Royal Regard (20 page)

She gathered several handfuls of bark from
the tree, peeling off pieces randomly, looking around and over her
shoulder, trying not to leave large blank spots on the branches.
When he questioned her, she whispered, “The bark is good for the
catarrh and for stomach upset,” she explained. “The roots as well,
but I can do without digging up His Majesty’s garden.”

This disarming habit she had of distracting
him with intelligent conversation might prove Nick’s permanent
undoing.

While she collected the ugliest parts of the
plant, he picked several of the strange blooms for his bouquet,
hoping she would find them attractive, or at least useful in some
way. Even as she furtively stuffed her takings underneath the
collected flowers, she still seemed more preoccupied with some
thought that had nothing to do with medicines. As they continued
their leisurely stroll, she did not pick up the thread of
conversation, only frowned when she occasionally looked up at
him.

Finally, she said, “Will you tell me about
your brother?”

He felt the blank mask fall into place that
he had learned at Eton, the slightest ironic curve of his lip
representing a wealth of unspoken emotion. He had less than no
desire to discuss David, but within a few silent minutes, he found
himself doing so anyway, admitting to jealousy, disregard, and
neglect of his own flesh and blood, for which he had been ashamed
his entire adulthood.

Once finished with his droning, detached
monologue, long since finished with her pitying looks, he stared at
the lilies lining the leftmost path, the most direct route to the
rosebushes. He took the turn to the right, a long row of multi-hued
gladiolus. He gathered three deep purple stalks and asked if he
might add them to her basket. “My sister loves them, and I will be
seeing her in the morning.”

To put further distance between the two of
them and any more emotional conversation, he said, “I do love the
crocuses, though it would not do for a gentleman to admit a
preference for flowers, so I implore you keep my secret.”

“I shall take it to the grave,” she teased.
“I love them, too. They remind me of springtime.”

He bent and added four to his collected
bouquet of blooms.

“Where is your estate, Duke? Wellstone
Grange, is it not?”

“Yes, but I have not visited since my
elevation.”

Without his knowing quite how she managed it,
she kept him speaking of things he did not discuss. He had never in
his life been led so easily into disturbing conversation by a
woman, and he certainly had never enjoyed it so much.

“Four years is a long time to stay away from
home.”

“It is not my home,” he answered shortly.
“Wellstone is where Wellbridge lives.”

She stepped slightly sideways, looking up to
catch his eye. He was chagrined by his snappishness, but she didn’t
seem to mind, only asking, “Would it go amiss to mention you are
Wellbridge?”

His steps fell heavier the longer the
conversation continued.

“That point has been made before now. It may
be significant I enjoyed intimate acquaintance with the last three
Wellbridges to die there.” Other than Allie, she was the only
person to whom he had explained this, as he recognized his reaction
to be entirely irrational.

“I see.” He heard miles of sympathy in the
two little words. “I should not have presumed.”

As they moved away, she was, thankfully,
distracted from his blatant display of madness, clapping her hands
as they drew near a cluster of raised beds. “I thought the herb
beds would all be nearer the kitchen. Lavender, thyme, yarrow,
sage… It smells heavenly.”

She picked a stem of lavender and crushed it
between her fingers, holding it up for him to sniff, as though he
hadn’t been inhaling the scent in her hair since he came upon her
in the bluebells. She picked a goodly handful and dropped the stems
in her basket.

“I’m sure the bachelor buttons are only for
prettiness, but I do think the purple just lovely.”

“I believe,” he smiled, snapping two of the
flowers at the stem, “the bachelor buttons are attributable to His
Majesty’s wit. These beds are meant to catch the wind and scent the
grove to the right.” He indicated a veiled alcove bordered with
young Japanese maples, only visible by stepping off the path,
featuring a waterfall, a two-person swing, and a tree that begged
to shelter a picnic.

She looked up at him, then eyed his trouser
buttons, chuckling as she stepped back onto the circuitous path.
“The king is so very witty.”

Before he could turn Prinny’s raillery to his
advantage, she confounded him again: “Oh, look at all the quinces!
A veritable orchard!”

She actually twirled a quarter-turn on
tiptoe, like a five-year-old girl in a field of butterflies, before
she stopped herself short, her body and face settling
half-comfortably behind a suddenly adult woman’s face, a regretful
compromise between the reckless innocent and the proper diplomatic
lady.

She stepped up to the trees like she planned
to speak to them, letting her cheek fall against a branch.

“Growing up,” she explained, “we had two on
the edge of the cottage garden, and honey-poached quince was my
father’s favorite sweet. I was always fair sick of quince by the
end of the season, but always ready for the next year’s harvest.
These are too dark to harvest, more’s the pity. The stones are good
for gout.”

She touched the branches lightly, testing the
fruit, stroking the leaves in a way that left him breathless. He
had to shake his head to lose the image of her using the same light
touch against the fall of his trousers, testing the firmness of
his—

He stepped behind one of the shrubs. A grown
man shouldn’t be sporting a cock-stand in the king’s garden. He had
long since forgiven Brummell the five-hundred-guinea note he’d left
Nick holding when he ran for the Continent, but he would never
forgive the fiend for the fashion of high-waisted jackets.

“I am not so noble as you might think, my
lady.”

She cut her eyes at him. “No? Do you pursue
an honest living between shopping on Bond Street and supper at
White’s?”

He smiled apologetically. “Well, not so
honest as that, but I am known as something of a radical in
Parliament on behalf of those who are forced to a hard day’s
labor.”

She crouched down to investigate the mosses
growing at the base of the plants, her shawl falling off her
shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view of her bosom, even in her
modest gown. At the sound of rustling in the bushes, she looked up
almost at an angle to catch his eye, her lips just slightly parted,
a position that did nothing to restore his trousers or heartbeat to
a suitable state. Fortunately, her gaze followed the flight of an
unwary swallow escaping their incursion, giving Nick enough time to
remember what he had meant to say next.

“My travels were likely more, shall we say
ignoble
than yours, my lady,” he said. “I, you understand,
did not have to spend my time with wealthy merchants and
ambassadors, and was not limited to areas offering accommodations
for ladies.”

“Touché,” she chortled as she stood, “though
the stories I could tell about ‘accommodations for ladies’ would
turn your hair white.” As they passed a formation of blackberry
bushes trimmed in neat rows, she said, “Enlighten me as to your
ignoble travels, then. Did you journey into the interiors? As you
say, we spent most of our time on coastlines, unless there was a
larger European presence inland, and always guests of the most
prominent citizens. I longed to explore the jungles.”

He cleared his throat. “The wilds are not at
all the place for a lady.”

She sent a grumpy look his way, narrowing her
eyes. “So I am told.”

He amended, “Nor the place for a man, if he
is not a native or attached to the military, and I was neither. The
natives I knew were already half-civilized, and I met them in
whatever European settlement was closest. I never struck out into
the jungles alone, and port towns held many attractions.”

“Indeed?”

“Where there are ships, there are most often
better protections from hostiles and some sort of roof for let, and
if you will forgive, pursuits typically outside the purview of the
young English gentleman.” Once again, he found himself in a
conversation he had not meant to initiate.

He stopped his steps abruptly, bowing his
head in polite remorse, even more contrite over his unspoken,
hopefully unseen, bodily reactions. “I apologize if I’ve shocked
you. Not at all the thing to discuss with a lady.”

Her bark of laughter was the most improper he
had ever heard. “Mercy. You believe you can shock me with
gentlemen’s pursuits in foreign ports after I’ve lived fifteen
years among sailors?”

She moved away from the blackberries to take
a small path to the left, leaving him no choice but to leave the
concealment of the flora or admit why he couldn’t. He adjusted his
jacket, wishing he were wearing a greatcoat, and set about thinking
of gangrenous limbs, poisonous spiders, and roasted monkey
entrails.

She set his mind roiling about his
indiscretion by studiously looking away from his obvious
arousal—then back—then away again—and introducing an equally
shocking subject, almost as though she hoped to relieve him of
polite, appropriate conversation.

“I understand from idle talk you learned
fisticuffs in foreign climes, not at Gentleman Jackson’s. Knowing
sailors as I do, I shudder to imagine.”

“The rumor is indeed true, my lady, though I
am chagrined it has reached the ears of a lady gently bred.”

“You may spare the concern for my ears, Sir,
as this gently bred lady learned blade play on shipboard and
defensive combat from hardened soldiers.”

She sucked in a breath as though knowing this
was beyond the pale. In no world was this acceptable conversation.
Her words fell over each other, suddenly trying to distance herself
from the admission. “What did you find inland? Did you learn the
native languages?”

As kind as she had been to relieve his
faux pas
, he found himself disinclined to give quarter.
“Blade play? Combat?” He was afraid his eyebrows might leave his
forehead as she tried to pass off the comment as unremarkable. For
some reason, the thought of her with a saber in her hand, dancing
about a ship’s deck fighting pirates, was just as arousing as
watching the teasing tip of her tongue.

Her smile was at once rueful, disdainful,
bashful, and teasing: “I am a dab hand with a foil and a short
knife, though I beg you not make it known. I am quite notorious
enough.”

“‘Pon rep, my lady! I shall have to challenge
you to a match.”

“Lord Huntleigh would advise against it.
Captain Johnson is a better fencing master than any in London, and
I have a sailor’s balance.”

He wondered if she had dressed in boy’s
clothes on her travels, assuming lessons in swordplay would be
hindered by corsets and petticoats, and her life on shipboard would
have fewer social constraints. That led to thoughts of corsets and
petticoats and the shape of her hips and legs in tight breeches and
boots. Then he imagined her in the tropics, wearing very few
clothes at all, wondering what she would look like in a sari woven
in the same red-gold as her hair. He was becoming dangerously
besotted.

He choked out, “It is well-known the female
of every species is more bloodthirsty than the male, so I yield to
your more dangerous nature. I imagine you know guns, then? Do you
hunt?”

She shrugged carelessly, “I shoot well enough
to hit a target at ten paces, but I am better with a blade. I am a
good rider, though rarely side-saddle and never to hounds.”

Lawks, the thought of her riding astride.

She interrupted his continued reflections on
her seat. “I never proved proficient at hunting, as I have
difficulty butchering innocent beasts.”

His laugh was low and raspy and incredulous,
“But no trouble gutting a man?”

“I cannot slay
innocent
beasts, Sir.
By God’s grace, my ability to dispatch a human has never been
tested.” She turned to him, her palm facing out. “May I use your
penknife, Sir? I would like to trim some camellias, but had not
think to bring shears.”

He stepped away from her reckless admission,
searching the pocket in the tail of his coat for his knife,
twisting it in his fingers. He tried to rein in his desire, if only
to minimize the chance of being stabbed by his own knife in a fit
of feminine pique over his incredibly inappropriate bodily
reactions. When he handed it to her, she flicked it open easily
with her thumb and said, “I appreciate the courage that required.”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her, throttle her, run from
her, or offer for her hand.

Offer for her hand?

He took three quick steps backward as she cut
a few bright red flowers for the basket, setting it at her feet,
holding out one small blossom. She motioned him toward her. When
close enough to smell the lilac scent of her hair, he stopped short
and she moved forward, tucking the spray of leaves under his cravat
pin. “The flower matches the red silk of your waistcoat just
perfectly, though the leaves are a bit darker than your eyes.”

She stepped away and slapped the closed knife
back into his palm, like a man shaking his hand on a deal. She
curtsied, grinning, and said, “Thank you so much for the use of
your knife. The rubies are exquisite.”

She was toying with him—had to be toying with
him—but flirting was so at odds with her nature he was unsure how,
or if, he should respond. It was like speaking to a girl before her
come-out, just trying her mettle as an adult woman; a gentleman
wouldn’t want to take advantage or make her feel silly.

Within minutes, he convinced himself he had
been mistaken, as she continued their walk and discussion as though
she had never even noticed camellias. To cover his confusion, he
took the opportunity to hand her the bouquet, setting her blushing
as she took in the scent, then placed the flowers gently,
carefully, in the basket.