‘I expect them to begin breeding, but so far they do not seem inclined to begin any kind of courtship. You are frowning, Olive—is this something that I am not meant to discuss?’ He turned to Olive, who smiled with brittle patience. ‘My daughter normally kicks me under the table when I begin to speak of things that should not be spoken of, but she is seated further away than usual.’
‘I can’t say the subject has been a main feature of any dinner I have previously attended.’ Richard smiled; the clear charm in it seemed to soften the atmosphere in the room. ‘But as a man of the world, Mr. Whitstable, I can only support such a rigorous and fascinating area of study.’ He turned to Henrietta, his smile widening. ‘And you, Miss Hereford?’
Such a deliberately provocative question would have had him thrown out of any other dinner; Henrietta stared at him, glad she rarely blushed to a visible extent, glad that Olive and her father had become temporarily distracted by a butterfly on the windowsill. When an answer finally came to her, she dismissed it as cruel… but then, the man winked.
It was lightning-fast; a swift flicker of one eyelid. Henrietta, her eyes narrowing, decided to punish him in the only way she could.
‘People study many areas of interest, Lord Westlake. Why, look at us here—both of us so interested in the plants you have brought to Rowhaven.’ She smiled at Olive, who had come back to the conversation with an eager grin. ‘Of course, I cannot claim to have any expert understanding of Lord Westlake’s motivations for being here—but from what I have heard from my dear sister, who spent so much time in the tropics with the baron, he simply adores hard, physical labour. Why, he is no doubt waiting for the correct moment to insist he plants every sapling by hand.’
She watched Richard’s eyes flicker with surprise, followed by half-concealed annoyance. Before he could manage a reply, Oliver Whitstable nodded briskly.
‘Only natural, of course. I make a point of feeding the elephants every morning; it makes me invariably late for breakfast.’ He stopped eating, his face suddenly thoughtful. ‘Although, if the lateness is invariable, can it accurately be termed lateness? Does invariable lateness not become a form of punctuality?’
‘An interesting question, Father.’ Olive launched gratefully into an area of conversation that seemed, for now, to contain no hidden surprises. ‘One hopes that our guest will not be late as he tends to the plants each morning. Sapling-planting can even begin this afternoon, if the gardeners are informed—at the moment, they are waiting in the sheds with their roots covered in wet newspaper.’
‘How wonderful.’ Henrietta smiled wider. ‘Why, Lord Westlake, how delighted you look!’
She watched Richard attempt to arrange his features into something more positive than extreme annoyance. This counted as a victory; a small, petty victory, that was certain, but the urge to make him suffer was undeniable. And the idea of the man doing hard work, possibly involving the removal of his coat, waistcoat and cravat, was tempting in a way she was slightly ashamed to admit.
‘I am, of course, astonishingly happy.’ Richard looked at Henrietta, a small smile playing on his lips. ‘Such a gift you have given me—and make no mistake, I will pay you back in kind.’
That didn’t sound like the words of a defeated man… if anything, they sounded like a challenge. A challenge that Henrietta was all too ready to accept.
‘We will see, Lord Westlake.’ She sipped her water, her appetite undergoing a miraculous recovery. ‘We will see.’
Debauchery. That was what Richard had confidently expected from his impetuous decision to meet Henrietta at Rowhaven. Whenever he had anticipated the plans of his previous paramours, it had always resulted in pleasure—pleasure, perspiration, and frequently torn clothing.
Well, at least perspiration and torn clothing were on the cards. Richard growled with annoyance as he heaved yet another small tree into its allotted hole in the ground, watched by a pair of appreciative gardeners as Henrietta and Olive stood whispering at his back.
‘Once again, Miss Hereford, I must express my deepest thanks.’ He grimaced as a stray branch smacked him sharply in the face, and hoped against hope that the muffled laughter he heard hadn’t come from Henrietta. ‘How considerate it was of you to inform our hosts my eagerness to take part in the planting personally.’ He mopped his brow, leaving his forehead streaked with sweat and dirt. ‘How kind you are.’
‘My kindness is legendary.’ Henrietta looked preternaturally cool and composed; pale in a light-blue day-gown as her friend smiled beside her. ‘Although there are three more trees to plant in this particular patch, my lord. Is this sudden burst of gratitude an attempt to shirk one’s labour?’
How Richard yearned to rip that gown from her body; using his teeth, if necessary. He would need to plant a thousand trees if he stood any chance of dampening the ardour he felt whenever he looked at her. ‘Trust me, Miss Hereford. I can work, and work, and work, and never tire.’ He stamped down the earth surrounding the tree with his boot with a violence that made Olive jump. ‘All night, if necessary.’
‘Oh no, my lord. Nights are not for working—they are for sweet, silent rest, and contemplation of one’s labours.’ Henrietta’s smile was as sharp as a knife. ‘That is certainly how I intend to spend mine, over the coming week.’
Now she was just needling him. Richard stared at her in frank amazement, wondering how to express the full vehemence and power of his lust for her without embarrassing Miss Whitstable, before a truly devious thought struck him.
As a course of action, it was unconventional. He had certainly never attempted it with any woman he had previously bedded. He had always been the tiger; selecting, stalking, pursuing his prey…
So what if he simply stopped stalking? What if he lay back in the long grass, sun shining on his fur, and let his prey come to him?
It certainly wasn’t traditional. But then, neither was Henrietta Hereford. And Richard, for all his desire to possess her, also desired to make her suffer as acutely as he had, all those months at sea.
‘Do you know, Miss Hereford, you are quite right.’ He straightened up, smiling with impeccable correctness. ‘I will rest, contemplate, and sleep very deeply. All the better for the trees and plants that await our attention.’ He turned to Olive. ‘Miss Whitstable, indulge me. Would there happen to be a gamekeeper’s cottage on the Rowhaven estate?’
‘Oh, yes. It belongs to Mr. Martin—but the poor man is recovering from an unexpected injury. The seal can be somewhat aggressive if his feeding hours are not respected. He is at his sister’s house in Dorset—Mr. Martin, not the seal.’ Olive clasped her hands together. ‘Why, you could sleep there! That would be charmingly rustic—are you wistful for your days on-board ship, my lord?’
‘Why, you have hit upon my very intention. Not to mention my motive.’ Richard bowed, inwardly sighing at having to surrender crisp sheets and gilt picture frames for bare boards and a week of unsatisfied cock-stands. ‘I will retire early each night in splendid solitude. I will work far more faithfully if I am surrounded by the plants—why, they will be a comfort to me.’
‘Oh, that would be quite splendid!’ Olive clapped her hands. ‘And that will leave Henrietta and I free to be absurdly girlish until the wee small hours. How delightful.’
‘Yes.’ Richard finally risked a look at Henrietta; her gaze should have shattered glass. ‘Is that not a fine idea, Miss Hereford?’
The short pause before Henrietta spoke seemed to contain all the venom in the world. ‘I can hardly think of one finer.’
‘Wonderful. Have the staff move my personal effects to the cottage—I can hardly wait to stay there tonight.’ Richard picked up the next small tree with renewed vigour. ‘Enjoy your evenings together, Miss Whitstable—Miss Hereford.’
He managed an elegant bow, still holding the sapling, as the ladies curtseyed. As Richard turned away, he was sure he could feel Henrietta’s eyes burning into his back.
Lord, what on earth was he doing? Was he re
ally giving up a week of tumbles for a week surrounded by plants? Richard briefly broke out in a cold sweat, before recovering his courage.
No. He’d been allowing Henrietta the luxury of being prey… now, it was time to let her be the tiger.
There were many ways of counting time; hourglasses, water-clocks, configurations of knotted string and beads. Henrietta had read about most of them, even attempting to construct one or two—but after six days in Rowhaven, overseeing the additions to the arboretum and the hothouse, time had become a hostile enemy instead of an interesting opportunity to experiment.
How was she meant to measure the passing seconds—the wasted hours? Was she to count the times she looked at Richard Westlake, trying to summon whatever mysterious potency she had possessed the night of the ball, only to watch his eyes slide away from hers? Perhaps she could attempt to calculate the amount of times she had engineered a half-hour alone, in a secluded place, informing everyone of her chosen location… only to join Olive, Oliver and Richard again after thirty angry, lonely minutes, silently demanding a smirking Lord Westlake why he had failed to take advantage of her sudden solitude.
The nights had been horrible. At least daylight was full of activities that were both useful and enriching; Olive’s company had turned to be as wise and witty as her letters had suggested, and Rowhaven’s library was as richly endowed as that of Longwater. But the nights; the long, cold, lonely nights, when there was nothing to study or plant… then time seemed to slow to a dull, wretched crawl, and all Henrietta wanted to hear were proud, arrogant footsteps stalking along the corridor.
All she wanted to feel were Richard’s hands on her face, her neck; his lips, on hers.
If the nights without the man were insupportable, the hours in Lord Westlake’s company during the day were worse still. Richard seemed determined to consult with, listen to or argue with the Whitstables on almost every point concerning the Rowhaven renovations; this meant that Henrietta was forced to appreciate the man’s ready wit, deep intelligence, and instinctive practicality. Forced to debate him, provoke him, speak to him on any number of subjects…
He was meant to be her tiger. A useful beast; a way of proving to herself that she could catch, and briefly tame, a man who seemed untameable. He was not, under any circumstances, meant to be a man she listened to, talked with, laughed with.
He wasn’t meant to be her friend. They were meant to part as friends; not exist as friends, caring for one another. And she wasn’t, at any cost, meant to miss him when he wasn’t nearby.
As the seventh day dawned, she took herself to the library with the intention of losing herself in literature for the best part of the day. The morning was agreeably lost to this pursuit, and luncheon consisted of bread and cheese with Olive as they both pored over a new volume of maps—but the afternoon, as Oliver Whitstable knocked on the library door, would prove to be different.
‘Miss Hereford! The ibex has performed admirably.’ He rubbed his hands with glee as Henrietta and Olive smiled politely. ‘I have an hour or two of liberty—perhaps you would appreciate seeing the wood? I believe the bluebells are particularly fine this year.’
‘Goodness. Perhaps some fresh air would be preferable.’ Henrietta stood, turning to Olive. ‘Are we to go together?’
‘I have just discovered a most interesting alteration in the path of a river, dear.’ Olive looked at her apologetically. ‘It means I must re-draw the map I made yesterday. Do you mind awfully if I stay here?’
‘Oh, Miss Hereford will not mind.’ Oliver Whitstable smiled stiffly. ‘Besides, she will not be alone. Lord Westlake intends to see the bluebells too.’
The wood was, to Henrietta’s surprise, utterly magical. She had not expected to find any sort of succour in nature’s bounty; her heart felt so illogically heavy, her spirits worn so thin, that no landscape could inspire her to do anything more than sigh. But a grove of slim, white-dappled beech trees, late afternoon sun shining through them to illuminate a vast, rich carpet of bluebells… her breath was taken quite away.
For a moment, she was speechless. She forgot the presence of everyone; Whitstable, Westlake, even her own self. It was only when Oliver Whitstable walked past her, loudly sighing with appreciation, that the enchantment of the moment was slightly tarnished.
‘Lovely, is it not?’ He held out his hands, beaming with pride; Henrietta tried to avoid looking as Lord Westlake came to her side, standing with his usual nonchalant arrogance. They hadn’t spoken a single word to one another; even the walk to the wood had been silent, with Oliver focused intently on the various flora and fauna seen from the pathway. ‘I have often found comfort here. The woods are tremendously forgiving.’
‘I have often heard Susan Colborne express a similar sentiment.’ Henrietta placed her palm against the silken bark of a birch tree, marvelling at its smoothness. ‘Perhaps you and she could begin a correspondence. There are many aspects of the Longwater Gardens which could be replicated here, as well as many features of Rowhaven that would do well at Longwater.’
‘Hmm.’ Oliver frowned. ‘Would she be interested in hosting a small hippopotamus?’
‘I…’ Henrietta found herself, once again, lost for words. ‘I honestly do not know. I believe you would have to write, and ask her.’
‘I see.’ Oliver nodded briskly. ‘Well. Perhaps I shall do so.’
As if following an unheard set of instructions, he tramped briskly into the heart of the woods. Henrietta, her mouth still slightly open, turned to face Lord Westlake.
They were finally alone; alone for the first time since the day of her arrival. The air filled with rich, incomparable magic; a heat that made Henrietta feel weak, befuddled… how her heart leapt, desperate, as Richard stepped closer.
‘A glorious place, no?’ He looked at her. ‘I think bluebells are rather wonderful.’
Henrietta successfully concealed a small smile of surprise. ‘What a maidenly thing to say, Lord Westlake.’
She was expecting the man to bristle; to begin defending himself against all accusations of femininity, in the manner of the ton’s best young bucks. But Richard simply looked at her, his sun-dappled face as ruggedly attractive as a weather-worn cliff, and smiled.
‘I can drink more whisky, smoke more cigars, and bed more women than any man on both sides of the Channel. I know I am a man—my God, I’m tired of it more often than not. Flowers are far more pleasant to look at than paperwork, or pistols. Especially bluebells.’
Henrietta softly inclined her head, fighting embarrassment. Once again, she had been outfoxed; the man always managed to confound her, sending her wrong-footed down a path that always led to self-recrimination. She thought wistfully of the night of the ball; everything had seemed so clear, then. She had felt so powerful.
She looked back up at Richard, expecting him to move away from her. To her shock, and pleasure, he moved closer.
‘Bluebells are wonderful because they surprise a man, the first time he sees them.’ Henrietta bit her lips as Richard caught a flyaway strand of her hair, tucking it gently back behind her ear. The woods were hushed; even the trees seemed to be listening to him talk. ‘One certainly doesn’t think about them before one sees them. One never ponders their existence. And then one day, quite by chance, one stumbles into a place like this… and it’s a shot to the heart.’ He gestured to the blue carpet of flowers, his eyes never leaving Henrietta’s face. ‘A man is slain.’
The intensity in his voice made Henrietta feel dizzy; she heartily cursed herself for ever having considered seduction a simple matter. ‘So that is the reason you admire bluebells? Their element of surprise?’
‘A little. An ambush can be surprisingly pleasant.’ The smile on Richard’s face seemed designed to bring back memories of their first meeting; the feel of him under her hands. ‘So yes, the surprise… and their beauty, of course. No-one would deny them that. They are delicate as well, surprisingly so—although they would probably disagree with my assessment. And
of course, they disappear as quickly and silently as they appear.’ His smile faded. ‘A man is forced to wait for a very long time, feeling as if all the poetry has gone out of his life, until they return.’
Henrietta felt as if she would stop breathing. This was by no means the most scandalous thing she had heard him say; by anyone’s standards, it was a remarkably innocent exchange. It was the feeling with which Richard said the words that had her, once again, wondering what Pandora’s box she had opened.
She had to speak, even if it was less wise than remaining silent. ‘I am no flower, sir, and you are no tiger. These words are a sham attack—play-hunting.’ Her hands were trembling; she hid them in the recesses of her skirts. ‘Say what you need to say, or my interest in this afternoon walk will become resolutely botanical… please. Talk to me. Tell me—tell me why you have…’
She trailed away, not knowing how to put her feelings into words.
For a moment, Richard was still. Then, with a move of startling speed and gentleness, his hand moved up to caress her chin. Henrietta stepped forward, unable to resist; the touch was light, light as the scent of the flowers that surrounded her, but infinitely sweeter.
‘You are right. I am as bored of this game as you are—or perhaps a better way to say it would be, I am as eager to conclude play as you. I have had more than enough of wanting you.’ There was a strange note in Richard’s voice, almost melancholic, but the hand under Henrietta’s chin was determinedly, wickedly sensuous. ‘I would take you here, right here and now in the middle of these damned flowers, but you owe me a night of pleasure. So you will come to me tonight, with a length of string or twine or knitting wool for all I care, and I will tie you as surely as you tied me all those months ago. And then, Henrietta Hereford, I am going to pleasure you to within an inch of your life.’ His thumb brushed over Henrietta’s bottom lip. ‘Make no mistake.’
Finally. Henrietta almost said the word aloud; the ecstatic relief of him saying it was almost too much to bear. She leaned forward, impatient for him to begin—and stopped with a barely-concealed huff of disappointment as Oliver Whitstable strode out from amongst the trees, a freshly-dug bluebell bulb resting snugly in his gloved hand.
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