Between a Rake and a Hard Place (11 page)

“A garden should never be squared off, dear,” her mother used to say. “No hard edges. Green growing things need freedom to follow their own course.”

So, it happened, did small girls.

All one spring and summer, they'd spent nearly every day together, side by side, planting, watering, and weeding. With trowel and shovel, they'd dug out a hint of a wandering pathway and placed flagstones at intervals in the pea gravel. There was no design to the place in the truest sense. Higgledy-piggledy was the watchword.

“Where does this rosebush want to live?” her mother had asked. Serena cocked her head to the side for a moment as if she were listening for the rose's quiet, slightly prickly voice. Then she announced that the red rose wanted to live by the statue of Hera because it was feuding with the yellow rose that had already taken the spot near the stone bench and wanted to be as far away from its mortal enemy as possible.

Her mother had accepted this as perfectly reasonable and planted accordingly.

The garden was a horror by French standards. But to Serena's mother, who preferred to let a garden be itself, it was a disorderly triumph.

And even as the garden lay now, in the stillness of waiting for its first tender sprouts to push through the cold sod, it was the place where Serena felt the presence of her mother most strongly. The family crypt in the nearby village church may have held Miranda Osbourne's earthly remains, but her essence, her spirit lived in the garden at Wyndebourne. Sometimes, Serena talked to her there.

“Hello.” Jonah's voice interrupted her musings.

“To whom are you speaking?” Serena asked.

He did a slow turn, arms extended. “To the garden faeries or whoever it is you feel the need to greet here.”

“There actually is a faery by the fountain.” She walked toward the now quiet stone basin that would be pattering with life once the threat of the last frost was past. In several places, the shrubbery on either side of the path was so overgrown, it threatened to choke off the narrow trail. She'd have to cut them back later. “There she is.”

Serena pointed to the statuette, nearly hidden in the shadow the fountain. Some sort of lichen was creeping up the faery's dainty stone legs and she stooped to scratch at it with a fingernail. The rough greenish-gray growth refused to relinquish its hold. She'd have to come back with a stiff bristled brush and some bleach.

“My mother loved that little thing,” she said softly.

“That's who you're really greeting here, isn't it? Your mother.”

She nodded. No point in shutting the man out since he seemed able to read her more easily than a posted placard. “She and I planted this garden together. It may not seem like much to you, but—”

“It seems very fine,” he assured her. “I like it.”

She couldn't help but smile. When she gave this tour to most people, they launched into lengthy exhortations about how a formal house like Wyndebourne required an equally formal garden. Still, she couldn't allow Jonah to think she needed his approbation.

“Even if you didn't approve,” she said, “I wouldn't change a thing.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Jonah snorted and shook his head. Then his amused grin faded. “What sort of things do you talk to your mother about here?”

Drat
the
man.
He seemed privy to her every thought. “How do you know I—”

“Because if I had a place like this where I felt I could connect with my mother, I would.”

“That's quite an admission from a man with a reputation for cold toughness like yours.”

He shrugged. “Such a reputation usually works in my favor.”

“No doubt. Men fear you and women want to…to fix you.”

“That implies I'm broken.” His eyes darkened, but the shaded glen of those green orbs promised no calm retreat. “Is that what you want, Serena? To fix me?”

He stepped closer and she almost backed away reflexively. Then she remembered this was her garden. She straightened her spine and stood her ground.

“We can all do with a bit of improvement,” she said, taking comfort in one of Amelia's well-worn homilies. “Not that I think you're broken,” she hastened to add.

“Sometimes I do.” He cupped her cheek in one of his large hands. His touch was so warm, she couldn't resist leaning into it slightly. “Say I were, what would you do to improve me?”

How would her mother answer such a man? There were certainly times when she heartily wished she could hear Miranda Osbourne's calm measured tones. Serena remembered her as being full of wisdom and good humor. And any woman who dealt regularly with Serena's father had to have a few feminine tricks up her sleeve as well.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that would depend on the nature of your brokenness.”

He traced the curve of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “Suppose my heart were broken.”

“I can't imagine you'd ever allow anyone close enough to do that.” She swallowed hard. His lips were so near. If she simply tilted her chin up a bit, he'd be on her before—

He didn't wait for her to tip her chin.

According to Miss Odelia Longbotham of the Ladies' Temperance Union, we must note with growing sadness that gin is the new scourge of the masses. In every narrow alleyway of our fair city, one may find an inebriate laid low by this potent, readily available liquor. However, lest the upper crust feel themselves immune, let us warn them to take heed. One may just as easily lose one's way by embracing Madeira or fortified wine.

More evidence will be presented on this topic at the Ladies' Temperance Union's weekly meeting. Not surprisingly, no liquid refreshments will be served.

From
Le Dernier Mot,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

Jonah's mouth claimed hers.

How dare he not wait for her invitation? Indignation made her stiffen, but it was a futile gesture. She melted almost immediately. His kiss was more potent than the strongest fortified wine.

Serena had never been tipsy in her life, but she imagined this might be how too much sherry would affect her. She was hot all over, despite the brisk breeze. All her joints seemed loose. Her knees trembled. In a few heartbeats, she was leaning into Jonah's hard body, accepting his demands and making a few of her own.

She knew this man's mouth. Knew when he'd slant his lips over hers and moved with him. She anticipated his tongue and welcomed it.

How could she know him so well after only one stolen interlude in his friend's hunting lodge?

She might have been surprised by the kiss initially, but now she realized it was an inevitable claiming. A quest. An adventure distilled down to the press of his lips on hers, his heart pounding against her chest, his hands smoothing down her spine and drawing her closer.

Rational thought fled, and that low drumbeat began between her legs again. She was becoming such a shameless wanton. And here of all places, in the garden where she'd spent countless happy hours planting perennials and playing silly word games with her young mother.

Oh, Maman, what you must think of me now.

She wedged her arms between herself and Jonah and pushed, fingers splayed against the broad expanse of his chest. When their mouths separated, she was marginally comforted by the fact that his breathing was as ragged as hers.

“If you intend to fix me, Serena, that's a start.” He rested his forehead against hers as his arms circled, drawing her back into his embrace. “That's definitely a start.”

It would be so easy to lose herself in his arms again. So easy to press kisses on his neck and taste his salty maleness. So easy to forget that her father was counting her to be even more important to the Osbourne family than if she had been born his male heir. Serena had a once in a lifetime chance to become part of the royal family, grafting the Osbourne name into the House of Hanover for all time.

It was bad enough that Serena feared she was disappointing her mother by dallying with Jonah in their special garden. She couldn't disappoint her father too.

“I don't have time to fix you, Jonah.” With a growing heaviness in her chest, she extricated herself from his arms and fled away, up the winding path and back to the relative safety of the house.

I
need
too
much
fixing
myself.

***

As Serena had promised, the Africa Room was an interesting space. At least one of her ancestors had been a serious hunter and the tall walls were studded with trophy heads—wildebeest and antelope, giraffe and Cape buffalo. Their baleful gazes were trained down on Jonah's bed with faintly accusatory stares. From the zebra skin stretched on the floor to the fresco of an African savannah on the ceiling, the guest chamber was a feast for curious eyes.

But it was not conducive to sleep.

The rest of the house had settled into a somnolent rhythm, the slow tick of the long case clock in the corridor outside his chamber as steady as a heartbeat. But in the Africa Room, there were too many eyes, too many spirits of departed beasts. Jonah found he couldn't remain in the large tester bed.

The logical thing to do would be to use the bell pull and order a glass of whisky or warm milk to be brought, but he didn't see why his restlessness should interrupt some poor servant's sleep. He'd seen a liquor cabinet in the first floor parlor. If he couldn't pick the lock and help himself, then he'd consider ringing for a footman.

He toed on his house slippers, knotted the belt of his silk banyan at his waist, and headed into the hallway, counting on the moonlight shafting in through the large window at the end of the hall to light his way.

If he were honest, it wasn't just the exotic chamber that kept him awake. He'd dallied with a beautiful woman twice that day without taking a bit of ease for himself. His body rebelled against the scruples his conscience placed upon it, but he was determined that the loss of Serena's maidenhead would be her choice. He didn't want to take her in a moment of weakness. He wanted her to come to him freely, clear-eyed and without illusions.

Of course, he was still going to bed Serena Osbourne. That wasn't in doubt, even if she had made a point of ignoring him at supper.

But he took that as a positive sign. She wouldn't pull away so vehemently if she weren't actually drawn to him. Seduction was a game and this sort of give and take was to be expected. There was time. So long as he accomplished his goal before that ball she was so keen on, everything would be fine.

When he reached the parlor, a thin strip of light showed at the bottom of the door. Someone else was roaming Wyndebourne in the wee hours too. He pushed open the door slowly.

Serena was there. She'd abandoned the comfortable furnishings to lounge on scattered pillows on the Turkish carpet before the fire. A half-filled goblet was in one hand and a half-empty bottle of claret stood on the nearby table.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“This is my home, Jonah.” Her words were slightly slurred. “I can be anyplace I please.”

“And drink anything you please, I see.” He recognized the label on the bottle. The vintage was like a top-tier courtesan—French, full-bodied, and devilishly expensive. “Claret is not normally a woman's drink.”

“Shh!” She put her fingers to her lips. “Don't tell a soul.”

“Let me guess. Getting totally foxed is another item on that infernal list of yours.”

She rose to her feet and wobbled to the liquor cabinet to retrieve another goblet. Then she poured some of the pale claret into the second glass and offered it to him. “1790. It's supposed to have been a very good year.”

Jonah swirled the wine in the glass to release its perfume, then took a sip. “A very good year,” he agreed. He had a good head for liquor, but he realized immediately that this sweet, fruity claret was more potent than most. “Is that your first bottle?”

She grinned, shook her head, and held up two fingers.

“So is the point of this exercise to drink until you're ready to do something foolish?” he asked as he settled into one of the chairs by the fire. “Because if so, I think you're already there.”

“Why would I wish to do something foolish? If it's likely I won't remember it tomorrow, what fun would that be?” she said with a slow blink. For a drunk, she made uncommon sense. “The goal is to drink until I'm insensate.”

“That can be dangerous.”

“All the really good adventures are.” Her pupils had dilated so much her eyes were dark wells, ringed with a thin blue line. “The one we had today certainly was.”

She walked toward him and came to rest between his knees. Then she tipped her goblet up and drained it.

Her breasts were level with his face and her night rail and wrapper did nothing to disguise her ripe figure. If he reached up and fondled those breasts, she was deep enough in her cups not to protest. With very little persuasion, he might take her right there on the floor before the fire and be done with Alcock's demands.

But a foxed woman couldn't make a free choice to surrender to him. It would be like playing with a marked deck, so he gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to leave indentations from his fingernails and resolved not to touch her.

She leaned over to put the glass on the table next to the bottle, misjudged the distance, and dropped the dear Frankish crystal to the floor. Fortunately, the carpet was thick enough that it didn't shatter, but the stem broke off from the globe.

“Oopsie.” She lost her balance and landed with a plop on his knee. “Mr. Brownsmith will be upset about that. He counts all the crystal and the silver every time he comes and measures out the cumin and dill.”

“I'll say I broke it then,” Jonah said.

She palmed his cheeks. “Oh, that's so sweet, Jonah. How should I repay you?”

Serena leaned in and kissed him. Even sloppy drunk, her kiss was tentative and sweet. The tender innocence of it made his gut clench. Then she pulled back and frowned down at him. “You're not kissing me back.”

“Yes, I am. It appears you've reached your goal. You can no longer feel your own lips, and if that's not insensate, I don't know what is.”

His cock tried to remind him that she wouldn't take much convincing and he could have her hem up around her waist. His body cheered this line of thinking, but his conscience still wouldn't let him shag a woman who might not even remember he'd done it tomorrow.

In the past, Jonah had always been the sort who could do what was necessary, devil take the hindermost.

You
picked
a
hell
of
a
time
to
develop
a
conscience
.

“So you think I met my goal?” Her eyelids were drooping. If he could keep her still, she'd probably drop off to sleep without imbibing more. She'd been so ill over the cigar, he didn't want a repeat performance.

“Yes. I think you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Serena,” he said. “But are you sure this sort of thing is worthy of you?”

She straightened. “Men drink to excess all the time.”

“That doesn't mean it's smart.”

She shook her head slowly, narrowing her gaze at him even while draping her arms around his shoulders and getting more comfortable on his lap. He gritted his teeth to ignore the way his cock stood at attention, thick and ready, against his belly.

“I would never have thought it of you,” she said. “Are you going to be a scold?”

“No, I just care what happens to you, and if you're set on finishing that damned list, I think you'd better tell me why.”

She made a little tsking noise. “Language, Jonah. At least swearing is one forbidden pleasure I neglected to add to the list.” She walked her fingers down his chest and teased the bit of hair that showed in the V of his banyan. “Why do you care about my list in any case?”

“So I can help you cross the items off,” he said. “So I can keep you safe while you act a little foolish.”

“It's not foolish.”

Drinking herself to oblivion certainly could be. He'd seen men die after a night of drunkenness, choked on their own vomit or falling into a deep stupor and never waking up. It was imbecilic. Pointless—

“It's because of my mother,” she said softly.

“I doubt your mother would have wanted you to endanger yourself.”

“Perhaps not, but she would have understood. You have no idea what she was like, Jonah.” She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. “She wanted to have adventures. We used to talk about them. She wanted to climb Snowdon.”

“Why didn't she?”

“She always said there'd be time someday. When I was older, perhaps we'd do it together, she'd say. She wanted to visit Rome and splash through every fountain. She wanted to dabble her toes in the Mediterranean. She wanted to write a novel. She had dozens of stories spinning in her head. While we were planting the garden, she'd tell me some of them—not the whole thing of course, but just the ideas for the stories as they tumbled around in her mind.”

“Maybe you could write them down for her,” he suggested. It would certainly be a safer activity than most of Serena's wild hares.

She rolled her eyes. “I write a decent letter, but I don't have her gift for words. She could spin them off her tongue and make them dance and sing.”

“If she never wrote the stories down, they must not have meant that much to her.”

“No, it wasn't that,” Serena said. “Other things occupied her time. She was too busy running my father's household. Too busy with me, I suppose.”

“I doubt she minded that. Doesn't every woman want a home and children of her own to tend?”

“Yes, of course,” she said testily, “but don't you see? My mother never had time for herself. She had such hopes. She wanted to do things. Adventurous things. And maybe she would have eventually, but she…” Tears gathered and trembled on her lower lids. “She died when I was twelve.”

He drew her closer and pressed her head back onto his shoulder. She breathed deeply and, to his surprise, left her head there. He stroked her hair, hoping she'd nod off, but instead he felt the tension of suppressed grief building in her body. Silence stretched between them, more oppressive with every heartbeat.

“Do you…want to tell me about it?” he asked.

Please
say
no.

He was no good with this sort of thing. If she needed him to knock someone on their backside, he was her man. Listening and talking and comforting—that was for an entirely different sort of fellow than he. Unfortunately, Serena didn't seem to know that.

“It was a stupid accident,” she said with barely bridled anger in her tone. “Someone had spilled lamp oil on the back stoop and hadn't gotten around to cleaning it up yet. Mother was hurrying out to join me in the garden with a tray full of seedlings when she slipped and fell.”