Going Rogue (20 page)

She obviously hadn’t expected company.

He sauntered over to her, casually plucking a rose from its stem and smelling it. “Does a man need an excuse to visit with such a beaut—”

“Please don’t do that,” she interrupted.

“Do what?”

She nodded toward the flower in his hand. “Don’t pick anything. The plants in here aren’t really for personal use—they’ve been grown for the intention of observation and experimentation only. It’s taken me years to cultivate some of these species.”

He smiled. Not just any smile, but one he’d worked hard to develop for the sole purpose of rendering women senseless. It worked wonders when he was actively recruiting business for King’s Transport. “But it was such a
lovely
rose.”

“Because I worked very hard on it. It was designed to be lovely. Now, it’s as good as dead and no longer of any use to me.” She quickly turned her attention to the bush and started pruning, seemingly unaffected by his notorious smile.

Perhaps he’d unfairly discounted Miss Ophelia Marshall? What if she was a bit more of a challenge than he’d initially given her credit for? Never one to take a challenge lightly, he decided to take his seduction a bit more seriously.

“Miss Marshall?”

“You may call me Ophelia. Everyone does.”

“Only if you call me Derek,” he countered.

“Very well. I suppose that’s only fair.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Ophelia, I hope you don’t mind me coming down here, disturbing your peace?”

She swallowed, visibly. “I don’t mind. But I should try and locate a chaperone of sorts. We shouldn’t be in here, alone, at such a late hour.”

He watched as she wrung her hands. She was so skittish, he felt as if one sudden move would send her running from the hothouse and up to her mother’s room. “I thought it would be nice to have a few moments with just you. That is, if you’re not uncomfortable?”

“I’m not,” she blurted.

A lie. He’d never seen someone in such obvious discomfort before. She’d moved on from wringing her hands to biting her lip.

He held out his elbow for her to take. “Care to take a turn about the garden?”

She looked at his arm as if it was a giant snake waiting to lash out and bite her. “Not particularly. Perhaps you can help me, instead?”

Derek quickly withdrew his elbow, briefly taken aback by the request. No one had ever refused a walk with him before. “Help you?”

She nodded eagerly. “These pots—they weigh a great deal. It’s nearly impossible for me to move them around on my own. I thought since you were here, that perhaps . . .”

He stared blankly at the collection of terracotta planters that sat on and around her workbench. “You thought I’d help you move them?”

She smiled, timidly.

He desired nothing less than to help the girl rearrange her plants, but if that’s what he’d have to do to win her affections, then so be it. Derek looked down at his clothing. The pots were massive and he’d probably end up wearing a considerable amount of dirt after moving them.

And then a thought—a lewd, despicable, completely inappropriate thought occurred to him. Suddenly, moving the planters wasn’t such a bad idea.

Derek began peeling off his jacket. “I hope you don’t mind. I just lost a jacket at the Duke of Glastonbury’s party. With the price of a good tailor being what it is, I’d hate to lose another.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You’re removing your jacket?”

He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, placing it over a bare spot on the bench. “And my waistcoat if that’s quite all right with you?”

She was silent, the blatant alarm in her expression having said it all.

Good, he thought, as he removed his waistcoat. He reached over to place it on top of his jacket, knowing full well that the thin fabric of his shirt was stretched taut across his back, providing Miss Marshall with quite the display of his physique.

“Now, where do you want me to start?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

Ophelia pointed to the nearest planter. “That one,” she answered, her voice barely audible.

He bent over to pick it up. “And where would you like it, Ophelia?” he asked in a low, husky voice. “I’ll do whatever it is you want me to. Tonight, I’m completely at your bidding.”

She blinked several times, but didn’t answer.

He chuckled. “Would you like it over on that bench? Or did you want it on the floor?”

Still, she remained silent, choosing to point instead of responding with actual words.

He nodded. “I think it’ll be good there, too.” He moved the planter, quite pleased with himself. It usually took a bit more effort than that before he rendered a woman speechless. Even for a seasoned rake like him, this was quite the accomplishment.

He ought to have been ashamed of himself. He was acting like a complete and utter scoundrel. The innuendos, his behavior—it was abominable.

And utterly genius. A couple more planters and young Ophelia Marshall would be as good as his.

He picked up the next pot. “What were you doing down here this late? I thought gardening was more of a daytime sport?”

She pressed her lips firmly together. “I wasn’t gardening. I was cataloguing. I like to keep thorough and accurate records of all my plants.”

Cataloguing? Something about that sounded vaguely familiar. “Didn’t you say you like to catalogue when you’re feeling particularly stressed?”

She shook her head. “I never said that.”

“After the dinner party? While we were playing Whist? I distinctly remember you mentioning it.”

Her shoulders fell. “Perhaps I am a bit stressed about something.”

He set the planter down, then sat on a bench under what appeared to be some sort of citrus tree. He patted the empty seat next to him. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“With you?”

He shrugged. “I’m a good listener.”

She stiffly walked toward him, taking her seat next to him.

“Why don’t you relax a little?” he urged, sliding his arm behind her on the back of the bench.

“I am comfortable,” she said flatly, her posture still rigid.

“Right . . . I see that. Now, what’s bothering you?”

“I’m nervous.”

“About . . .”

“Well, my future.”

“Your future?” He couldn’t believe it would be this easy! Perhaps he’d just sit back and allow her to propose to him?

“It would seem that I have some important decisions to make.”

He leaned closer. “What kind of decisions?”

She leaned back. “Oh, the important kind,” she repeated nervously.

“You know, Ophelia, I consider us to be friends now.
Good
friends.”

“Y—You do?”

“Yes. You see, I enjoy your company very much.” He leaned in closer still. “
Very
much
.”

She shifted back slightly. “I enjoy your company as well.”

“And your future is important to me.”

She tried to scoot back again, but the metal arm of the bench prevented her from going any further. “It is?”

“Of course it is. I want only the best for you. And I would hope you’d want what’s best for me, too.”

She smiled, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “You mean that, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I think we owe each other as much.”

“Then kiss me.”

For a moment, he thought she’d just told him to kiss her. “Could you repeat that?” he asked, taken completely off guard by her swift and unexpected change in demeanor.

“Kiss me, Derek.”

Now, he’d enjoyed a fair amount of brandy earlier, but not nearly enough to evoke hallucinations. Here was a beautiful young woman, practically begging to be kissed. Granted, she was an odd duck and liberally covered in dirt at the moment, but despite all that, she was really quite pretty. Yet, he hesitated.

All of a sudden, that bravado he’d been exhausting all evening began to wane.

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Yes,” she answered simply.

He paused.

“Now, please. I’d like to get this out of the way as soon as possible, if that’s quite all right with you,” she said, thrusting forward, closing her eyes and opening her lips ever so slightly.

She looked very much like a fish. An attractive fish, but a fish nonetheless.

Suddenly, it all felt very,
very
wrong.

He leaned in toward her, allowing his lips to faintly touch hers. It felt pathetically chaste, similar to how he’d kiss his mother.

She was the aggressor, pushing forward and pressing her lips more firmly on his. His heart began pounding wildly in his chest, but not from desire.

He managed to pull away, withdrawing his arm from behind her.

“Is that all?” She cocked her head to the side as if studying him.

He anxiously raked his hand through his hair. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have taken such liberties with you.”

What he meant to say was,
I apologize—that was awful
.

He’d never felt anything more wrong in all his life. Suddenly, the very idea of having to kiss Miss Ophelia Marshall again held very little appeal. She was lovely—her face was beautiful and her petite figure boasted the promise of a firm body and perky breasts. But she wasn’t Meredith. He should have been aroused, should have been mad with desire, and he should have been . . . erect.

But he wasn’t. In fact, he was the complete opposite. The pickings available out at sea were often slim, and there’d been times he’d had to make do with what was available rather than what he would have liked. Even under those sexually dire circumstances, he’d at least managed to make it through the act with a respectable erection.

“Did you feel that?” Her smile was radiant as she basked in whatever it was she was feeling.

He didn’t know how to answer honestly without insulting her and possibly scarring the poor girl for life.

Then she reached out and gave his hand a reassuring pat. “It’s all right—I didn’t either.”

Derek pulled back his hand as if she’d just bit it and jumped up from his seat on the bench. “What didn’t you feel?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Anything,” she answered softly.

He resisted the urge to scratch his head, confusion reigning over logic at the moment. “You didn’t feel
anything
.”

She stood, joining him, a new sense of confidence appearing to have washed over in the brief moments that had passed since she’d first propositioned him. “Don’t get me wrong, I find you to be a most attractive man. And I know my mother dotes on you, but I feel nothing for you but friendship. That’s not at all how a husband and a wife should be.”

Was she . . .
rejecting
him?

Him
?

He was speechless.

“It’s a case of simple science, I’m afraid. You and I just aren’t compatible in the biological sense.”

“You’re rejecting me, then?” he finally said aloud after he’d managed to find his ability to speak again.

“I wouldn’t say reject . . .”

“What would you say? Deny? Refuse? Dismiss? Renounce? Repudiate?”

“I suppose reject
is
what I’d say.” She tucked her hands in her apron pockets. “I think you should stop pursuing me and go find someone you feel a real connection with.”

She bit her lip. “I haven’t bruised your ego too terribly, have I?”

He chuckled. Actually, she had. To think—Lord Sutherland’s reputation of rogue, destroyed by a would-be botanist. “I think I’ll survive my broken heart, Miss Marshall.”

She nodded. “Yes, but will my mother?”

“I’m sure I won’t be the only gentleman to pay you a call.”

Ophelia smiled again.

She really was a sweet girl. That was what had initially attracted him to the idea of marrying her. And that was the crux of it.

Derek made his way to the workbench and began replacing his missing clothing, piece by piece.

He’d never been attracted to Miss Marshall. A little, he supposed, but more in an appreciative manner—much like one would admire a stunning piece of art. He’d wanted the idea of her, not necessarily the person.

“That’s what the girls said earlier.”

He stopped, mid-button on his waistcoat. “You’re referring to Miss Castle and Lady Alexandra?”

She started wiping down her gardening tools. “Meredith, mostly. Alexandra thought she was being ridiculous.”

“And just what did Miss Castle tell you?”

Ophelia paused. “She told me that one day, a man will kiss me and I’ll know it’s special right away. And if I’m not entirely certain, then I only have to kiss another man to be convinced.”

With advice like that from her supposed friends, he could count on seeing Ophelia thoroughly ruined in record time. “I’m not certain—”

“Because,” she interrupted. “After I kiss another man, then I’ll have something to compare it to. Meredith said she didn’t need to do that. Because she knew right away, from her very first kiss, that the man who’d kissed her was her true love. She said that every kiss following her first, paled in comparison.”

He’d
been her first kiss, of that he was completely certain. He remembered it better than he had any other moment in his life.

Derek crossed his arms in front of him. “Did she say anything else?”

“Just that he came back to her one day and kissed her again.”

“Then what happened?” he asked, careful not to sound too anxious.

Ophelia shrugged. “She said it didn’t quite work out for them.”

He nodded. “Then perhaps she’d been mistaken. I can’t believe if she truly thought she loved this man that she’d let him go so easily.”

“But it wasn’t easy,” she explained. “She said circumstances tore them apart and that she’s never really recovered.”

Derek took a sudden breath, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Is everything all right? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Bewildered by the story, Derek tried to get his bearings. Could Meredith really have felt that way? If she didn’t, then why . . . why would she have gone to all the trouble to create such an elaborate tale? He found it hard to believe that Meredith would put so much effort, so much of herself, into a story just to dissuade Ophelia from accepting his proposal. For years he’d harbored resentment toward the woman who’d crushed his heart by admitting that she never really cared at all. But what if she had? What if?