strong desire to brush him down and straighten him up.
“So, it is agreed. We will be staying?” Lady Bethany said with an arched eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye that hinted she knew exactly what Marissa was thinking.
“Yes,” Marissa replied primly, “I do believe we will.”
Chapter 2
Abbey Thorne Manor was a treat. George had spoken of it to Marissa but she hadn’t realized until the carriage brought them into the quiet serenity of the Surrey countryside and she saw the mellow red bricks and half-timbered upper stories of the old moated manor house just how beautiful and ancient his home was. As she recalled he’d been far more interested in his London town house.
“The countryside is all very well,” he’d said, with a hint of wickedness in his smile, “but it dulls in comparison to the excitement of life in London.”
At the time Marissa had been quick to agree, but now as she stood in her room, overlooking the moat and the countryside beyond, she wondered how it would be to live her life in such a place as Abbey Thorne Manor. Her family resided in London, when they weren’t out and about on field trips. Their house was large and untidy but there was no tradition, no heirlooms or family portraits. Her father didn’t believe in hanging on to the past, and her mother usually went along with her father’s wishes. What would it be like to be George and his brother, descendants of a family who’d lived in the same house, on the same piece of land, for centuries? Wistfully, she decided it must give them a wonderful sense of belonging, of knowing who they were. Until this moment Marissa hadn’t quite understood it was a feeling she was missing in her own life.
“Who would have thought a rattle like George Kent would come from such delightful beginnings?”
Lady Bethany’s voice startled her. Her grandmother had removed her hat and gloves and set out on a journey to inspect Marissa’s rooms. Her elegant, upright figure showed nothing of the weariness most older ladies would be feeling after such a journey, and her dark eyes darted about her. She murmured her appreciation when she spied the ormolu clock on the mantel, and lifted the pince-nez which hung on a fine gold chain about her neck so that she could examine it more closely.
“So, where do you think he has got to?”
Marissa met the sharp eyes that missed nothing and deliberately made her tone light. “I have no idea, Grandmamma. Perhaps he was called away on some business and did not have time to let us know.”
“Mmm, perhaps he was. Although if that was the case, my dear, one would think he would have left word with his brother, or the servants.”
“Not—not if it was extremely sudden and—and urgent.”
It was a poor effort, and Lady Bethany rightly ignored it as she perambulated toward the window, gazing thoughtfully through the small glass panes. “The brother is nothing like George, is he? Has George spoken much about him?”
Marissa didn’t trust her grandmother’s airy tones, eyeing her suspiciously and wondering where this was leading. Lady Bethany kept her eyes trained on the view.
“George said his brother was much older than him, and that he more or less brought him up after their father died at Waterloo. Lord Kent is a keen botanist. George calls him obsessive.”
“One doesn’t see Lord Kent about in London society. Is he married, do you know?”
“I think he is a widower.”
“Ah.” She smiled.
“Grandmamma, he is far too young for you,” Marissa retorted.
Lady Bethany smiled. “Wicked girl, I wasn’t thinking of myself.”
“Then who—” But suddenly it seemed more sensible not to prolong the conversation; whatever machinations were going on in her grandmother’s head were better left unspoken. Lady Bethany had a reputation for meddling and although Marissa supposed she meant well the outcomes to her plans were not always the ones she’d imagined. Look at her own parents. Lady Bethany had decided upon a rich and handsome gentleman for her daughter, but instead found herself with a son-in-law whose hands were perpetually stained green from handling the mosses in his ever-increasing collection.
Lady Bethany was leaning forward to peer down toward the gatehouse, and the stone bridge that spanned the moat. “I thought Lord Kent said there wasn’t a house party planned for this weekend?”
“Yes, he did say that.”
“Well, a gentleman on a rather fine bay has just ridden over the drawbridge.”
“George—” Marissa began, hardly daring to believe.
“No, my dear, it wasn’t George. He was more mature than George. I wonder who it could be? There isn’t another brother we haven’t met? Or an older relative?”
Marissa swallowed her disappointment. “No, there are only two brothers and I don’t know of any elderly relatives. Perhaps we will learn his identity at luncheon, Grandmamma.”
“Perhaps we will. I must say I am looking forward to luncheon a great deal more than I ever expected to when we set out for Surrey.” Lady Bethany gave her an innocent smile and wandered off. Marissa watched her go, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her grandmother was up to something, and Marissa knew her well enough to be extremely uneasy.
If only George was here!
With a sigh she turned again to the window as if she expected to see him galloping wildly toward her. Where could he have gone? And why? She’d so looked forward to being here with him, to him showing her his home, to their conversations, and the way he made her laugh. He was so different from her parents and their circle of friends.
Marissa had been positive George was as attracted to her as she was to him. She was so certain she would not have to try very hard when it came to hunting him and making him hers. Now she was thrown into confusion and doubt.
To be honest she didn’t know if she was capable of hunting a man, especially if he didn’t want to be hunted. She knew more about the mating habits of plants, such as they were, than she did about people. Lady Bethany may have told risqué stories but they meant little to Marissa—it was because she’d never felt the passionate emotions her grandmamma remembered with such fondness. Until she met George she had begun to think herself incapable of anything warmer than a formal, cool fondness, and a dispassionate intellectual curiosity. It was a frightening vision of her future, never to care enough or feel enough for her husband beyond liking, and perhaps not even that, if some of the marriages she’d seen were anything to go by.
With George everything had changed, and suddenly she’d been able to hope for a truly happy and passionate future.
But now George had vanished, and taken that hope with him.
“Kent, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are at home. I thought you might be on one of your rose visits to the Continent.”
Valentine returned the brisk handshake. “Jasper. What brings you here?”
Lord Jasper
was dressed as neatly as a pin, and when he lifted his hat his scalp glowed through the remaining strands of copper hair as if it had been polished. Bright and watchful hazel eyes and a thin-lipped mouth completed the picture of a man not given to impetuous behavior. His next words explained everything to Valentine.
“Did you know that Von Hautt was in England?”
Valentine’s brows snapped down.
Jasper gave his cautious smile. “I thought not, my friend. Well he is. And I have heard that he is hot on the trail of your rose.”
Valentine appeared startled. “The Crusader’s Rose? I have been looking for the Crusader’s Rose for twenty years, and my father was searching a lifetime before me, but we have found no trace. The trail has long gone cold. I thought I was the only one who still believes it exists…”
“Von Hautt is aware that if he found the Crusader’s Rose his name would be made. He would be famous. And it appears he’s now come into some information that may well give him what he wants.”
“What information?” Valentine scoffed.
“A list of names.”
Valentine fixed him with a piercing look. “Names?”
“The names of the men who traveled to the Crusades with your ancestor, Richard de Fevre.”
Long before Abbey Thorne Manor was the home of the Kent family, there had been a motte and bailey here, belonging to the de Fevres, an ancient family related to Valentine through his maternal side. By the twelfth century the wooden tower had been replaced by stone, and it was from here that Richard de Fevre had set off on his journey to the Crusades. Richard was a pious man who believed his fight to free Jerusalem from the Saracens was a just one, and before he went he took a vow of chastity, swearing it would not be broken until he returned home—Valentine had often wondered what de Fevre’s wife thought of that. Richard had traveled with some like-minded companions, neighbors of his, and by luck or miracle they had all survived and all returned.
Usually when crusaders returned from the Holy Land they brought back gold and jewels, rugs and tapestries, or even grisly souvenirs of the Saracen dead, but Richard brought back something else.