The dogs turned eager faces in her direction as she approached, yet their haunches remained planted on the ground.
“What are their names?” She bent and patted each dog on its silky head, earning wags of approval.
Lord Bretheridge gave her a boyish grin. “The gentleman is Sir Freckleton and the spaniels are Moll and Lasses. Franny named the girls when I brought them home after trip to my sugar plantations in Trinidad and Tobago.”
“Moll and Lasses, for molasses?” Angelina’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Exactly so.” He regarded Lady Francesca affectionately. “She named my horse Kane.”
“She didn’t.” Angelina grinned unabashedly. “Truly?”
He winked. “Indeed.”
“Have you other pets?” She made a pretense of perusing the grounds. “A cat named Sugar or Sweetie perhaps?”
Angelina petted Sir Freckleton’s mottled head. “I’m surprised he’s not named Sir Bon Bon.”
The marquis pressed a hand to his broad chest in mock offense. “Mrs. Thorne, are you poking fun at my pets?”
“Most assuredly, my lord,” she quipped.
Not prudent. He might get the wrong impression regarding her interest in him. Not that she was interested, because she wasn’t. However, if ever she became fascinated in a man again . . .
For pity’s sake, Angelina. Do stop your mental prattling.
She purposely changed the subject to something safer. “Now, about those roses.”
They’d dawdled long enough. Angelina wasn’t altogether comfortable with this lighthearted bantering. The cordiality seemed too personal, too intimate, and after what Charles put her through, she never wanted to be intimate, physically or emotionally, with a man again.
Lord Bretheridge didn’t offer her his arm as they headed for the conservatory. Gratitude suffused her. She’d no desire for her traitorous body to respond to his touch.
For surely she would.
Maybe some ailment afflicted her. That’s why she found herself attracted to handsome men who turned her to quivering plum pudding whenever they touched her.
Well, two men did at least, though everything beyond Charles’s kisses had proved wholly disappointing.
New rule.
Avoid attractive men. And those causing curious quivers in unmentionable places.
She felt cheated, as if she’d missed out on something wonderful. Now, she’d never experience that mystical phenomenon. Suppressing a sigh, she followed Lord Bretheridge into the conservatory.
One step into the structure and Angelina stopped. “Oh, my.”
Awestruck, she stood gawping.
The chamber at the Plaza Hotel didn’t compare to this. Folding her parasol, Angelina propped the accessory beside the door. She advanced farther into the building, sending Lord Bretheridge a delighted little laugh.
“This,” she made a sweeping gesture, “is beyond breathtaking.”
Thousands of blossoms perfumed the air. She closed her eyes and inhaled. The air hung thick with the roses’ fragrance.
“Wonderful,” she whispered, afraid to disturb the tranquility of the magical place.
“I’m glad you like it.”
At the provocative timbre of his voice, her eyelids popped open. The glow in his eyes mesmerized her. She could drown in those smoldering depths.
She tore her gaze away, her breathing unsteady, and hurried to a rose brushed in shades of peach. “Would you look at these colors? They don’t appear real. It’s almost as if they’ve been painted.”
“Yes, by the hand of God.” He chuckled and wandered to her side. “No human is capable of creating such beauty.”
“Quite so. Please tell me, my lord, how does one manage something of this magnitude?” She waved her hand about, indicating the vast array of blooms.
“I don’t tend them myself. It’s impossible given the time I spend away. I have a professional staff of gardeners, and they follow my directives unerringly.”
Angelina peered around as she sauntered from plant to plant, tenderly touching a silky petal now and again. “I’m duly impressed.”
She threw him a peek over her shoulder.
Lord Bretheridge stared at her, a contemplative expression on his face. His unnerving scrutiny focused on her hair before roaming the conservatory. He grinned and strode past her. Plucking a bloom from a bush, he sniffed the rose.
He extended the flower. “It reminds me of you. Your hair.”
The rose, pale yellow and sporting light coppery-red edges, was exquisite. Angelina took the bloom, her fingers accidentally brushing his. She ignored the jar of awareness touching him caused and pressed the fragrant petals to her nose.
“Did you know every shade of roses has its own meaning?” Lord Bretheridge leaned against a wooden table, his ankles and arms crossed.
“I only know a few.” She bowed her head to inspect a white tea rose. She pointed to the pale bloom. “White means purity, I believe. Red is love and passion, of course, and yellow means joy or jealousy.”
Stroking the smooth rose, she closed her eyes for a moment. “And pink means thankfulness?”
He nodded, the same inscrutable glimmer in his eyes. “Dark pink does. Light pink means admiration.”
“What about this one?” Angelina studied the rose between her fingertips. “I don’t know the meanings of roses containing more than one color.”
Straightening, his lordship sauntered to her. Encasing her hand in his, he raised the full blossom to his nose, then touched it to his lips.
She couldn’t tear her attention away, though her sensible self shrieked for her to turn on her heel and bolt from the building.
“This rose has a very special meaning.”
His provocative murmur sent her heart to skipping.
“What,” she swallowed and licked her lips. “What does it mean?”
“Friendship.” His eyes darkened. The hand encircling hers tightened the tiniest amount as his mouth arched seductively. “And falling in love.”
Lord Bretheridge’s gaze dipped to her mouth a mere moment before he brushed her lips with his.
A feather’s touch. No more.
Chapter 12
Angelina sprang away from the marquis with such alacrity, she nearly fell in her haste.
He steadied her with one hand, which caused another frisson of desire to sluice through her arm.
She pressed her hand to her burning lips.
He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not the reaction I’d hoped for.”
“You overstep the mark, my lord!”
His tender kiss undid her.
Though hardly more than a whisper, the soft pressure of his lips sent sparks from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Was her hair standing on end? Every one on her arms seemed to be. Heavens, what would a passionate kiss from him do to her?
Melt her like wax near a flame.
Goose!
A stallion amidst of a herd of mares in season had more self-control than she did. One tiny, barely-could-pass-for-a-kiss touch on the lips and her rules might as well be dry as dust kindling.
Self-castigation liberally dosed with distrust sparked another desire; to put distance between her and his lordship before she humiliated herself further. She swirled toward the door, her head pounding.
Intuition warned her not to come in here with him. Did she listen? Oh, no. She stomped across the straw-scattered floor. Had common sense completely abandoned her?
Another rule.
Don’t accept roses from men. Ever.
“Wait, Mrs. Thorne, please.”
Lord Bretheridge’s boots crunched an even rhythm atop the straw as he followed her.
Angeli
na didn’t slow her pace, the need to escape the conservatory and him, overwhelming. She didn’t trust herself. She already proved she lacked a whit of intelligence when it came to men. An internal alarm shrieked Lord Bretheridge was far more dangerous than Charles had ever been.
The marquis’s strong hand gently grasped her elbow, forcing her to stop. “Please, I beg a few moments. Let me have my say, and then, if you still wish to, I’ll let you leave without another word.”
Using her anger as a shield, she bristled and twisted from his grasp. “Pray tell me why I should listen to a single word you have to say? Yesterday, you judged me and found me wanting without knowing anything about my situation.”
Breathing hard, she planted her hands on her hips. “You insulted me, insinuating I’m after your title and position, which I don’t give a rat’s whisker about, by the way. And what’s worse, you accused me of conspiring with my uncle to entrap you into marriage.”
Angelina poked his solid as oak chest. “You lure me here,” she flung a hand in the air, “on the pretext of showing me your bloody flowers, and you dare to kiss me.”
Thrusting her chin skyward, she glared at him, daring him to refute her. Yes, ire proved much safer. The frenzied pounding in her chest was driven by anger, not desire.
Wasn’t it?
“Everything you say is true, Mrs. Thorne.”
Lord Bretheridge met her eyes, his steady and calm, though she detected a measure of remorse.
His gaze sank to her mouth and lingered there.
Angelina meshed her lips to keep from licking them. She wanted him to kiss her again—only harder this time.
Much harder.
She was wicked. A wanton, pure and simple.
Father had called her a spawn of Satan. With her red hair, green eyes, and apparently a Jezebel spirit, perchance his words held a morsel of truth.
What other explanation was there for her reaction to the marquis when her womb cradled another man’s child? A cur who, a few short months ago, she’d been convinced would hold her capricious heart for eternity. Now thoughts of Charles had her on the verge of casting up her accounts.
She wouldn’t become enamored ever again. The notion was unthinkable. She wouldn’t survive another betrayal.
Bowing his head, Lord Bretheridge clasped his nape. “The honest truth is I believe I’ve greatly misjudged you and must beg you to accept my apology.”
Cocking his head, he gave her a boyish grin.
She hadn’t expected him to apologize. Her indignation evaporated, replaced by overwhelming sadness. “I’m sure you won’t be the last. I suppose ridicule is something I must become accustomed to.”
“Perhaps not.” Confidence weighted his words.
Fighting tears, she peeked at him through trembling eyelashes. “No?”
“Why don’t you tell me what brought you to England?” Lord Bretheridge flashed his charming smile again.
“Only what you’re comfortable sharing, naturally. Afterward, I’ll tell you the solution I arrived at last night, which, I hope, might provide what we both most need at present.”
She couldn’t fathom God reversing time and permitting her to relive the fateful day she’d bumped into the conniving lickspittle she’d married. With the knowledge she had now, she’d shriek like a banshee the instant he plunged into the alcove at the Dennison’s ball.
“What I most need, your lordship, is to not be pregnant and to have never met Charles. Have you a solution for either of those?” Though softly spoken, she detected the bitterness in her tone.
His compassion-filled gaze settled on her stomach. “No, I don’t. Nonetheless, I’d be honored to hear your tale.”
Doubt prodding her common sense, Angelina crossed her arms and considered Lord Bretheridge. What possible suggestion would remedy their situations? She knew nothing about him other than he owned a neighboring estate and contention existed between him and Uncle Ambrose regarding a gambling wager.
And he kissed divinely.
Stop it.
Her lower spine and abdomen twinged. She needed to rub her hips and back but didn’t dare draw attention to her condition. She shrugged and turned away. “I really don’t see—”
“Please. Give me this one chance.” He laid his hand on hers. Fine dark brown hairs dotted his knuckles and he had a heart-shaped mole on his index finger. “Please.”
The entreaty in his voice undid her, and her shoulders drooped.
“Very well. Five minutes, my lord.” She looked about the conservatory. “And, I should like to sit.”
Needed to sit before she plopped onto the grass in an undignified heap.
Transparent relief softened his expression. “Of course. There’s a bench underneath the magnolia tree.”
Taking her by the elbow, he guided her to the door. At the entrance, he stopped to collect her parasol. He swept the blooms with one last glance. Satisfaction glimmered in his eyes as he passed the parasol to her.
“Thank you. What of your sister?” Not so much as a whisper would pass Angelina’s lips in the presence of anyone else.
Releasing her arm, the marquis stepped aside. “See for yourself.”
No one sat beneath the umbrella-like tree. The dogs had vanished as well. Bother. She promised Lady Francesca she’d only be a few minutes.
“I’m sorry to have missed your sister. She’s delightful. I suppose she tired of waiting.”
Angelina sprang open the parasol, resisting the urge to rub her palm against her elbow to settle the perturbing prickles lingering from his lordship’s touch. The cool shade below the flowering tree beckoned. Even with both end doors wide open, the hothouse had been overly warm and muggy.
“Franny usually reads to Mother for an hour in the afternoon.”
The marquis fell into pace beside her.
“My sister doesn’t tolerate the heat. I think her chair is partially to blame. The contraption is rather confining, and the material doesn’t allow much air circulation. She prefers an armchair or her window seat in the solar.”
“How long has she been confined to an invalid chair?”
“Since she was six.”
A hardness edged the marquis’s tone, and Angelina pressed no more. She settled herself on the marble bench, practically sighing in pleasure at the wonderful coolness of the stone. If Lord Bretheridge hadn’t been present, she’d have laid her cheek against it cold surface.
His lordship sat beside her, his leg brushing her skirt. He shifted as far away as the bench would permit—all of six inches.
He sat much too close for her peace of mind. She smelled his cologne, felt the heat of his body, heard him breathing. She stared at his muscled thighs, all manner of naughty ideas skittering across her imagination.
Her muddled thoughts confused her, as if she’d woken from a deep, dreamless slumber.
She stared at him blankly. What were they supposed to discuss?
“We’d best not dither.” The marquis snapped his fingers. “Five minutes shall fly by in less time than it takes to return to the house.”
Humor filled his voice.
No doubt the knave knew exactly what she pondered. Irritation welled within her chest. She rolled a shoulder.
“I’m not sure what it is you wish to hear, my lord.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why? Because you invited us to tea,” Angelina retorted.
She didn’t want to have this awkward discussion about something so painful and humiliating. And none of his affair, truth to tell. Except the ugly business had become the marquis’s affair when Uncle tried to foist her off on him.
“Touché.” His lordship offered a mocking salute. “Let me rephrase my question. Why did you journey from America to live with the duke and duches
s?”
Angelina fidgeted with the edge of her glove.
“It’s an age-old story. As you already know, I’m expecting.” She paused and drew in a calming breath, keeping her gaze focused on her lap. “Though in my defense, I thought I’d wed the babe’s father.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 14