Royal Regard (21 page)

“You honor me, Sir.” To cover confusion, she
continued questioning him. “Did you have some purpose in your
journeys besides getting into trouble?”

“Mostly trouble, I’m afraid,” he admitted.
“But I was loosely expected to advance the Northope interests; I’m
sure my parents hoped I would marry an Italian princess and bring
her home
enceinte
a year later. Since I was otherwise
inclined, I learned cartography and mapped a bit, though nothing
that significantly changed our knowledge of the world, and I made a
study of the few natives not inclined to kill me on sight in South
America and the South Seas. It’s how I met Eliz—” He cleared his
throat. “Lachlan and Elizabeth Macquarie, with whom, I understand
from your husband, you are acquainted. They hosted me for almost a
year.”

Her head shot up, and her voice held a horrid
fascination. “No. You didn’t. With Elizabeth?”

He scoffed, “Of course not,” but his eyes
felt like a rabbit dashing into a hidey-hole.

“I thought they were madly in love! And she
was always so proper.”

“They are and she is. However, life among
savages is not something one discusses in company.” He tried to
shut down the line of conversation with a stern stare, but she
would have none of it.

“The wife of the Governor of New South Wales
can hardly be considered a savage, no matter whom she might take as
a lover.” Nick could hear the sound of gossip in the making, though
Lady Huntleigh didn’t strike him as the type to besmirch either his
name or a woman with whom she was, reportedly, good friends. “I
cannot credit it. You and Elizabeth Macquarie.”

“I’ve said no such thing. The Governor was
nothing but the most gracious host while I was there—”

“Two doors down from his wife’s bedroom for
almost a year.”

“—and Mrs. Macquarie was but another scholar
of the native culture, with whom I shared research.”

“Research,” she said archly. “I see.”

He groaned inwardly, but there was nothing
more to be said. He had always prided himself on perfect
discretion, but continued denials would only confirm his guilt.
Thankfully, she kept any further opinions to herself, only giving
him a wry grin and a giggle every few steps until he finally felt
the blush leave his cheeks.

The path wound around a glasshouse as large
as a ballroom. When they drew up to the side door, she found it
unlocked, so looked over her shoulder at him and the trees behind,
tightly grasping the handle of the basket, apparently waiting to
see if someone would tell her no. He was surprised she would
suddenly invite him into the Orangery, filled as it was with
celebrated trysting spots, but he wouldn’t think of disappointing
the lady by declining. He nodded his encouragement, then followed
her.

“Would you like to see something of which I
am quite proud?” She walked backward before him, her hands and
basket clasped behind her back, cheeky grin pulling him along in
her wake. The grin was yet another facet to her that he hadn’t seen
before today, and therefore, more enticing.

“I would be honored, my lady. Lead on.”

“I visit every time I am at the palace,” she
said, turning back to keep an eye on the path.

“I would love nothing more than to know where
I might find you when you visit, my lady.”

“You are doing it too brown, Your Grace,” she
said, poking him companionably in the arm. “I’ve not pulled you
into the Orangery for an assignation. I think you will find this of
interest as a man of intellect, and as we are passing… I actually
know this one part of the garden better than you, I will wager two
shillings.”

“I am certain that is not true of the
Orangery, my lady, but will concede the point rather than steal
your pin money.”

“I know so much more about this hothouse than
you, Sir, such a wager is almost criminal.”

She took him down the path through the
tropical fruit trees: citron, pineapple, bananas, papaya, mango,
all sheltering benches in lush configurations with thick shrubbery
and forest ferns, inviting hidden embraces. The number of times
Nick had kissed a lady senseless in the Orangery while ensconced in
the smell of a Bahamian forest—

“Papaya and mango are almost universally used
in native religions to inspire love and romance,” she observed.

“What?”

“They are aphrodisiacs, medicinally, so
physically and spiritually speaking, this is a very good place for
beguiling encounters.”

He almost caught her words fast enough to say
something romantically inspired, but not quite.

“And these blossoms appear ornamental,” she
said, holding out a flower he couldn’t identify, “but one can cook
them down into a very effective treatment for sour stomach. They
are quite bitter, which I find rather contradictory.”

His brain lurched. “Sour stomach?”

Bella spent the next ten minutes telling him
the culinary and medicinal uses of every plant in the tropical herb
beds, learned from old native women whose mothers’ mothers’ mothers
had taught them the ten different uses of a fern. Every time she
spoke, she told him something new and interesting about the
Orangery, and never again did she mention assignations. A pity, as
at the mention of aphrodisiacs, he had begun stockpiling romantic
nonsense to use next time the topic arose.

Her last turn ended at a simple plot the
length and width of two hay wagons, fenced in with sticks and
string, tools in a wooden bucket in the corner. It was neat and
tidy, but not at all in keeping with any part of Prinny’s
spectacular garden. There was nothing to which he could point and
say, “The rudbeckia is lovely,” or “Is that agapanthus?” This
ground belonged alongside a two-room peasant cottage, not in the
king’s solarium.

“Do you work this plot, my lady?”

“No.” She paused. “Well, that is not entirely
true. Once in a while, I pull a weed or do a bit of watering, but
not unless I’ve been invited.”

“Please indulge me. Do you have a claim?”

“I rather do,” she said smugly, leaning
against a rickety post, smiling at the watering pots. “These are
all from seeds I brought back from my travels. The royal gardeners
are tending them to make sure everything will grow in England, and
what sort of soil and such, but eventually, my plants may become
part of His Majesty’s new gardens. He had my sketches and notes
copied and bound for his library, and Mr. Aiton says he visits
often.

“This,” she pointed out, “is a very rare
ginger and these are peppers from Tobago. Best not touch them
without gloves. His Majesty insisted on tasting the fruit a few
weeks ago and vows to cultivate it as a weapon.”

Nick kept his hands firmly behind his back.
“I believe, my lady, you are a horticulturist masquerading as a
diplomatic wife.”

Her eyes dropped in the bashful,
modest—Heaven help him, virginal—look that was unaccountably,
impossibly, still in keeping with the cheeky grin and the carefree
girl and the dangerous woman with an affinity for swordplay.

“No, Sir,” she said shyly, “only a studious
girl who enjoys flowers.”

He wanted to know if that pink blush across
her chest would spread across her shoulders, down over her—

He wanted to carry her to the nearest room
with a lock.

“Lord Huntleigh was only interested in trade
crops, but I gathered seeds from less valuable flora—flowers,
trees, folk medicines. I never discovered any new species, but some
have never been cultivated in England before. That there, with the
white flowers, is an Asian form of boneset
—eupatorium
—used
to treat dengue fever.”

“My lady, I am very nearly speechless. Young
ladies do not spend their time in such pursuits. Dengue fever,
indeed.” He was trying to tease but was afraid his shock at every
subject, and finding a lady who would talk about them all, masked
his true impression: that she was magnificent.

All enjoyment blew off her face, as if by a
cold wind. “Perhaps young ladies do not, Sir, but I am hardly
young, and only barely a lady by all accounts. We should be on our
way before we are accused of impropriety.”

“I didn’t mean—Lady Huntleigh—”

“I quite understand, Sir. I must remember
bluestockings are never in fashion in London.”

“My dear lady,” he said, holding his hand out
to grasp her arm. He turned her and stepped forward before she
realized she could retreat. “I, for one, find bluestockings always
in fashion. Your garden is the most stirring thing I have ever
shared with a woman. I am enthralled beyond measure.”

He bent his head to kiss her, his hand
reaching for her hair, but she squeaked like a vole and ducked
under his arm, all but sprinting toward the door. He followed more
slowly, giving her time to compose herself, hoping she wouldn’t be
streaking to the palace at a full run when he joined her
outside.

She was not, merely waiting for him beneath a
catalpa tree, basket at her feet, picking flowers he didn’t
recognize from this distance. When she tipped her head back to
drink what must be honeysuckle nectar, he wanted more than anything
to leave kisses on her lovely throat, but he didn’t want to
encroach on her solitary pleasure. And, he decided, this was
assuredly flirting. Far be it from him to interrupt that.

She dropped the blossom, perhaps unknowingly,
onto the path at the sight of him and turned away to hide behind
her lashes. He was certain she had been trying to entice him. Now,
he presumed, she was embarrassed to be caught out and sure it
couldn’t possibly have worked. He was spellbound.

Nick came up behind her and picked another
bloom. He had thought to feed her the droplets of nectar, but she
could barely speak through her unease, so he merely tucked it
behind her ear.

“It is unusual to find honeysuckle so early
in the season, is it not?” he asked.

She stammered, taking up her basket, and fell
back into step with him, managing, “No, not the japonica, though it
is a bit early for blossoms.” After she touched the petals gently,
pulling her hand back stained with pollen, she giggled and added,
“Only in the king’s garden do flowers obey the orders of His
Majesty, not the natural world.”

“I am sure he has decreed it so,” Nick
agreed, carefully blowing the yellow powder from the shoulder of
her gown. “Where did you come by your interest in plants and
flowers, my lady?”

“That, Sir, is a tale for another time, as I
see we have found the roses.”

He tried to guide her into a summerhouse when
her attention was caught by the wisteria covering the walls, but
she shook her head, “No, thank you, Sir. I’m afraid my husband will
be looking for me soon, and I would hate him to find me in close
company with a gentleman. He promised me the King of Kings could
not keep him from
Giulio Cesare
this evening, and Lord
Huntleigh is most insistent on the subject of Handel.”

“I shall look forward to continuing our
conversation another time then, my lady,” he said, surprised to
find he had not at all missed finding a trysting spot.

“Oh, the roses smell heavenly, do they not?”
She leaned over to surround herself with petals, apparently
requiring no response. A good thing, as he wasn’t sure he could
force words from his throat, watching her skirt drape across her
hips. He leaned his hand against the summerhouse wall to keep
himself upright.

She began poking at the soil and rubbing
leaves between her fingers. “I understand some of these varieties
are unique to this garden, but I don’t know enough about roses to
discern which. Do you think if we find a groundsman, he might tell
me?”

“I’m sure he would, my lady.” Nick managed to
choke. As long as it didn’t require coherent thought to accomplish,
Nick would slay every dragon in Christendom to ensure it.

The hesitation before her next words was just
a bit too long to seem casual. “I wonder if he might be talked
around to giving me cuttings. Or would such effrontery be taken
before The Lords?”

“The Lords, my lady? Over roses?” He felt
more continuously muddled every minute he spoke to her. “I know the
legislative body can seem frivolous—”

“Or some horrible royal punishment that
applies only to common rose thieves? Flaying by thorn bush? Boiling
in scented oil?”

“I cannot imagine rose thieves are so common,
and have you not earned your right to a clipping or two without
being flayed or boiled?”

Her prim look would be at home on any
governess he’d ever known. “Giving the king rare plants and taking
them from his garden are two very different goings-on, and if I can
imagine the grisly end of a flower thief, surely His Majesty can,
too.”

Nick was always uncomfortable stating the
obvious to women, because it usually turned out he was missing
something terribly obvious, but he had to pose the question: “Have
you not asked His Majesty?”

“Well, of course I
wanted
to ask him.
I
would
have asked him. It just seemed such a small thing to
mention to the King of England when he has ten score gardeners
better placed to help. But when I asked anyone else—even Mr.
Aiton—they all said, ‘these are His Majesty’s roses, my lady. No
one can just give away His Majesty’s special roses.’ Now, if I
mention it to the king, it will seem as though the gardeners are
unhelpful or I am gainsaying Mr. Aiton, both the very opposite of
my intent. I so hate to cause anyone trouble, least of all His
Majesty when he is so very kind to me, but it is easier to
establish a trade route through Siberia than splice a
spinosissima altaica
.”

As usual, the thought process of a female was
very nearly incomprehensible. “Both seem equally difficult to me,
my lady, but I do see your point.”

He so wished he saw her point. Under no
circumstance would His Majesty begrudge Lady Huntleigh a shrub, but
Nick would never squander this opportunity to send her a message of
devotion written in rarified red roses. Prinny would box Nick’s
ears if he proved such a jolter-head.