Bent double, recovering his breath, he managed a sort of nod in the young girl's direction. "Indeed. Lady Honoria. Are you well?" But he turned immediately to Persey. "I hope you were not too afraid, madam. Alas! The hem of your gown!"
She forced a smile, her heart still whipping out a too-rapid rhythm. "I've been in far worse predicaments."
"I don't doubt it," muttered the gardener.
It was an appallingly forward comment, and they all looked at him, while he scratched the bridge of his nose and stared at Persey. She knew he was thinking of the hidden garden. Of how she had let him kiss her. When it was just the two of them, playing their game. Just the two of them, as it should never have been.
And yet, a tiny butterfly of mischief fluttered and flickered along inside her veins and she knew that deep inside, where the naughty insect lived, she was glad that kiss had happened. For it had reminded her of all the many things she was; not just the dowager marchioness, a stepmother and a widow, but a woman and everything wonderful that entailed. Everything she'd been missing. Perhaps even a few things she'd never known.
He ran a finger over his lips— as she had done once to hers— and she suddenly felt panic. What if he told anybody? Flora would be intrigued and vastly amused to hear the story, while Francis, who had a greater sense of propriety than his sister, would be horrified. Honoria, of course, could correctly call her the biggest hypocrite that ever breathed.
But while Persey was suddenly bereft of speech, her friend saved the moment.
"Master Radcliffe," Flora exclaimed, "I hear you have wonderful plans for the Holbrooke estate."
"What?" He was still looking at Persey, and she felt just as helplessly trapped in his perusal as that little boat had been in the weeds of the lake.
"Francis," Flora exclaimed to her brother, clicking her fingers at him impatiently because he was still struggling upright, "you ought to hire Master Radcliffe for Wyndham."
"I'm not sure that Wyndham can be improved upon, sister."
"Anything can be improved upon. Can't it, Master Radcliffe?"
"What?" Apparently the gardener had water in his ears.
"I was about to dive in myself and tow the boat," Francis muttered, gripping Persey's arm to steady himself. "I wanted to be sure first that there was no other, more sensible way, of course."
"Of course."
"Master Radcliffe, you are soaked," cried Honoria, dashing forward to offer her shawl, pushing by Francis who was equally damp.
"We shall be devastated if you catch cold because of our foolishness," added Lady Flora, leaping in to help dry the fellow off with Honoria's shawl. Gripping one fringed corner of it in her fingers, she dabbed at his biceps through the clinging linen of his shirt with far more fervor than effectiveness.
Meanwhile, the subject of their fussing continued to stare over their heads at Persey and the other gentleman. At last she rediscovered her tongue.
"Come, Lord Chelmsworth," she said hurriedly, "we'd better get you back to the lodge for a hot cup of tea and honey."
"Brandy would be better," he replied, followed by a sneeze that bent his body double.
"As you wish." She looked around and saw her friend still simpering over Radcliffe's transparent shirt, like that sixteen-year-old basket of giggles again. Even he seemed slightly embarrassed by the attention. "Flora! Do come along. Bring your brother's boots and coat if you please." And put the gardener down, she longed to say. Instead she added, "Honoria, you are invited to dinner and cards this evening. Seven o'clock. Be prompt."
"Yes, mama." Honoria was generally thrilled to be invited to the lodge for dinner, but today she gave only that perfunctory reply, too busy tending to the drippy gardener.
"And...thank you again, Radcliffe, for your prompt service."
He looked at her as if he waited for more. Surely he did not expect an invitation to cards too? She briefly flirted with the idea, enjoying the thought of Minty's face should she hear of it. But no. That would be playing with fire in far too many ways. Flora and Honoria would probably melt all over the fellow and they shouldn't be encouraged. Neither, of course, should her own imagination.
So she merely nodded her head at Radcliffe and led a shivering Francis back toward the lodge.
"He's rather a forward fellow, Persey. Putting his hands on your person like that— on your waist— without permission." Francis stared at the bloody print on her gown. Evidence that could not be denied.
"I daresay it was merely an impulse. He meant no disrespect. I...overreacted."
She felt unsteady on her feet again. But this is what happened when one imbibed too much champagne in the sun. And now, since she had allowed Minty's gardening prodigy the liberty of one kiss, every breath she took seemed to be waiting for his lips to give them another. The sense of expectation hovered like the dandelion seeds floating around her feet as she strode through the grass.
She should have offered him a brandy too. But she couldn't think straight at the time and now the moment was passed. To go back would surely look odd. As if he'd left her flustered too. Flora would only get that knowing, smug look on her face and tease her again.
"I notice the gardener's hands were not betaken by the same ill-mannered impulse when it came to helping my sister out of the boat," Francis grumbled.
True. And Persey was not at all sure how she felt about that. Whatever it might be called, the flickering, newly ignited sensation was definitely not something to which she should add the tinder of speculation.
* * * *
He watched her walk off with the decorative gentleman and felt a heaviness pressing on his chest. Must have pulled a muscle, he thought grimly. Ouch, his back had begun to hurt and his shoulder. And his bloody hand. While he still had her in his sights he hadn't felt the pain. Now he did.
"Thank you, ladies," he managed gruffly. "I must get back to work."
Lady Flora collected her brother's coat and boots from the boat, expressed her gratitude yet again for the rescue, and then followed the other two, turning occasionally to look back at him, smiling flirtatiously. She was an attractive woman, but not the sort he would ever pursue. He didn't care much for graspers. Still might have smiled back at her though, if his lips were cooperating. Today nothing was.
"You ought to come and play cards too tonight, Master Radcliffe," Lady Honoria said, pouting slightly.
"I wasn't invited by your mama."
"But she should have invited you after that fearless rescue."
He laughed low. "They weren't in any real danger. It was not particularly brave." He didn't know why he'd put himself to such trouble. Should have left them to manage. Eventually that pompous fellow would have had to get himself wet— which he did in the end anyway. Joss knew his own actions had simply prompted the other man to do something, rather than let a mere gardener take all the acclaim.
Joss shook his head. Why try to fool himself? He knew why he did it and for whom. Trying to impress the dowager marchioness with his physical prowess, he'd probably strained something irreparably.
Everything hurt— everything— like it never had before.
Groaning, he lowered his backside to a tree stump and pulled on his boots. "Besides, I don't play cards."
And he'd have to get dressed up, be on his best behavior. Her fine friends would, no doubt, enjoy the novelty and have a chuckle about the "uncouth" gardener behind his back. He'd once heard a fine lady comment to her companion what a "marvel" it was to find him capable of intelligent conversation. As if he was a little stray dog, taken in off the streets and taught to perform clever tricks for an audience.
No. Parlor games and polite discourse with the upper crust were not for him. He would probably have made an even bigger fool of himself by staring at her all evening.
In any case, on a sartorial note, he possessed only one good coat— never seemed to have the time to visit a tailor for another— and wore it sparingly so that folk didn't notice and make comment. Currently it did not look i
ts best.
"I think it was rude of mama to leave you out," Lady Honoria insisted. "I shall speak to her later."
That gave him another little chuckle. "I wouldn't trouble yourself, young lady, not on my account. I'm merely the gardener, as she said when she introduced me to her friend."
"It's not like her at all to be aloof."
"Except to those who disagree with her. I hear some folk end up buried in that secret garden, under the roses and hollyhocks."
"Yes." She sighed, surprising him by not putting up any argument. "There is that. The bodies in the hidden garden." They both looked in the direction of the disappearing group. "Nobody is ever quite sure whether to believe it. Not even me, Master Radcliffe, and I love her better than anybody. I used to think it was another of her stories, but I sometimes imagine it might be true. She does, after all, have a temper, which my brother calls 'decidedly unhinged'. And as Minty says, what do we really know about her?"
"Hmm. What do you know about her?"
"Well, I can tell you that once a scheme, a project, or a person has won her heart, she protects it with great determination. Of course, that is a very good thing for those of us she loves; it makes her an invaluable ally. But woe betide anybody she thinks is out to harm something or someone dear to her."
This should have served a warning. Not that he needed any others.
Today, with the sun bright in her face, and as a breeze moved a curl of her hair, he thought he had seen a mark on her cheek— a crescent-shaped scar. It was hidden again in the next moment as she adjusted the floppy brim of her old hat. But it gave him pause, for it seemed to have stirred his sympathies toward her when he did not know that she deserved any.
Chapter Ten
It was a warm night, the moon full, the sky sprinkled with stars, and the air abundant with fragrance. Joss had made his shelter under an oak tree, where he lay supine on a sheepskin blanket, arms behind his head, his thoughts filled with plans. Somewhere in the grass a creature rustled, and overhead, in the branches of the tree, the shadow of a large owl watched him curiously.
For a long time the only sounds were those of the countryside and nature going about her business in that silvery, whispering peace. But quite suddenly he heard laughter. A great deal of it, coming and going like the tide.
Joss sat up, annoyed.
He knew at once where that sound came from, of course. The ruckus had drifted up to him from the same place and the same open window for those past two nights.
Did that blasted woman never enjoy a quiet night without company? Admittedly his knowledge of dowager ladies came from the two or three he'd met so far, but shouldn't she be reading a prayer book, or embroidering cushion covers?
Somehow he couldn't see that woman doing either.
He was greatly puzzled. Couldn't help this feeling that he'd been looking for a woman just like her for a long time, running through a labyrinth of tall hedges, turning corner after corner, in hope of finding her. So why did he think that? He'd never been the sort to fancy a woman just for her looks; he liked a good mind and a cheerful spirit, something interesting. But when he saw her in that rose garden, he'd suddenly thought, "There she is." Just like that, before she even spoke a word.
But that was before he knew she was the dowager marchioness, of course.
There it was again — a wave of bubbling laughter, like an overflowing stream, breaking its banks and shivering across the grass to where he sat. Joss grabbed his telescope from the sack beside him and nimbly climbed the oak tree to gain a better view. The owl that had watched him for the past half hour took flight with an angry flapping and the branches rattled under protest, but he soon found the perfect spot through which to direct his lens.
The dower house sat approximately three hundred paces down the gentle slope from the place he had made his sleeping nest. It was a small cottage surrounded by its own garden and a stone wall with a pretty iron gate. For the past two nights— and again now— the dowager marchioness entertained guests, with her windows open and a vast number of candles lit. Last night, somebody had played a fiddle and toward the end of the evening he'd even heard glass breaking.
Tonight the company was a little more subdued. It was still, however, noisier than one might expect for the widow of a marquess.
As he peered through his telescope, Joss counted three gentlemen guests periodically passing the windows of her parlor—one of them recognizable as Lord Chelmsworth, her inept oarsman from that afternoon. The other two he did not know. The only female guests present were her stepdaughter and the lively Lady Flora.
He saw a butler pouring wine and heard more laughter. Hers this time; he recognized her voice. It gave him a little jolt, deep in his stomach. When she passed the open window, he noted that she wore a pale green gown with roses embroidered on the sleeves and bodice. A simple design, elegant, not at all fussy, but luxurious material that shone in the candle light. She wore a strip of black velvet around her throat with a small cameo. Little pearls dangled from her ears, trembling as she laughed.
Joss imagined surprising her by coming up behind, closing her in his arms and pressing a kiss to the side of that slender throat. He could taste her on his tongue; could feel her rocking gently in his grasp as she laughed. His hands would be dirty from work, but she would make only a pretense of caring about that. Because they both knew they would soon be alone, the guests all gone, and then her fine gown wouldn't be the only thing he'd leave his mark upon.
It was a fool's fantasy, of course.
"Take your hands off me! What do you think you're doing?"
Her words to him from earlier that day, still pinched and burned. But she was right. Strictly speaking he shouldn't put his hands on her. Trouble was, he couldn't seem to look at her without wanting to touch her. It was something akin to looking at velvet, silk or any other fine, lush material and needing to test the softness against his fingertips.
In a frustrated huff he put his telescope down, but then immediately put it to his eye again when he heard a door opening.
He saw the dowager standing on her garden path, chatting with Lady Honoria and wishing her a goodnight, before instructing a groom to see the young lady safely back across the park to the big house. Then she returned to her other guests.
Joss settled against the trunk of his tree, stormily surveying the house as the festivities continued unabated. He took out his fob watch and examined its face in the moonlight. After midnight now.
At last the door opened again. This time she said her warm goodnight to one of the unidentified gentlemen, followed closely by Chelmsworth and Lady Flora, who finally abandoned the bacchanalia at half past one.
The merry hostess stood a while by the gate, apparently enjoying the air, before she turned and went back inside to her remaining guest.
One man remained.
He stared through his telescope, the anger ticking away inside of him. He may be only a humble gardener, but he knew damn-well that a gentleman should not be entertained alone in a widow's parlor. Especially this late.
Perhaps he ought to pay her a visit, come up with some excuse to spoil their cozy tete-a-tete.
Just as he pondered the idea of storming her cottage, there was a crack of light as the front door opened slowly again. Joss fumbled for his fob watch with his free hand, still keeping his eye to the telescope as this lingering guest— clearly a favorite—kissed her hand.
It had better not be more than that. Not while his kiss still lingered on her lips. To his relief it was not.
He checked his watch. Almost ten minutes after two, and she'd been alone with that fellow for more than half an hour after her last female guest departed. Surely that was not proper. Is that what the shrill marchioness meant when she spoke of the dowager's "dangerously liberated disposition"?
She closed her gate, watched the man mount his horse and ride off, and then she stood a while in her garden, admiring the stars for a lengthy spell. Suddenly she looked over in the direct
ion of Joss's tree and he ducked behind the leaves, almost falling from his perch. When he next braved a look he saw her turn and walk indoors.
Joss continued watching through his telescope as she moved around her parlor, snuffing the candles one by one. The last flame was in her window, fluttering like a butterfly's wing in the soft breeze, and by that teasing light he watched her reach up with both hands to remove her earrings and unpin her hair with a relish that suggested she'd been longing to do so for hours. Stumbling slightly, against the window ledge, she laughed to herself— a soft, sweet sound that caught on his pulse, like a branch overloaded with roses, apprehending his shirt sleeve and halting his pace for a moment, then making him drunk on its heady fragrance when he tried to get free.
Long, thick, dark amber locks tumbled down over her shoulders and she smiled, closing her eyes. That final candle flame cast her face in a gentle bronze light as she leaned over, held her hair back with both hands, puckered her lips and blew it out.
Joss almost dropped his telescope, but recovered his grip just in time.
By now the damnable mischief-maker ought to be tucked up in bed.
And that image was one he had better not dwell upon.
Closing his telescope with a snap, he glowered at the now quiet house. Of course, she probably didn't rise from her pillow until late, since she had no work demanding her attention, nothing to do but wait for more admirers to descend upon her house. That was how the idle upper-classes drifted through their lives. Frequently into weeds, from which someone like him had to rescue them.
He shouldn't let her presence bother him so much. He was there to work and that should be his only thought. But she hovered in the background of his mind, just as she hid behind those bushes, and every tantalizing glimpse of the damned woman set his attempts to ignore her back another few hundred yards.
Joss tapped his telescope against his palm as he considered the fact that, despite all the warnings he'd been given, she had not meddled at all yet in his plans.
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 12