by Candice Hern
She turned at the sound of Mr. Archibald's laughter. "I hate to burst your bubble, Miss Forsythe," he said as he led her along a path toward the grotto, "but nature had nothing to do with it. My . . . that is, the present duke's father had the Grotto built and the pond dug about forty years ago, I believe. The oaks were already here, but the rest of the trees were brought in. He had the bald cypress, just over there, shipped in from Virginia."
"You mean the Grotto is not a natural cave?"
"Not at all," he said as they neared it. "See here? Nothing more than artfully arranged rocks."
"It is incredible!" Catherine said as she studied the ingenious structure. She shook her head slowly and laughed. "I would never have guessed."
"Which was precisely the impression that was intended. Ah, but here is the infamous tea rose."
Catherine bent to study the bush, examining each blossom closely.
"It is called Hume's Blush Tea-Scented China Rose," Mr. Archibald said. "We are fortunate to have them. They came in from China only seven years ago."
"Good heavens, what a fragrance!"
"Yes," he said, "that is one of their many charms. They are quite rare. I am pleased you will be making a picture of one."
"This one, I think," she said at last, indicating a perfect, blush-pink flower, not quite completely opened.
Mr. Archibald placed the painting materials— which he had kindly offered to carry—on the ground and spread out a blanket for Catherine to sit upon. She quickly arranged her materials and began mixing pigments with gum and water. Within minutes she was completely absorbed in her picture. The fast drying gouache required quick work and keen concentration.
"Are you still enjoying the duchess's party?"
Mr. Archibald's question startled her, for a comfortable silence had fallen between them as she painted. "Yes, thank you, I am," she said.
She looked down to see that he had removed his coat and hat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He had stretched himself out beside her, propped up on one elbow as he watched her paint.
How was it that he looked so much more attractive, coatless and disheveled, than most other men did in all their finely tailored elegance? And why did she find his tousled brown hair, curling intriguingly over one eye, so much more appealing than the oiled, artfully arranged locks of other gentlemen of her acquaintance? Her eyes were drawn to his tautly muscled, bare forearms, bronzed from the sun and covered with soft brown hair, and her heart began to flutter strangely in her chest. What would it be like to be held by those strong arms?
Good heavens, what was wrong with her? She wrenched her eyes away from the sight of him and tried to concentrate on her painting. What was she thinking of, to indulge in such wayward fantasies? And about such a man, a man who was little more than a simple gardener. But she was very much aware of his closeness, unnerved by it. She could not seem to dismiss images of his untamed brown hair, his piercing green eyes, those bare arms. Good Lord, was she destined to be one of those well-born women who was attracted to the more earthy, unkempt masculinity of the lower classes? The type who ran away with the head groom? She hoped not. Dear God, she hoped not. She could not afford that sort of distraction just now.
Catherine focused her attention on the rose and silently prayed he would put his jacket back on.
"And does the earl still show a marked interest?"
"He appears to," she replied, wondering why he always seemed so interested in Lord Strickland.
"You are expecting an offer, then?"
"One should never expect such a thing, Mr. Archibald. But I am optimistic."
"Does that mean, then, that you can allow your sister's attachment to Captain Phillips to take its course?"
Catherine sighed and sat back to examine the painting. "Yes, I suppose so," she said absently. "If the earl's intentions are indeed serious." She decided some overpainting of the rose petals would be necessary to achieve the proper shading and texture. But first, she must finish the whole. She began mixing greens upon her palette.
"You are fond of him, then?" he continued, distracting her once again with his deep, soft voice. "You would wish to marry him?"
"He is a very kind gentleman," she said. "I would be honored to be his wife." Which was nothing short of the truth. In fact, she would do well to conjure up images of the earl's very pleasant dark eyes rather than those other, troublesome green eyes that she felt boring into her back at this very moment.
"I understand he is a great friend to the Duke of Carlisle."
"That is much to his credit," she said as she began to color in the leaves and stem. "It is typical of his kindness to befriend the poor man."
"I have heard it said," Mr. Archibald continued, "that the earl was very much in love with his late wife."
"I have no doubt he was," she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that he was now sitting upright and moving closer to watch over her shoulder. How was she ever to concentrate? "But it does not signify," she continued, trying to ignore his closeness. "Ours would be a practical arrangement. I would be a mother to his children and he would rescue me from poverty. I do not expect a love match."
"You do not love him, then?" He knelt so close behind her that she could swear she felt his breath tickle her neck. She could not seem to make herself turn around to see how close he was.
"N-no." Her breathing had suddenly become rapid and she was finding it difficult to speak.
"You are certain?" There was no question about it this time. His breath was warm and moist against her ear, causing an involuntary shiver. What was he doing to her? And why did she not simply push him away?
"Y-yes, I am certain," she said at last, unable to manage more than a hoarse whisper. "I do not love him." Her hands began to tremble and she put her paintbrush down.
His hands snaked around her neck and began untying the ribbon of her bonnet. The soft touch of his fingers upon her throat was making it almost impossible to breathe.
"Do you talk with him for hours upon end," he asked, "about flowers and painting and history and all your other favorite subjects? As you do with me?" His low and seductive voice, so close to her ear, mesmerized her into immobility as he slowly and gently removed the bonnet. She stared straight ahead at the unfinished rose.
"No. W-we have n-never discussed those things."
"And do you laugh together?" he whispered as he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. He took her chin in his hand and tilted it up so that she looked straight into his eyes. "As we do?"
His hooded green eyes held her captive. Her throat was too dry to speak. When she did not immediately respond, he raised his brows ever so slightly. "No," she managed at last. "No. H-he is not the fr-frivolous sort."
Without unlocking his gaze from hers, he took her hand and softly, softly rubbed a thumb along her wrist. Oh, my God. Her breathing became labored and she caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth.
"And does your pulse race when you are with him," he said, continuing to stroke her wrist, "as it does now?"
No, never, never like this. No one had ever made her feel like this. She shook her head, unable to speak.
He released her wrist and slowly moved his hands up both her arms until they were clutching her shoulders. He pulled her closer, trapping her hands against his chest. "And does he find you the most desirable woman he has ever known?" he asked, bending his head closer and closer. "As I do?"
His lips were unexpectedly soft, and warm from the sun when they touched hers. A different kind of warmth, new and unfamiliar, spread out to every inch of her body in a tumult of new sensations and perceptions. Oh, my God. What was happening? She should not be doing this. She should not allow him to do this. But. . .
His lips moved slowly over hers in a way she could never have imagined—tasting, exploring, tantalizing. As his breathing quickened, he grew more insistent. His tongue traced the edge of her mouth and she ga
ve a small sigh of pleasure. He took advantage of her open hps and dipped his tongue inside. The unexpected invasion sent tremors down her spine and all the way to her toes. He pulled her closer as his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, and she was lost to him.
She had no way of knowing for how long he kissed her, teased her lips, caressed her tongue. All notions of time and good sense had vanished with the first touch of his lips.
At last, he raised his head and her eyes fluttered open. The familiar green eyes that gazed down into hers were dark with desire. His mouth hovered a mere breath above her own. "And do you suppose, Catherine," he whispered against her lips as he stroked the sensitive nape of her neck, "that all the earl's money will make up for the lack of love and desire and passion?"
Mention of the earl brought Catherine back to earth with a thud. She pushed against the impudent man's chest and wrenched out of his arms. "It must," she said as she grabbed her bonnet and rose shakily to her knees. "It must."
She turned and ran from the Grotto, tears of shame and frustration streaming down her cheeks.
My God, what had she done?
Chapter 12
It was perversity, pure and simple, that made Stephen continue to pursue Catherine. He relished this newfound, almost boyish sense of devilment. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He resumed the daily posy of violets, but added teasing little unsigned notes encouraging her to follow her heart and not a fortune. He stalked her in the gardens as she painted. Each time she saw him, she gathered up her things and walked away without a word.
She was putting up a valiant fight, but Stephen was determined to win her over. There was no turning back for him, not after that sizzling kiss and her sweet response. Did she even realize that for a brief moment she had melted in his arms? That she had pressed her body against his in a way that almost made him lose control? She would no doubt deny any such response, but he was resolved to break her down, to win her capitulation.
To win her as Mr. Archibald, the ordinary gardener.
Stephen had no idea what he would do with her if he succeeded, for he was still unable to reconcile himself to her selfishness, her greed, her calculated manipulation of his best friend, and her callous dismissal of his cousin as unworthy. Despite all this, he was driven to pursue her, to win her. It was no more than a wrongheaded obsession. He knew it. But there did not seem to be anything he could do about it.
Where once he only sought her out in the mornings when she painted in the gardens, he now pursued her everywhere. Good hostess that his mother was, she generally arranged some entertainments during the afternoons. Whenever it rained, which was seldom this summer, the guests remained indoors. But when it was clear, everyone preferred to be out of doors, and Stephen began to spy on these gatherings. He looked for opportunities to get Catherine alone, but so far he had been unsuccessful. She was either in close company with others—including Miles, damn him— or too much out in the open for him to make an appearance.
But one day, the party gathered for an alfresco luncheon near the Queen's lake. Like the Grotto pond, the lake had been dug and filled, owing nothing to nature. It had been created in honor of a state visit by Queen Anne; hence the name. Grassy knolls bordered the lake and made it a favorite spot for picnics. A boathouse had been added by Stephen's grandfather, and a large number of rowboats were kept tied to the small dock.
The woodlands adjoining the lake, however, had been allowed to grow thick and dense. Stephen kept an eye on the area, as he did with every corner of the estate, and ensured that undergrowth was cleared regularly and paths kept open. Nevertheless, it was a thickly wooded area—perfect for stalking.
He hid behind trees and watched the party dine in relative splendor at the edge of the lake. His mother's idea of an alfresco luncheon included tables, chairs, starched linen, silver, porcelain, crystal, and an army of liveried servants. Not exactly a humble picnic. But so it had always been at Chissingworth. It was expected.
Stephen watched the diners from his hiding place among the trees., reminding himself that he must be careful not to be seen. He located Catherine at once. She was dressed in pale blue with matching blue ribbons on her bonnet. Ash blond curls—curls he now knew to be as soft as they looked—escaped the confines of her hat and framed her face. She was smiling and laughing, and even from a distance Stephen could see those dark, perfectly arched brows quirking with interest.
She was seated at a table with Lord Warburton, an overdressed young fribble who struck dramatic poses as he spoke, as well as Lady Billingsley, a friend of his mother's. A second gentleman at the table had his back to Stephen and he could not discern who it was. He quickly surveyed the other tables and found Miles. He was not with Catherine, then. Good. Stephen also located his cousin Roger, who gazed intently at the blond beauty at his side. The sister, he assumed.
Stephen waited patiently by his tree until the meal was over and the party began to break up. He watched as Catherine strolled along the lake with a middle-aged couple he recognized as Lord and Lady Norcliffe. Stephen darted from tree to tree, following the threesome as they made their way around the lake. Finally, another couple, whom he did not recognize, joined them. The two couples began an animated conversation, and Catherine moved slightly apart from them. He watched in eager anticipation as she moved ever so slowly toward the woodlands. She bent down to admire a patch of wildflowers, and the other two couples drifted in the opposite direction. When he was certain they were out of hearing, Stephen made his move.
"Catherine!" he whispered.
She looked up, saw no one, and furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "Catherine!"
This time she realized the voice came from the nearby copse of trees. She very hesitantly walked toward them, her eyes darting left and right as she sought the source of the voice.
Stephen moved deeper into the woodlands. "Catherine!" he whispered.
"Who's there?" she said in an apprehensive tone. "Where are you?"
"Catherine!"
She followed his voice, turning left and right as she moved through the trees. When she was far enough away from the lake so that she would not easily be able to run away, Stephen stepped in front of her and grabbed her around the waist.
"You!" she exclaimed, struggling against his arms. "Let go of me, Mr. Archi—"
He silenced her with a kiss.
She pushed him away.
"Call me Stephen," he said with a grin.
"Let go of me, Stephen."
"Very well," he said as he dropped his arms. She did not immediately run away, as he had expected, but stood glaring at him, arms akimbo. It was a good sign.
"Why do you persist in tormenting me?" she asked. "You obsess me."
"So I have noticed. I wish you would leave me alone."
"Am I as unworthy, then, as poor Captain Phillips?" he chided. "At least I have all my parts, if that is what worries you."
The stinging slap was totally unexpected and knocked him back a step.
"How dare you imply that I could be so unfeeling about the captain's missing arm? What do you take me for?"
"Did you not tell me, more than once, that Phillips was thoroughly unsuitable?" he said as he rubbed at his cheek.
"Not because he has lost an arm! I am not so heartless as that. I am merely disappointed that Susannah has fixed her interest on a man of no fortune. You know that."
"And am I unworthy for the same reason?"
"Please," she said in a plaintive voice. "Do not do this. You know what I want. I have been honest with you about my plans. And I will marry a fortune. I will. So, please, please, just leave me alone."
Stephen stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. "I can't," he said and crushed her mouth beneath his. He kissed her with a savage intensity he had not intended. She struggled briefly. But only briefly. Stephen sensed her capitulation and gentled the kiss. He felt her arms twine around his waist and up his back, and he pulled he
r closer, tighter against him. She felt so good. So good. His mouth left hers and found her jaw, her throat, her neck, her ears, her eyes, those fabulous eyebrows. "Oh God, Catherine." He could not seem to get enough of her. When his lips found hers again, she moaned softly into his mouth and returned the kiss with equal passion.
When he gentled the kiss once again, she pulled away—somewhat reluctantly, he was sure. She untangled herself from his arms and turned her back on him. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders and knew that she was breathing as heavily as he was. But she could not face him with her desire.
"Please," she said breathlessly, "do not do this to me. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone." She began to walk away from him. "I never want to see you again," she said as she disappeared among the trees.
Stephen followed, keeping his distance. When she reached the edge of the copse, she paused and pushed a few stray curls into place. She looked as if she was about to continue on when her back stiffened as though she sensed his presence. She turned and her eyes met his.
"I mean it," she said. "I never want to see you again." She turned, straightened her shoulders, and walked back toward the lake.
Stephen smiled smugly at her retreating back. "Liar," he whispered.
Catherine had only a moment to compose herself before a group of guests saw her, waved, and waited for her to catch up to them. How on earth was she to face them? Good Lord, the Earl of Strickland was part of the group. He smiled at her, but then his eyes darted to the copse. Oh, no. Had he seen her there with Stephen? Her hand moved unconsciously to her mouth, as if to hide the evidence that she had been thoroughly kissed. Please, God, do not let the earl suspect. The month was more than half over. She could not afford to lose him now, no matter that her disgraceful behavior made her undeserving of him. Or of any other respectable gentleman, for that matter.
Damn the man for interfering with her life. He would ruin it all for her if she was not careful. For whenever Stephen kissed her, she became so lost to him that the rest of the world seemed to slip away. Nothing else mattered but his lips on hers, his strong arms wrapped around her, and his soft brown hair beneath her questing fingers. It was only when he stopped kissing her that she realized what she was doing, what she was allowing him to do.