Candice Hern (90 page)

"It seems I owe you an apology, Sedgewick," Terrence said.

"That is not necessary," Sedge said. "I understand completely. I would have done the same for my sister, if I thought some bounder had offered her a slip on the shoulder."

"Sorry about
your
shoulder," Terrence said.

Sedge laughed. "Just another one of those unfortunate mishaps on the road to happiness," he said, tightening his good arm around Meg.

"Well," Terrence said, "I suppose we had better arrange a meeting of a different sort. Am I right, Sedgewick?"

"Absolutely." He removed his arm from Meg's shoulders, and held out his hand to her brother. Terrence grasped it without hesitation and pumped it vigorously.

"I shall look forward to that conversation, Sedgewick," Terrence said, smiling for the first time. "I trust you will take good care of her. I am quite fond of her, you know."

"Thank you, Terrence," Meg said as she threw her arms around her startled brother and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for defending my honor. And," she said, her eyes darting to Sedge, "for everything else."

"Come along, Ashburton," Lord Skeffington said, taking his friend by the arm. "I believe we are decidedly
de trop
."

"You will see Meg home, Sedgewick?" Terrence asked as both his friends tugged him up the slope.

"Of course," Sedge replied, taking Meg's hands once again and pulling her close.

"Don't be long, Meggie."

"No, Terrence," she said absently as she lost herself in the deep blue of Sedge's eyes.

Sedge and Meg stared silently at one another—studying, admiring, loving—until they heard the sound of the carriages leaving. Only then did Sedge pull her into his arms. He crushed her to his chest and set his mouth to hers. She gave a small sigh of pleasure beneath his lips as the kiss became deep, lush, and resonant with new understanding and love.

When they separated at last, Sedge leaned his forehead against Meg's and smiled into her eyes. "What a pair of prize fools we've been, Meg," he said.

"Yes."

"All those ridiculous misunderstandings."

"Yes."

"And senseless heartache."

"Yes."

"Let me see if I can get it right this time," he said. He stroked her jaw with his thumb, the gentle caress causing Meg's heart to quicken with impatience. Finally, he tilted her chin up. "I love you, Meg. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she said, and then covered his mouth with her own.

###

More Traditional Regency Romances from Candice Hern

The following titles are available from most online ebook retailers:

A GARDEN FOLLY

THE BEST INTENTIONS

MISS LACEY’S LAST FLING

"DESPERATE MEASURES"
(a Regency short story)

Here's an excerpt from
A GARDEN FOLLY
:

Oh, but it was grand to be back in the country again! To smell clean air, fragrant of summer blossoms and wood smoke. To enjoy clear, blue skies unblemished with coal soot, and sweeping expanses of brilliant green parklands. To have so much space to oneself.

Catherine had not realized how much she missed the country. She had not been out of Chelsea since going there to live with Aunt Hetty after her father's death. Dorland, the small Forsythe estate in Wiltshire, had been lost along with everything else when their father died. All her young life she had longed for a Season in Town, but Sir Benjamin Forsythe's precarious finances had never allowed it. More than two years of scraping to make ends meet in Chelsea, however, had shattered any romantical notions she might have once held regarding the glories of London. Oh, there were glories to be seen in Town, to be sure; but not for the likes of impoverished single ladies in Flood Street.

Perhaps if—when!—she and Susannah contrived to find rich husbands at Chissingworth, she would not mind so much going back to London. In style, this time.

At the moment, she was simply happy to be back in the country. Chissingworth was famous for its gardens and Catherine was anxious to see as much of them as possible. She loved flowers of all kinds, especially wildflowers. At Dorland, one of her greatest pleasures had been painting detailed watercolors of her favorite blossoms. She still kept a portfolio of her paintings of which she was really quite proud.

It had been a long time since she had been able to afford paints and brushes and decent parchment. But she had brought along to Chissingworth a few rolls of foolscap and two or three pencils, one of which was tucked in her pocket at the moment. She harbored secret hopes of finding new and unusual specimens to sketch while in residence at the famous estate.

With this in mind, she wandered through the surprisingly informal arrangement of gardens. In the dressed grounds nearest the house, high, clipped shrubbery hedges of sweetbrier, box, and hawthorn surrounded each garden. Moving through the enclosed hedges was akin to walking through the various rooms of a house, each room different from the last. One was awash in the bright colors of summer, the gravel paths bordered with stocks, pinks, double rocket, sweet Williams, and asters. The morning sun fell upon spires of delphinium sparkling with dew. Her artist's eye was drawn to the glitter of moisture on the indigo and royal peaks, and she paused to seat herself on a nearby stone bench. She pulled a pencil and a scrap of paper from her pocket and roughly sketched the familiar blossoms.

After a few moments, Catherine moved on to the next garden, which was devoted to roses of all shades. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the heady fragrance of so many blossoms. She did not, though, stop to draw any of the roses. She instead wandered through a break in the hedge to another garden, this one laid out in a large circle. The plantings graduated in height, from tiny candytuft and sweet mignonette, to lupin, poppies, mallows, and sweet peas. Towering above them all in the center were enormous sunflowers. Catherine was much taken with the harmonious arrangement of such humble varieties as she slowly skirted the circular path, looking for a specimen that she might want to capture on paper.

"Oh! How wonderful!" she exclaimed as she came upon a patch of sweet violets flourishing in the shade of the larger plants. Kneeling down, she carefully caressed the dark purple blossoms of what could only be a pure
viola odorata
. She had never actually seen one before, most common violets being hybrids of other
violaceae
. But she recognized the pure ancestor of the ordinary sweet violet from pictures in one of the illustrated flower books she had once owned. She really must sketch this one. Perhaps if she made a detailed-enough sketch, she would one day be able to paint it in color, from memory.

Leaning in closer, she began to carefully examine the soft, fragile petals, holding the blossom ever so gently between her fingers.

And suddenly, she was knocked backward with a thud.

What on earth?

"Damnation!" muttered the man who had apparently come careening around the garden path directly into her. He grabbed at Catherine's shoulders in an attempt to balance himself.

Instead, he knocked her flat on her back and fell directly on top of her.

Catherine gasped, her face crushed against a dirt-covered smock. "Get off me, you oaf!" she sputtered, pushing against the man's chest.

Muttering something unintelligible, he raised himself slightly and looked down at her. His hat had been knocked away and a curl of dark brown hair fell over his furrowed brow. Green eyes flickered with annoyance and his mouth was a thin line of irritation. But the most noticeable thing about the man at the moment was his weight, which was crushing the breath right out of her.

"Get off!" she repeated.

* * *

Stephen gazed down into the flashing eyes of a very pretty little termagant. Bloody hell! He was in for it now, for she was no doubt one of his mother's guests. He hadn't expected anyone in the gardens this early. He had not been paying much attention to the path, his eyes surveying the center garden as he hurried past. He had not seen the girl as she knelt down at the edge of the gravel walk. And here he was sprawled atop her in a most improper manner.

If it wasn't so awkward, he might be tempted to enjoy it for a moment. She really was very pretty. Dark blond curls were revealed beneath the bonnet that had been knocked askew. Her brows and eyelashes were a much darker color, providing a striking contrast to her fair hair. Her eyes, framed by the long, dark lashes, appeared to be gray.

She really was
very
pretty.

"Get off me!" she repeated in a choked voice.

Coming to his senses, he realized he must be practically smothering her, so he quickly rolled to the side. "I beg your pardon," he said as he struggled ungracefully to his feet. He extended a hand to help her up. "I am terribly sorry. Are you quite all right?"

She grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position. She neither looked at him nor answered him, but adjusted her bonnet. "You might have looked where you were going!" she said in a petulant tone. She sat up on her knees and Stephen offered his hand again. She took it, pulled herself upright, then immediately dropped it to shake out her skirts.

"I am terribly sorry," he repeated, brushing himself off and searching the area for his hat. He did not know what else to say. He was reluctant to get into a conversation with the young woman, attractive though she may be. If she recognized him as the duke—which she had thankfully not yet done—there was no telling what sort of fuss she would make. He must get away as quickly as possible before the chit realized who he was and went squealing off to the other guests that she had sighted the elusive duke.

Damn his mother and her parties, anyway. Why couldn't they leave him in peace to putter in his gardens?

"I am so sorry," he said again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he retrieved his broad-brimmed straw hat from beneath a patch of blue gentian. He slapped it against his thigh a few times and plopped it back upon his head. "It was my fault completely. I trust you are uninjured?"

"I am fine," she said, still straightening her skirts and not looking at him. Stephen's stomach seized up with the notion that she had not yet got a good look at him. There was still a chance she might recognize him. "No thanks to you," she continued in that irritated tone. "And
of course
it was your fault. I was simply minding my own business, admiring the—" She stopped as she looked down at her hand. "Oh, dear."

Stephen moved closer, thinking she might have injured her hand and cursing himself for his own carelessness. "What is it? Have you—" He paused as he saw that she was not injured, but was holding on to a crushed purple blossom.

Good God! It was one of his violets.

His prized, rare, pure-bred violets.

Forgetting for a moment his own culpability, he raged at the girl. "How
dare
you pick my flowers without asking! Do you think these are placed here for anyone to pluck at will? Don't you know—"

"
Your
flowers?" she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

Good Lord. He had given himself away. What an idiot! He was in for it, now.

But his poor violets.

"Oh! You must be the gardener," she said.

The gardener?
Looking down at himself, he realized that no one would take his scruffy appearance for that of a duke. He experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. "Yes," was all he could say. They were his gardens, after all. And he did design them and work in them. So in a sense, he
was
the gardener.

"Well, you still might try to watch where you are going next time," the girl said.

By God, she was looking him straight in the eye and truly believed he was the gardener. It was too good.

"I am sure you are quite busy and all," she continued, "with such a large estate to care for. But you must know that the duchess has a house full of guests who might be wandering the gardens at any time. You really must be more careful."

The petulant tone had disappeared and she seemed less offended. Interesting. He would have expected most young women of her station—for she must be aristocratic to have been invited by his mother—to disdain the working staff. He would have expected her to rail against his clumsiness, to threaten to report him to his employer, to exert all the superiority of her station. Instead, she looked wistfully down at the crushed blossom in her palm.

"And I was not picking your flowers, if you must know," she continued. "I was simply admiring them. I must have accidentally grabbed at it when you fell over me."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Stephen muttered. His cheeks felt warm and he knew he must be blushing as he recalled how he had been sprawled atop her. "I should not have shouted at you. It is just that..." He paused and looked down at the remains of the tiny purple flower. "Well, you cannot know how precious that little plant is."

"Oh, but I can," she replied. "It is a pure
viola odorata
, is it not?"

"Why, yes," he said, completely taken aback that this young girl would know such a thing. "Yes, it is. How did you know?"

"Oh, I have never actually seen one before," she said, "not really, anyway. But I have seen many pictures of them. I love flowers, you see and have— had—many books on the subject. Some with lovely colored prints of various blossoms. Violets have always been my favorites, the simple
viola odorata
most of all. When I saw this patch of them," she said, gesturing to the clump of purple blossoms at the edge of the path, "I could not resist examining them up close. You must have cultivated them especially to bloom so long into summer, did you not? I thought to sketch one, you see. Oh, and I had also considered drawing this one, too," she added, bending to admire the fringed gentian. "Very unusual. The dark blue coloring and the fringed edges are a combination I have never before seen. Are they a special hybrid?"