by Lower, Becky
Chapter Seventeen
Day Fifteen
Parker wolfed down his morning meal, relishing the taste of the melted butter on his flaky biscuit and the salty sweetness of the bacon. He needed to get on with his life as well as his business. And he needed to do so with Violet. Tonight, they’d have dinner together with Lord Weymouth. Then, they’d dance a bit, a perfect opportunity for him to place his hands on her soft skin, to feel the heat from her body. He rolled his shoulders and picked up his satchel, eager for the day to begin.
With his face now bruised and battered, he would have to rely on his personality alone to persuade Violet to give up everything familiar and start again with him. He had only a few days at most left with her, and those days would be mostly filled with the backbreaking business of preparing the selected roses for transport and loading them onto carts. No more passionate kisses in the hothouse. He put his finger to his sore lip and winced. Even a gentle kiss could not be tolerated with his swollen lip. He had one untouched cheek left, but a brotherly kiss from Violet held no appeal. He needed to go behind her gentle demeanor and unleash the torrid side of her nature again. Perhaps tonight, on their way home from the Weymouth soiree.
He plowed his sore knuckles through his hair and thought of the reaction he’d get from his friends back in the States if he came home with more than he had originally bargained for. If he were to arrive in America with a true English beauty along with his lovely roses, he’d be possibly ridiculed for bringing home the enemy, and she’d never fit in. Never be accepted. Her cultured English accent would recall too many fresh memories for Americans. He was a fool to even consider such an outcome. But what about the alternative? What if he were to return to England? Edgar needed help at Mulberry Hill, because Parker could see, even if Edgar couldn’t, that it would not last to have his daughters work for him instead of find suitable mates. Edgar should be assisting in that regard, marrying his daughters off to men who could help expand the business. Parker would a good choice to take over the nursery reins once Edgar stepped down.
Violet had been the one to open his heart again, something no American woman had done. So, foolish or not, he would bare his feelings to her today, if possible. Or if not during the day, then definitely this evening. And gauge her reaction, see if she were even remotely interested, if she shared his feelings. The course he had set for them would not be an easy one, fraught with challenges but also excitement. And love. More than he’d ever dreamed of. Parker had witnessed the kind of love Violet lavished on her roses. Since he now admitted his feelings about her, he greedily wanted her to lavish the same kind of love on him, and on the children they’d have.
“So you’re doomed, old man,” he muttered as he set off for the hike over to the greenhouse. “Here I come, The Cripple With No Charm.” He’d been described as such so many times over the past eleven years it stuck with him, even as it poked at his craw. He’d been both crippled and made charmless by the British militia, so who should be the one to crack through his shell? Of course, it would have to be a British woman.
He’d lure her back into the hothouse this morning, supposedly so he could take notes on her procedure this time. He’d follow along as she stepped through her Lady Banks reproduction process. Then, he’d do the same with her. Show her how the process worked with humans. Lay his heart on the line this time, so there’d be no doubt about his feelings. If things really heated up between them and she gave herself to him, she’d surely wish to marry him. Even with a hasty marriage, however, her father might cease doing business with McMahon Nursery, since Parker would have besmirched the reputation of one of his precious daughters and robbed him of a valuable employee. He shook his head. Taking advantage of her innocence would be the worst plan possible. Thoughts along those lines could come to no good end. It would be best to wind up his business and put his randy body on a ship headed home posthaste.
Yet he had to tell her of his feelings. To prove to her not every man behaved like Carson and Davey. That there were good men in this world. Men who would cherish her. If a way to raise the subject didn’t present itself today in the greenhouse, he’d tell her this evening. And let her decide what to do. That way, whatever the outcome, he could not be blamed. Violet would be making all the sacrifices, so it seemed only fair. Plan of action finally in place, Parker scurried up the hill to the greenhouse. Not the best of plans, but any plan at all must be better than none.
“Dammit!” Parker punched the air with his raised fist. He had not come up with a good plan at all. His way spelled doom, but it happened to be the only thing he could come up with. All he could do was lay out his feelings to her. At best, she’d fall into his arms, which were the only body parts still intact. And at worst?
Parker didn’t have an answer should that be the outcome.
• • •
Violet took a deep breath of the musky, sweet smelling air. She’d never get tired of her greenhouse’s scents, even if the humidity made her hair curl even more than usual. A tendril escaped her bun, and she brushed the stray lock from her face as she finished up her note-taking. She’d noticed a sprout had appeared this morning from the crop of seeds she’d planted nearly a year ago, and her heart beat a bit faster as she studied her notes on which sprout had been brave enough to stick its head out today. Perhaps by next winter, she might have some test results to send to Mr. Sharp at Kensington Gardens, and her place in the Royal Horticultural Society would be cemented. Mr. Sharp would order hundreds of shrubs from her father’s nursery for the Gardens, and she’d go on a lecture tour about her techniques.
Maybe she’d even make it to America to discuss her work.
The mere mention of America halted her thoughts. If Parker had feelings for her, if he were to extend an offer of marriage and she accepted it, she’d be turning her back on her work, the toil, the exactness, the painstaking notes that had been her life’s mission. She couldn’t leave; not ever. Yet she harbored a sense of doom with her decision. If she didn’t get on a ship with Parker, she’d never marry, never have children. Plant sprouts were one thing, but she longed for little sprouts of her own to raise and mold into good human beings. Could she find an English fellow to marry? So far, she’d been unable to do so. She only had the experience with Davey to point to and all she’d done there is make a dunce of herself and muck things up. She sighed and readied the greenhouse for Parker.
Newspapers had soaked in a sink for a day now. Violet and Parker would thoroughly water the roses he had selected to take to America, then they’d wrap wet newspapers around them to create a moisture barrier. She bent over the rain barrel, filling her bucket with more water, and splashed it over the papers in the sink a bit too vigorously, soaking the front of her gown in the process. She needed the newspapers to be not just damp, but sopping wet. She hadn’t intended make herself the same way in the process, though.
Although her apron covered her gown, her dress had been thoroughly soaked, and she began to get chilled, even in the warm greenhouse. A spare gown always hung on the wall behind her desk, because she frequently got her attire either wet or filthy. If she hurried, she could finish watering and change her clothing before Parker arrived for the day. If he did, in fact, arrive. The poor man had been beaten soundly, although he claimed Carson had gotten the worst of it. She wouldn’t blame him if he took an additional day off to rest and care for his wounded body, although he had been invited to the Weymouth estate for the evening. Perhaps he’d skip greenhouse time to be better prepared for what could be, at best, a long, boring evening, with Lord Weymouth reminiscing about the time he’d spent in Thomas Jefferson’s company years ago. If he didn’t appear in the greenhouse today, she’d have the entire time to ponder this evening’s dinner and dance at the Weymouth estate. She hadn’t danced in years. Not since her mother’s death.
Watering done, she removed her apron and took her spare gown off its hook. She then positioned herself in the middle of the greenhouse where she’d be shielded by tho
usands of shrubs. The last thing she needed was to get down to her chemise and drawers in front of all of Salisbury. There were some disadvantages to working in a glass house on top of the tallest hill in the town. She unbuttoned and dropped her damp gown, stepped into her fresh one, and tugged it up. She fastened the buttons quickly and glanced around. Breathing a sigh of relief, she picked up the discarded gown and headed toward the office. When she spied Parker, who had obviously entered the greenhouse while she changed and now stood with a gaping mouth by the door, her sigh of relief became a gasp of embarrassment.
She gazed into his one open, piercing blue eye and squared her shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t see anything. Even if you did, I hope you’ll be gentleman enough to lie to me.”
He shrugged and grinned before he winced and touched his split lip. “Uh, no, I didn’t see a thing. What did I miss?”
She bustled past him with a huff. “You’re a very poor liar. Are all Americans such bad actors?”
He took his usual seat in front of her desk, and she scurried around to the other side. He raised an eyebrow in her direction. “We Americans are all different from one another, with one exception. We love our country as much as you English love yours. Would you care to find out for yourself?”
She stared at him, as if doing so would unravel his question. How had he read her thoughts so well? Had he just proposed to her? Offered to take her back to America with him? Or had it merely been an offhand remark, along the order of “you should give it a go someday”? Perhaps she’d act as if he hadn’t said anything at all.
Parker shifted in his seat and rubbed his leg.
She glanced up at him. “We need to get started on crating the roses.”
“I had something else in mind, if you’re willing.” Parker pointed to his satchel. “I’ve got my notebook with me today. I had hoped for us to go back to the hothouse and have you go through the motions of hybridization again. I promise, if you do so, to be a better student this time. I’ll write down your method so I can use it when I get back home.”
Her gaze shifted back to the desk. To go back into the hothouse with Parker, talking about males and females, stamens and pistils, pollen and sticky parts. So not what she needed to do today, or any day. Recalling what had happened the only other time they’d been there, Violet’s cheeks warmed.
She lifted her head, certain she could control the situation. After all, she did have a seedling to show off. Yes, she could control things. This happened to be her domain, not his. And the sooner she completed the task to his satisfaction, the sooner he could cross it off his list and be on his way. “One of my experiments poked its head out of the ground this morning. I’m most eager to see what develops if I can keep the wee sprout alive.” She dampened her dry lips with her tongue. A sound idea. Show off her sprout, take Parker quickly through the remainder of the hybridization process, and send him on his merry way.
“We can go through the last half of the process today, but we really should also begin crating the roses you ordered.” Yes, she could stay on top of this situation. A quick run-through of her process and then hard work would dispel any notion of marriage, America, and Parker.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait until tomorrow to begin loading up the roses. My body still aches from the pounding I took, and we do have to yet get through dinner and dancing at the Weymouth estate.” Parker glanced at her quickly and then slid his gaze away.
“There’s no ‘we’ in your statement, unless you’re talking about you and Father. I’m not accompanying you this evening.” Violet brushed her hand over her stomach, which had suddenly tied itself in knots. She had trouble catching her breath.
“So you’re going to try to weasel out of dinner?” Parker crossed his legs, and Violet got lost staring at his long limbs. “Your father seemed so excited about the invitation. I think you should be as well, rather than dreading it. You’ve done enough experiments with your roses for Lord Weymouth to take you seriously and to help you gain access to the Royal Horticultural Society. ”
Stitches and biscuits. Her plans to finish with Parker and send him on his way with a brush of her hands now involved an evening of repast, wine, and dancing. He was right. There would be no weaseling out of the event. Surely no good could come of it. So why did the knots in her stomach turn into a host of butterflies, which were now drunkenly cavorting around? The mere thought of spending an entire evening with a man, having his hand on her waist as she pranced around the dance floor in time to her butterflies, would normally fill her with dread. But because this was Parker, her hopes rose. If she had to let him go back to America in a few days, she wanted every moment she could get with him. She’d waltz stately around the room without a single misstep, following his lead. She’d put her time with him into her memory, box every last one of them up, and close the lid. But at least she would have something to mull over during her lonely nights.
Chapter Eighteen
Heading into the hothouse with Violet again might not have been the best idea Parker’d ever had. But if she finished the process and gave him another run-through of her hybridization techniques, he could mark that off his list, right? Then, all that would be left would be to pack up his order, suffer through dinner with the stuffy Lord Weymouth, and make the ride back to Portsmouth before heading home. He could rationalize his actions all day long, but the true reason for his decision to visit the hothouse with Violet again could not be denied. He really wished to test her feelings, to gauge her level of interest in him, to make certain he read things properly.
He’d come up the hill this morning certain he could let her set the pace once they were in the hothouse, let her take the lead in their cloistered quarters, let her decide the course of their relationship. But then, he’d entered the greenhouse and caught sight of Violet as she changed from one gown to the other. A glimpse of a naked shoulder, the darker hue of a nipple through her chemise, had been all he needed to turn him back into a man ruled by his baser instincts. And his instinct told him to replicate the reproduction process, using himself and Violet as the subjects. Why had he even suggested the hothouse today after being tempted by her display of flesh? He could easily have waited until tomorrow or the next day, when his randy thoughts were put into check.
Dammit. It didn’t matter if it were today or tomorrow. Parker needed to taste Violet again, to touch her cheek, to have her body melt into him. His ribs may be bruised along with his lip, but other body parts were rising to the occasion. First, the hothouse. Then, tonight they’d dress in their finest and spend the evening dancing in each other’s arms. Even if Parker couldn’t convert her to his wishes by the end of the night, he would certainly give his best effort. He’d make certain she enjoyed the evening. Violet deserved to have some good memories. But, dammit, so did he. And his good memory of England would only happen if she joined him in America.
He hoisted himself out of the chair. “I’m ready for another lesson, Miss Wilson.”
Violet’s lips canted upward, but only at the edges. “We’re back to being formal again, are we, Mr. Sinclair?”
“We can be as formal or as familiar as you’d prefer.” His one open eye homed in on her. He was treading on dangerous ground here.
She harrumphed and strode past him. “Then come along. We’ll mark the task off your list and then get on with the packing. Even if we only pack one or two boxes today, it will be a start.”
Violet didn’t yet grasp the concept that learning her methods with the Lady Banks happened to not be the only task left. He hoped to show her within the next hour his real agenda, the other empty box on his checklist.
He followed her into the part of the greenhouse where she had positioned her pride seedlings. She showed off her little sprout, touching the new leaves lightly, testing the soil to make certain it had enough water. Parker stood back a pace while he witnessed her tender touch. In his mind’s eye, he could see her with a child, going through the same motions—checking its flan
nel nappy for dampness, stroking its arms and legs lightly, giving it a bath. He took another step back and brushed his hand over his eyes. Dear God. This had to be the worst idea he’d ever come up with. He dashed around to the other side of the table, as if putting a barrier between them would also dam up his bawdy, delicious, naughty thoughts.
She shifted her gaze from her darling sprout to him. “Are you ready to begin taking notes?”
Already, he’d forgotten the reason they were in this room and his promise to take careful notations of the process. He carted over a small bench, its legs scraping the wooden floor, and sat. He opened his satchel with a flourish and removed a notepad and pencil. “Now I am. You’ll have to forgive me for sitting when you aren’t, but my body is still recovering from the beating I took yesterday.”