Must Be Magic

by Patricia Rice

  The instant Drogo had married and had a son, Celia had danced off to London and a round of lovers, and never looked back.

  Dunstan would rather rot in the Tower than play carpet for a woman’s dainty feet again.

  He particularly wouldn’t play the part of carpet for a seductive Malcolm. Lady Leila was too attractive and determined. She could walk all over a man, if he let her. Then again, no one said he had to let her.

  She’d said he could name his own terms.

  Crawl or fight. Friggin’ hell of a choice.

  Reining his gelding to the right, he set his jaw and hunkered down for the battle ahead.

  Dunstan pounded on the door of Lady Leila’s rural mansion until a stiff-necked butler answered. Accepting Dunstan’s hat, the servant led him toward the back as if he’d been expected. The witch had probably read of his arrival in her tea leaves.

  Entering what was obviously her late husband’s masculine study, he watched as the woman he thought of as the Black Widow paced before a sunny window. Or at least, he assumed it was she, given her black skirts. The bright light threw her features into shadow, and he had deliberately avoided looking closely at her in London.

  At first, this female appeared every bit as tight-laced and haughty as the woman he remembered from the ball. But noticing the way she clasped and unclasped her hands, he sensed in her an uncertainty that he hadn’t discerned earlier.

  “I’ve come to inquire if the estate agent position is still available.” Clenching his jaw, Dunstan focused on the cap covering her tightly pinned and powdered hair, avoiding any contact with her provocative Malcolm eyes. He didn’t believe in fairy tales, but if even Drogo could be tempted by a Malcolm witch, he would take no chance that there was truth in the legendary attraction between Malcolm women and Ives men. He figured the legendary disasters between their families were to be expected of any Ives who was foolish enough to fall for a witch.

  He wished the devil she’d sit down.

  “As I told you before, I need someone who is willing to help me develop new strains of flowers, ones grown for fragrance,” she announced, as if they were continuing the conversation begun in her home weeks ago.

  Her perfume, which he remembered from their earlier encounter, smelled sweeter than the jasmine in her conservatory. He concentrated all the more on the lady’s white curls.

  “I know nothing of flower breeding.” He tried not to bite off his stubborn tongue for flapping when it shouldn’t. He needed this position.

  “Learn.” Advancing from behind the desk, she gestured with long, beringed fingers at shelves of books behind him. “I wish to start with propagating roses and progress to the development of other varieties. I mean to produce perfumes from my own distillations.”

  Standing there beside him, she absently patted his arm. “I have discovered that growing things is very”—her voice caught—“difficult.”

  Beneath the sizzle of her caress, Dunstan lost the power to focus on the hitch in her voice. He had the distant notion that she’d just hired him without question or interview, but the headiness of her perfume and her stirring touch blurred his brain.

  As if sensing that, the lady tilted her coiffed head to regard him carefully, and Dunstan steeled himself, refusing to look down any further than the cap beneath his nose. If he tried hard, he could watch the robin in the bush outside the window.

  “Flowers produce no income,” he insisted, gritting his teeth. “My usual salary is based on the income I produce. How will you pay for my services?”

  He thought she glared at him before she swung on her high heels and click-clacked away.

  “I believe I told you to name your price,” she said. “I have use of my late husband’s entire estate. Take a higher percentage of sheep sales for your salary to make up for the non-income-producing acreage.”

  Use of her husband’s estate? That did not sound very permanent. Dunstan debated questioning her, but he had no real choice. He needed money. His seeds needed immediate planting. He was here. She had land. It galled him to be obligated to a woman, but he knew he could prevent some other man from robbing her blind while doubling her income—if she’d allow it.

  “I can do that,” he said, testing the waters. “But I’ll need a field of my own for my experiments.”

  “Take whatever fields you need, drain fens, plant crops, whatever you wish outside of the flower gardens. Start as soon as you like.” Leila swung around to see how the arrogant son of an earl accepted her offer. She tried not to clench her fists and show her despair. This past month living in the country had sorely tried her patience. The few flowers she’d planted were dead or dying. She needed Dunstan Ives and his knowledge more than she’d imagined.

  Standing in front of her accounting desk, frowning at her as if she were some form of insect, Dunstan seemed to steal all the air in the room. He wore muddy boots, his tailored wool coat and vest were unfastened in the warmth of the spring sun, and he vibrated with male energy and hostility. She opened a casement to let a spring breeze enter, but the masculinity of his fragrance made him impossible to ignore. Restlessly, she picked up her fan and opened and closed it while pacing behind her desk.

  These past weeks had taught her how little practical knowledge she possessed, despite all her reading. Dunstan’s unexpected arrival had revived her hope, but now she understood the difficulty of dealing with the strong attraction of an Ives. How annoying that she must learn to face temptation at this late date.

  If only she could surrender her role as a pillar of society to explore these feelings . . . But circumstances didn’t allow that yet. She still had appearances to keep up and her authority to maintain, or her nephew and his fellows would run all over her.

  “I’ll need a house with an adequate cook and housekeeper,” Dunstan asserted.

  Leila lifted an inquiring eyebrow, but the thorny Ives refused to look at her. More experimentation in managing his prickly exterior was called for.

  “The farmhouse down the lane is already prepared,” she answered, testing her strange perception of this angry man. “Have my butler give you directions. I’ve ordered more roses and will need to begin planning their location soon. I’ll expect you to return this evening so we may discuss the best approach.”

  Dunstan rested an insolent shoulder against the bookshelves and crossed his arms over his chest. Thin lines creased either side of his set mouth, and she could read refusal in his dark eyes as if it were printed there. Therein lay the problem of hiring an aristocrat to do a servant’s job. They simply didn’t know their place.

  In the sunlight, she thought him wickedly fine. His well-endowed nose suited his rugged features. Blue-black highlights gleamed in his raven hair, and a frown added to his dangerous appeal. He might not be handsome in the conventional sense, but he possessed the Ives maleness that spun a woman’s senses.

  She shuddered and turned away. She dared not place herself in the power of a man again, and definitely not one as commanding as this one.

  “As you suggested,” he answered her calmly, “I’ll ask a higher percentage to compensate for non-income-producing fields. That could be costly, so your paying crops should be planted first. The roses must wait.”

  She could get angry and crisp him to ashes. Instead, she donned the deliberate smile with which she’d conquered society. Granting him a smoldering look from beneath lowered lashes, an expression that always conned men to do her bidding, Leila glided closer, until she could tell he was holding his breath. She could smell the sensual awareness on him. Seductively scratching a manicured fingernail over his jabot, she detected the rapid beat of his heart.

  “The rose garden,” she insisted, “comes first. If your income does not equal what my father and Rolly paid you by year’s end, I will provide the difference as a salary.”

  “I’ll study roses,” he agreed, not really agreeing. He abruptly turned his back on her and scanned her bookshelves. “I’ll take a few of these books with me,” he add
ed, “and go back to the inn to fetch my things.”

  He selected a few sturdy volumes and walked off.

  May the goddesses rain toads upon his head!

  Leila wasn’t certain if she should laugh with relief or fling books at his stiff spine as he departed.

  She wanted to hate the man for being so obdurate. Instead, she longed to be just like him. She wanted to know her abilities and where they could take her with full confidence, as he did.

  Releasing her disappointment and puzzlement, Leila let an almost giddy excitement renew her resolve. Dunstan Ives, the best agronomist in all England, had come to work for her.

  Finally she had what she needed to explore her interest in scents. She could only pray that her explorations would lead to the discovery of her Malcolm gift.

  The extraordinary gifts her sisters and cousins possessed all related to their more common talents. Lucinda had the gift of revealing character through portrait painting. Felicity, the bookworm, picked up images of the past from old maps and letters.

  Surely, surely, her own gift must be related to her talent for scents. Perhaps someday she might discover in herself a gift capable of saving a life, as Ninian’s had saved her husband.

  Ripping off her cap and shaking a cloud of powder from her tightly pinned curls, Leila massaged her scalp and sighed in relief. Now, if she could take off this damned corset and gown and slip into the fields to see how her newly planted roses had fared through the night . . .

  Glancing out the window, she watched Dunstan ride away, and an odd excitement possessed her. Could it be possible to work side by side with a man who might respect her for her talents rather than for her position in society?

  Then again, how could she possibly work with an Ives? Whom was she fooling?

  A carriage rolled up the drive, and running a hand through her hair to loosen it, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She didn’t want to put her hair up again for visitors. She’d invited several of her younger sisters and cousins to stay, but that wasn’t one of her family’s coaches.

  She crossed to the study door to listen as the butler greeted her unexpected guest. She heard no feminine laughter, only a single male monotone. One of her suitors, then, hoping to beat the competition. Fie on him.

  If that brat of a nephew of her husband’s had some idea that she would marry and thus give up this land as stipulated in her husband’s will, he had another lesson or two to learn. She intended to wear widow’s weeds into eternity.

  She hurried up the back stairs to her chamber and rang for her maid. “Who has arrived?” she demanded as soon as the maid entered.

  “Lord John Albemarle, milady.” She sounded scandalized, as well she should be. It was highly improper for a gentleman to call without a family member in attendance.

  “Lord John, the presumptuous twit.” Leila glared at her reflection as the maid brushed off her black gown and pinned up her hair again. She hated black, hated powder, hated the trappings of this woman she’d become to suit her husband. But she wore the guise for good reason. It gave her the authority she needed to wield her wealth and assets, and the approval of society required to do so.

  “He is most handsome, my lady,” the maid whispered.

  “And he’s gambled away this quarter’s allowance,” Leila replied in irritation, well knowing the company the gentleman kept. She hoped her nephew avoided the gaming tables that Lord John frequented.

  “Ahh, but a gentleman like that could be trés amusing. And what pretty children he would give you.”

  Leila ignored the swift shaft of pain to her heart and, feigning lightness, replied, “Oh, I’m much too busy for children.”

  She allowed Marie to pin her hair beneath the black lace cap. Lord John was the spoiled younger son of a nobleman and would not leave without a personal reprimand. His kind always thought their charms irresistible.

  Brushing away her maid’s offer of earbobs and necklace to match her rings, Leila descended the front stairs, without hurry. She’d performed the role of society beauty for so many years, she could do it in her sleep.

  She’d disdained panniers for this encounter, and merely brushed her petticoats aside as she entered the guest parlor. Lord John leapt to his feet, made an elegant bow, and offered his gloved hand.

  “My lady, London has been forlorn without you.”

  “Fiddle-faddle. What are you doing here, sir?” She removed her hand from his. He smelled of horses and gaming tables, odors she found particularly repugnant at the moment. She produced a handkerchief to ward off the scent. “Did my nephew not tell you I have tired of the city and wish to rusticate a while?”

  “I could not bear the thought of another evening without your presence. The lure of the countryside, and you, drew me onward.”

  So, the young viscount had not given him the message. The little brat. He was up to his childish pranks already. She would never be rid of these encroaching mushrooms. “I am sorry you have come so far without reason,” she said. “My sisters have not arrived to entertain you. But I understand Bath is lively. Perhaps you could seek lodging there.”

  “Do not send me away so soon,” he pleaded. “I will be all that is circumspect until your family arrives. Let us take time to know each other better.”

  Marie was right—he was a handsome man. Beneath his elegant wig, Lord John revealed a high, intelligent forehead, eyes of pleasing bronze, and curved lips one could contemplate with pleasure. She had dallied an evening or two tasting those lips, but they had not inspired her to more. In fact, his fawning courtship had shown her the shallowness of the seductive powers she’d wielded these last years.

  “Remember my heritage, my lord,” she said. “My father may be a marquess, but my mother is a Malcolm. I know you far better than you know me.”

  She rarely flaunted her ancestry. Her husband had frowned upon it. Most men didn’t wish to be allied with a family that was commonly rumored to include witches, but Malcolms were wealthy and powerful, and men couldn’t resist the alliance any more than they could like it.

  It was a measure of Lord John’s desperation that he hesitated only briefly. “I do not court your family,” he informed her boldly. “It is you I desire. Let me beg just a few days of your time.”

  He kissed the back of her hand and gazed upon her soulfully, as if he truly meant the depth of his devotion. Had she been an innocent eighteen, she might have believed him.

  The loss of that innocence pained her, but it was too late for regret. She’d chosen to do her duty as a Malcolm should. Although she’d failed to produce more Malcolms, she’d accomplished the main objective of adding to the family coffers. Now that that duty had been fulfilled, she needn’t marry again.

  Leila removed her hand and rang for the butler. “Homer will show you out. I believe there is time to reach Bath before nightfall. It was good of you to stop and visit, and if you will post your direction after you are situated, I will see that you receive any invitations we offer this summer. Good day, my lord.”

  She held her capped head high, clasped her fingers in the folds of her black silk, and remained inflexible while the butler escorted her guest to the front doors.

  With Lord John gone, the house echoed in emptiness.

  Her nose twitched in irritation at the scent of horses and leather and cowardice lingering in the air after he departed.

  It was almost sunset. She could slip into the garden to fill her senses with fresh fragrances and erase the stench of decadence. The most recently planted roses had been healthy last time she looked.

  Flinging off her cap and shaking loose the pins for the second time that day, Leila raced up the stairs, gleefully anticipating the sight of those first rosebuds.

  Four

  “Damnation.”

  Garbed in an old red wool gown left from her unmarried days, Leila collapsed on the muddy ground in the middle of a garden of ruined rosebushes, fighting back tears.

  “Hellfire.”

  Row after row
of distorted rose leaves and withered buds stretched out around her. Propping her elbows on her knees, she sought every curse word she knew.

  It seemed the only appropriate response to this latest in a succession of disasters. The horses had eaten her lavender seedlings last week. The geraniums had been frosted upon the week before that. Mites had infected the seedlings in the greenhouse. And now, her precious roses were dying.

  She swiped furiously at a tear trickling down her cheek. “Bloody damn hell,” she continued in such a tone that even her cat looked askance at her. “My gift has to be related to fragrances, Jehoshaphat. I can tell the scent of a Celsiane rose from a Celestial, a damask from an alba. And if Maman’s gift is for creating happiness with scented candles, I don’t see why I can’t do the same or more.”

  Jehoshaphat jumped in her lap, crumpling the dead rose leaf in her hand, the useless product of years of study. Leila swallowed a sob, and feeling cast adrift on stormy waters, she stroked her only companion.

  She’d spent the empty days of her marriage examining every rose in England so that when the opportunity arose, she would know the varieties required to create the fragrances that danced in her mind. She’d kept notebooks, written down names and gardeners, and researched growing habits, pretending that someday she would have a chance to use her knowledge and ease the pent-up frustration of being a useless nonentity in her own family. Every time she flashed another false smile as she spun around a ballroom, she thought about the scents she could create from the flowers she studied, and imagined how she might bring joy to people’s lives.

  With every blink of her eyelashes, she had longed to rip away her social mask and reveal the woman inside, weeping to get out.

  These gardens were the life she’d never lived; the roses were the children she would never bear. And now they were dying. Something new and precious inside her withered with them.