Follow the Heart (14 page)

She cocked her head and her full, rosy lips pulled into a smile. “You know my views on allowing plants to grow freely, Mr. Lawton.”

“You sound like someone in the anti-slavery movement—freedom for plants!” He raised his hand in exclamation.

Her laugh was contagious, but then her expression grew serious. “Though I am not an abolitionist, I do support their cause. All living things—plants, animals, people—deserve to live and grow freely, to be what God intended them to be without interference from others.”

While he agreed with her to a point—especially on the matter of slavery—he could see the fallacy in her argument. And it worked to his advantage. “So you are saying, then, that we should have no government, no laws? That the church should not endeavor to teach us right from wrong? That children should be allowed to run amuck and never be disciplined?”

Kate made a derisive sound in the back of her throat and crossed her arms. “You know that is not what I meant. What I mean is . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “You are trying to get me to support your position of pruning and trimming and shaping every branch and leaf of every last plant on earth. I shall never agree with you on that point, sir.”

He stepped close and bent his head down to whisper in her ear. “I am no
sir
, ma’am.” He could see the gooseflesh raise on the side of her neck and he quickly stepped back, his own skin tingling in response to the heady scent of her.

He cleared his throat. “In truth, I am late to a meeting with Sir Anthony.”

“Do not let me keep you longer, then.” She stepped out of the middle of the path, allowing him room to pass her.

As he did, he saw a bloom from the purple China aster behind her had fallen to the low table on which the planting tray sat. He bent, picked it up, then straightened and turned to face her.

The edge of her skirt covered the toes of his boots. His heart beat an irregular pattern. Unable to resist the temptation, he tucked the flower into the soft wing of hair just over her left ear. The velvety petals brushed her temple and cheek—much like he wished he could do with his fingers.

Their gazes locked, and Andrew lost himself in the summer-blue of her eyes. He slowly lowered his hand to his side and stepped back. Not trusting his voice, he bowed his head toward her, then spun on his heels and forced himself to walk away.

He did not ease his pace until he reached the door to Sir Anthony’s study. Nor did his heart slow its pace. He toyed with fire in indulging his attraction to Katharine Dearing. She was not for him. He had nothing to offer her, even if there were no difference in their stations. And as he was just beginning his life as an independent man, one who had power over his future, he could not begin to think of sharing that life with another. Not yet. Not for a long time to come. Too long for someone like Miss Dearing to wait.

Kate held on to the back of a wrought-iron chair for several minutes after Andrew departed, trying to catch her breath. The new corset coupled with her pounding heart made that task nearly impossible. Never before had she reacted thusly to a man’s mere presence. Yet just the sight of Andrew Lawton made her as giddy as a child with a new toy. And when he drew nearer to her and she caught his scent—a mixture of soap and soil and outdoors—her knees had grown so weak she feared she might collapse from the pleasure.

The aster brushed her temple and she shivered, pulling the flower from her hair. The simple blossom reminded her of the daisies that grew wildly in her garden at home.

And that reminder choked her with regret. The only reason she had met Andrew, the reason she was in England, precluded her from allowing anything to come of the attraction she felt toward him—an attraction she now knew was mutual. She’d seen it in his eyes.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she blinked against them. How unfair could God make her life? For the first time she’d had a taste of what falling in love might be like—and because of her family’s need for money, she must put all thoughts of him away, must turn mercenary and find a man with money, and flirt and pretend attraction to snare a husband.

As her father had said to her on the dock before she boarded the ship to England: She was just like the pigs her grandfather had sold to the army during the war of 1812—a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder to bring an infusion of money into the family coffers.

Tossing the flower back onto the table, she escaped outside, wishing she’d brought a shawl to ward off the late-winter chill, but needing the bracing air and exertion before she could face anyone else. However, she didn’t walk far. Just to a rise that overlooked the main garden behind the house. Neat. Orderly. Tidy. Disciplined. She grimaced. Everything a garden, and a person, should be.

If her father had been more disciplined, Kate would not be here now. If he had tended his finances the way Andrew and Wakesdown’s gardeners tended this land, the Dearing fortune would still be intact.

Uncertain how long she stood there, gazing over the winter-browns and evergreens of the landscape, Kate finally returned inside. After fully embracing the chill, the conservatory felt hot, like Philadelphia in July.

Footfalls drew her attention. Taking as deep a breath as she could, Kate steeled herself against another encounter with Andrew. But instead of the man who could never be more than an acquaintance, a maid bobbed a curtsy to her. “Miss Buchanan requests your presence in the hall, miss. The carriage with Lord Thynne was spotted entering the park.”

“Thank you.” Kate couldn’t remember the young housemaid’s name. Servants seemed to pop up like dandelions wherever she turned—too many to keep up with, and so similar in their plain dresses and white caps and aprons that she had a hard time telling them apart. The maid bobbled again and vanished back into the house.

Kate took a few steps toward the door, paused, then returned to pick up the aster before fleeing from the conservatory. At the other end of the portrait gallery, she took a hidden set of stairs and rushed through the upper wing to her suite. In the bedroom, she pulled a thick book from the shelf beside the fireplace. It fell open to her favorite poem by Lord Byron. With the flower folded into a handkerchief, she tucked it into the book, which she pressed closed and returned to the shelf.

Turning, she caught a glimpse of herself in the long mirror beside the dressing table. The image reflected there was one she barely recognized. The only thing about her that had not been changed by her cousins was her face—and it showed the changes that regret and responsibility had wrought over the last few months. She looked every year of the twenty-seven to her credit.

She should have long been wife and mother by now. And yet . . .

And yet no man had ever wanted to take her to wife. She pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. What was wrong with her that no man had ever even acted as if he wanted her?

No man saved Andrew Lawton.

She glanced at the book of poetry.

Andrew Lawton could not have her, unless he suddenly found himself in possession of a great fortune. And that was as likely to happen as the sun falling from the sky.

She smoothed her hands over her newly tiny waist to the fullness of the skirt over her hips—and the multiple petticoats and crinolines pushing it out to an extreme width she still was not accustomed to.

She grimaced at her own reflection, then turned and hurried back downstairs. While she could not compete with Edith’s and Dorcas’s black hair and ivory skin for beauty, she took pride in knowing her figure was at least as good as theirs in her new apparel.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she drew a look of admonishment from Edith and a welcoming smile from Dorcas. And, surprisingly, Florie stood with them. Her small feet, encased in soft brown boots, tapped on the carpet.

Dorcas reached up to touch Kate’s hair where the flower had been. She smoothed the tendrils that rested against Kate’s cheek.

Heat flared in Kate’s face, but not because her coiffure needed attention and she hadn’t noticed. The feeling of Dorcas’s hand there was so different from Andrew’s that she almost pulled away from her cousin to keep from losing that memory.

“There. Now you are perfect.” Dorcas nodded at her in satisfaction.

As they had when Kate and Christopher arrived, the entire house staff lined the two sides of the hall, leaving the family to stand at the base of the stairs. Dorcas took her place between Edith and Florie, and Edith motioned for Kate to stand on Florie’s other side. The girl looked up at Kate with a grin that revealed her excitement at being included in the welcoming party for someone of Lord Thynne’s importance.

Within moments, Sir Anthony and Christopher joined them from the direction of his study in the back of the house. Christopher settled his arm around Kate’s waist and gave her a quick squeeze. The new suit he wore fit him to perfection, showcasing the width of his shoulders and his height while deemphasizing the lankiness of his long limbs.

“I like your new dress,” he whispered, then kissed the top of her head before dropping his arm from the hug.

“And I like your new suit,” she whispered back. But his attention was no longer on her. His eyes shifted toward the head of the line of servants. Kate followed his gaze and noticed the young woman standing beside the housekeeper. Nora.

Kate glanced back up at her brother’s face and concern squeezed her heart. She should speak to him, remind him that he, too, was under edict from their father to find a wealthy spouse.

Christopher looked down at Kate and grinned. She smiled back. Perhaps she’d misread the glance. Maybe she’d projected her own ill-advised attraction onto her brother. She hoped so.

A flurry of activity at the door wiped all such thoughts from her mind, and she smoothed her hands over her waist again before clasping her hands in front of her and trying to adopt the pose of nonchalance her cousins bore.

The footman opened the front door, and a man entered with a whirl of his great cloak. Sir Anthony moved forward, the butler behind him, to greet his guest.

“My Lord Thynne, welcome to Wakesdown.”

“Thank you, Sir Anthony. So good of you to invite me.” The newcomer shrugged out of his caped cloak and let the butler take it along with his hat and gloves.

The viscount turned to face the family after Sir Anthony finished his greeting.

“Thynne, I believe you remember my eldest daughter, Edith.”

Edith seemed a different creature in the lord’s presence from the one who had spoken so disparagingly of him at dinner the other night. She dropped into a curtsy with what could only be termed a simpering expression. “My lord, we are honored by your presence in our house. If there is
anything
that you require, please do not hesitate to let me know.” Her long, dark lashes fluttered, and she ducked her chin when she rose from the deep obeisance.

If Kate had been dependent on Edith’s description of the viscount to try to pick him out in a crowd, she never would have managed the task. She found him handsome, but in a rugged way that seemed strange for a member of the aristocracy. He was not overly tall—no taller than Kate, though she stood at least half a head taller than most women—but his muscular frame gave the appearance of a larger man. His blond hair and pale eyes were offset by a lined, ruddy complexion that bespoke someone who spent quite a lot of time outdoors. He looked . . . well, he looked like a Westerner. A cowboy or a frontiersman. Not an English lord.

He seemed a bit taken aback by the overheated warmth in Edith’s greeting. “Th-thank you, Miss Buchanan. I am certain I will find all of your preparations more than adequate for my needs.”

“My younger daughters, Dorcas and Florence.”

Dorcas and Florie both executed perfect curtsies—but not as deep or reverential as Edith’s had been. “My lord,” they chirped in unison.

The viscount bowed to the two young women, his expression reserved but pleasant.

“And this is my niece and nephew, come from America, Miss Katharine and Mr. Christopher Dearing.”

Christopher bowed and murmured his greeting.

Kate dipped into a curtsy. “My lord.” That was how her cousins had addressed him. And since she’d be hard pressed to get his real name to form on her tongue at this moment, she decided she might actually appreciate the requirement of titles rather than names among her uncle’s set. When she straightened, the viscount’s intense gaze drew heat into her face again. But a warning sounded in her mind—a warning in the overly sweet, somewhat sensual voice Edith Buchanan had used to greet him.
Stay away; he’s spoken for.

“Miss Dearing.” He dragged his eyes away to Christopher. “Mr. Dearing.”

Sir Anthony bustled the viscount off to his study. A chattering Florie joined the governess and they vanished into the back of the house—and this time, when Kate saw Christopher’s gaze linger on them as they walked away, she knew it was not her imagination.

The house staff dispersed, and Edith and Dorcas returned to the sitting room.

Kate grabbed Christopher by the sleeve before he could disappear into the recesses of the massive house.