Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  "Get off!" she repeated.

  * * *

  Stephen gazed down into the flashing eyes of a very pretty little termagant. Bloody hell! He was in for it now, for she was no doubt one of his mother's guests. He hadn't expected anyone in the gardens this early. He had not been paying much attention to the path, his eyes surveying the center garden as he hurried past. He had not seen the girl as she knelt down at the edge of the gravel walk. And here he was sprawled atop her in a most improper manner.

  If it wasn't so awkward, he might be tempted to enjoy it for a moment. She really was very pretty. Dark blond curls were revealed beneath the bonnet that had been knocked askew. Her brows and eyelashes were a much darker color, providing a striking contrast to her fair hair. Her eyes, framed by the long, dark lashes, appeared to be gray.

  She really was very pretty.

  "Get off me!" she repeated in a choked voice.

  Coming to his senses, he realized he must be practically smothering her, so he quickly rolled to the side. "I beg your pardon," he said as he struggled ungracefully to his feet. He extended a hand to help her up. "I am terribly sorry. Are you quite all right?"

  She grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position. She neither looked at him nor answered him, but adjusted her bonnet. "You might have looked where you were going!" she said in a petulant tone. She sat up on her knees and Stephen offered his hand again. She took it, pulled herself upright, then immediately dropped it to shake out her skirts.

  "I am terribly sorry," he repeated, brushing himself off and searching the area for his hat. He did not know what else to say. He was reluctant to get into a conversation with the young woman, attractive though she may be. If she recognized him as the duke—which she had thankfully not yet done—there was no telling what sort of fuss she would make. He must get away as quickly as possible before the chit realized who he was and went squealing off to the other guests that she had sighted the elusive duke.

  Damn his mother and her parties, anyway. Why couldn't they leave him in peace to putter in his gardens?

  "I am so sorry," he said again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he retrieved his broad-brimmed straw hat from beneath a patch of blue gentian. He slapped it against his thigh a few times and plopped it back upon his head. "It was my fault completely. I trust you are uninjured?"

  "I am fine," she said, still straightening her skirts and not looking at him. Stephen's stomach seized up with the notion that she had not yet got a good look at him. There was still a chance she might recognize him. "No thanks to you," she continued in that irritated tone. "And of course it was your fault. I was simply minding my own business, admiring the—" She stopped as she looked down at her hand. "Oh, dear."

  Stephen moved closer, thinking she might have injured her hand and cursing himself for his own carelessness. "What is it? Have you—" He paused as he saw that she was not injured, but was holding on to a crushed purple blossom.

  Good God! It was one of his violets.

  His prized, rare, pure-bred violets.

  Forgetting for a moment his own culpability, he raged at the girl. "How dare you pick my flowers without asking! Do you think these are placed here for anyone to pluck at will? Don't you know—"

  "Your flowers?" she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

  Good Lord. He had given himself away. What an idiot! He was in for it, now.

  But his poor violets.

  "Oh! You must be the gardener," she said.

  The gardener? Looking down at himself, he realized that no one would take his scruffy appearance for that of a duke. He experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. "Yes," was all he could say. They were his gardens, after all. And he did design them and work in them. So in a sense, he was the gardener.

  "Well, you still might try to watch where you are going next time," the girl said.

  By God, she was looking him straight in the eye and truly believed he was the gardener. It was too good.

  "I am sure you are quite busy and all," she continued, "with such a large estate to care for. But you must know that the duchess has a house full of guests who might be wandering the gardens at any time. You really must be more careful."

  The petulant tone had disappeared and she seemed less offended. Interesting. He would have expected most young women of her station—for she must be aristocratic to have been invited by his mother—to disdain the working staff. He would have expected her to rail against his clumsiness, to threaten to report him to his employer, to exert all the superiority of her station. Instead, she looked wistfully down at the crushed blossom in her palm.

  "And I was not picking your flowers, if you must know," she continued. "I was simply admiring them. I must have accidentally grabbed at it when you fell over me."

  "Yes. Yes, of course," Stephen muttered. His cheeks felt warm and he knew he must be blushing as he recalled how he had been sprawled atop her. "I should not have shouted at you. It is just that..." He paused and looked down at the remains of the tiny purple flower. "Well, you cannot know how precious that little plant is."

  "Oh, but I can," she replied. "It is a pure viola odorata, is it not?"

  "Why, yes," he said, completely taken aback that this young girl would know such a thing. "Yes, it is. How did you know?"

  "Oh, I have never actually seen one before," she said, "not really, anyway. But I have seen many pictures of them. I love flowers, you see and have— had—many books on the subject. Some with lovely colored prints of various blossoms. Violets have always been my favorites, the simple viola odorata most of all. When I saw this patch of them," she said, gesturing to the clump of purple blossoms at the edge of the path, "I could not resist examining them up close. You must have cultivated them especially to bloom so long into summer, did you not? I thought to sketch one, you see. Oh, and I had also considered drawing this one, too," she added, bending to admire the fringed gentian. "Very unusual. The dark blue coloring and the fringed edges are a combination I have never before seen. Are they a special hybrid?"

  Stephen's breath was almost knocked out of him as he listened to this extraordinary speech. Here was a very pretty young woman, with dark blond curls spilling out of her bonnet and huge gray eyes peering at him guilelessly, who knew about rare flowers and special hybrids—his favorite subjects—and wasn't fawning all over him. And she actually had no idea who he was.

  It was delicious.

  It was too perfect.

  He could not keep from smiling.

  "Yes," he said at last. "How clever of you to notice. They are indeed a special hybrid. I developed the strain myself."

  "How wonderful," she exclaimed. "You must be very proud. Of everything here at Chissingworth."

  "I am indeed," he said, strangely affected by her genuine interest and admiration for the one thing in his life of which he was truly proud. "You must feel free to sketch or paint all you want while at Chissingworth. I promise you will not be so rudely accosted again."

  She smiled at him, and he almost forgot to breathe. "Thank you," she said. "I imagine there are many other rare specimens besides viola odorata. It would be lovely to sketch them."

  "I would be pleased to show you the gardens myself, and point out the most unusual specimens and such." He could have bitten his tongue off the moment the words were spoken. What on earth had made him say such a thing? He was trying to hide from his mother's guests. He had no business encouraging this young woman, this very pretty young woman, to fraternize with him. What if she discovered his true identity?"

  "How kind of you," she said, flashing a brilliant smile. "I would enjoy that. What better tour guide could I possibly ask for than Chissingworth's gardener? By the way, I am Miss Catherine Forsythe."

  Good Lord. What was he to do now? Introduce himself as the owner of Chissingworth, not merely the gardener? How would she treat him, then? Her open, artless conversation would change to egregious fawning and preening, and that inevitable predatory gli
nt would brighten her eyes. He did not believe he could bear it.

  And so, how should he introduce himself? Give his name as Stephen Archibald Frederick Charles Godfrey Manwaring? Would she recognize that moniker as belonging to the Duke of Carlisle?

  Perhaps not. Perhaps if he just shortened it, did not give her all the important bits, he might get away with it. "I am Stephen Archibald," he blurted, without further thought.

  "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Archibald."

  By God, it had worked. She believed it. Miss Forsythe truly believed him to be Mr. Archibald, the gardener at Chissingworth. He bit back a grin. It was almost too perfect.

  "And I must tell you how much I have enjoyed your gardens," she continued. "I have only just arrived, though, and look forward to seeing the rest of the grounds during my stay."

  "Shall we meet again tomorrow morning, then?" In for a penny, in for a pound. "I could show you the botanical gardens where the more exotic plants are kept." It was the least frequented area of the estate and they were unlikely to run into any other wandering guests.

  "That would be lovely."

  "The same time tomorrow morning, then? But some other place, please. I would not have you reminded of our ignominious introduction here. Through those hedges and a bit beyond is the Chinese garden. There is a small pavilion in the center. I could meet you there."

  "Assuming the duchess or my aunt have no other plans for me," she said, "I shall be there. Thank you so very much, Mr. Archibald. I look forward to it."

  With a wave and a smile, she was off, disappearing through the entrance to the rose garden. Stephen watched her go and gave a wistful sigh.

  And wondered what on earth he had got himself into.

  * * *

  Like it? Download your copy of A GARDEN FOLLY now from any online ebook retailer.

  Historical Romances by Candice Hern

  You might also be interested in these sexier historical romances by Candice Hern, all set during the Regency period. The following titles are available at most ebook retailers:

  The Merry Widows:

  IN THE THRILL OF THE NIGHT

  JUST ONE OF THOSE FLINGS

  LADY BE BAD

  The Ladies' Fashionable Cabinet:

  ONCE A DREAMER

  ONCE A SCONDREL

  ONCE A GENTLEMAN

  THE BRIDE SALE

  HER SCANDALOUS AFFAIR

  Here's an excerpt from IN THE THRILL OF THE NIGHT:

  "You want me to help you find a lover?"

  Put so bluntly, it did sound rather ridiculous. Marianne suddenly felt very foolish for even mentioning the idea. What had possessed her to do such a thing? She still could hardly believe she'd decided on this course. But in her mind's eye she had seen Penelope's glowing face on one side and Lavinia's dark martyrdom on the other. There was no question about which of the two faces she wanted to wear.

  "Forgive me, Adam. I should not have asked. I just thought ..."

  What had she thought? That he'd do exactly what he teased her about? That he would step in and do the job, providing her with "all the pleasure she could possibly imagine?" She was quite sure he could have followed through on such a promise. One had only to look in those green eyes to know it. She was almost glad his betrothal precluded such an arrangement. He knew her well enough to realize she would never seek intimacy with another woman's man.

  "You thought I was your friend and would help you, as friends do. So, how can I help you?"

  She was not entirely sure. But since the last meeting of the Fund trustees, she realized she was not as experienced in the bedroom as she had thought. She did not even know what she did not know. And that was what excited her about this whole business. What would it be like to be physically intimate with a man again, intimate in ways she could not even imagine? It sometimes thrilled her to think of it, but just as often frightened her.

  "Well." How to begin? How to say what she wanted to say without dying of mortification? "You see, David is the only man I ... well, you know. I never ..." She felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. She could not believe she was having this conversation. "Oh, Adam, I just don't know how to go about this. I don't know who would be a good ... who would know how ..." She pounded a fist against the chair arm. "Damn it all, I don't know anything. I don't know how to find the right man."

  Adam shook his head. "If you expect me to tell you which man would make the best lover, then you're out, Marianne. I'm sorry, but that is asking too much. How should I know something like that? You'd be better off asking another woman." He grinned. "The duchess, for example."

  She had thought about talking to Wilhelmina, but became too tongue-tied to do so. And yet here she was, having just such a conversation with Adam.

  "You are right. I shouldn't be bothering you. It's just ... well, it's not all about what a man does in the bedroom."

  He quirked an eyebrow. "Is it not? I thought that was the whole point."

  "Yes, but I also need a man who will be discreet. I don't want my name bandied about at the clubs or, God forbid, mentioned in the betting books. I would like my privacy respected."

  "A gentleman of honor, then," he said. "I would expect nothing less. And what else?"

  "I do not want a man with an eye to marriage, or an eye on my fortune. It must be someone willing to accept me on my own terms."

  "A physical relationship only?"

  "For the most part. No entanglements."

  "A man of the world, one who covets your body but not your fortune." His hooded gaze followed the line of her hips and thighs, sending a sudden flush of heat through her veins. "That should not be difficult. And what else?"

  Damn the man for looking at her like that. She had become much more aware lately of the words and looks and touches that passed between men and women. She had known Adam most of her life, knew him to be a seducer of women, but he had never turned those bedroom eyes on her in such a provocative way.

  Or had she just never noticed?

  She gathered her composure and smiled at his feigned insolence. "Well, it would be nice if he was handsome, of course."

  He laughed. "Of course. A handsome gentleman of honor with some skill between the sheets who is content with an uncomplicated affair. The field narrows. And what else? A man of fashion?"

  "I do not think that is important. He should be presentable and clean, naturally, but I doubt a man overly concerned with his wardrobe would be an appropriate candidate."

  "Quite right. No pinks of the ton. Too absorbed in themselves to do right by a woman. What about fortune?"

  "That should not be a consideration."

  "And age?"

  "Hmm. I had not thought of it. I suppose it would not serve the purpose for him to be in his dotage."

  "Certainly not. The fellow must be able to perform, after all. And an old roué would not suit you." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "So, we are looking for a gentleman who is handsome, discreet, and not given to dandified ways, who offers no entanglements, and is still vigorous enough to satisfy a woman's needs. Have I got it right so far?"

  She grinned and realized that he had put her entirely at ease by making a game of the whole business. "Yes, that sounds about right to me. And also —"

  "Egad, there's more? My dear, if you become too particular in your tastes, you risk narrowing the field to the point where there is no man left standing."

  "But, Adam, this hypothetical man and I will spend a great deal of time together, and not just in the bedroom. There ought to be more than just ... that, shouldn't there? I would like a man I can talk to, a man who has a way with women, a man I can enjoy being with."

  A man like you.

  "A gentleman with both conversation and charm." She nodded. "Yes, that's it."

  "A tall order, my dear. And, of course, none of it matters if the chap is not also a skillful lovemaker. Correct?"

  "Yes, I suppose that's true. Oh, Adam, I know it sounds foolish and you are merely teasing me, but I just wan
t ..."

  She could not admit it aloud, not to Adam, but she wanted that excitement and passion Penelope talked about. She wanted what her friends had experienced. Just once in her life.

  * * *

  Adam knew what she wanted, probably better than she did. And yet, out of sheer perversity, he seemed determined she should not have it. What man could possibly be worthy of her? And how could any man hope to measure up to David Nesbitt, who was no doubt as talented and skillful in the bedroom as he was at everything else he did?

  Poor Marianne was doomed to disappointment.

  Adam did not lack confidence in his own sexual prowess, and thought he just might be able to best the memory of David in that particular arena. Now that it was impossible to put that confidence to the test, he was strangely loath to see any other man make the attempt.

  "All teasing aside," she said, "would you be willing to advise me on whether certain men would ... meet my needs?"

  "You have someone in mind?"

  "Actually, I have a list."

  "Good God, a list? Damnation, Marianne, this will require more wine. Do you by chance have another bottle at hand?"

  "You know where to find it."

  He did indeed. She still kept it in the deep bottom drawer of the kneehole desk in the corner, where David had always kept a ready supply. Adam retrieved a bottle and uncorked it. Without bothering to decant it — this business of a list of potential lovers could not wait for such niceties — he carried the bottle with him and set it on the candlestand between them. He topped off her glass before refilling his own.

  After taking a restorative swallow of claret, he said, "You have a list."

  She reached for the book she'd tucked beside the seat cushion and retrieved a folded sheet of paper from between the pages. "I jotted down a few names. What do you think of Lord Peter Bentham?"