The following evening, Gemma rushed through the garden. The firework spectacle was about to begin, and she didn’t want to be late. Even more than that, she didn’t want the party to be eaten by insects. Therefore, she needed to find lemongrass.
She’d seen it here, somewhere. Thankfully, with torches lit all around to mark the path down to the open park where everyone else was gathered, she had enough light to search. Now, if only her memory would guide her.
Trying to orient herself, she stopped for a moment only to discover that she was not the sole occupant of the garden. As luck would have it, the gardener she’d spied on a few occasions appeared through an arch near the hedgerow. Though, this was the first time during her stay that she’d seen him without his large straw hat and pruning shears.
He stopped on the path when he saw her, his blue eyes round until recognition creased them at the corners with his smile. “Why, Miss Desmond, shouldn’t you be with the others, waiting eagerly for the firework spectacle?”
“You have no idea how happy I am to find you here,” she said, feeling less anxious than before.
“You are not lost, are you?”
“Not exactly. I am in search of lemongrass. From what I understand, the scent deters biting insects, and after last night’s rain, there promises to be a feast of human flesh unless we have some assistance. I know Lord Ellery wishes for everything to be perfect this evening.”
He seemed to consider this, his head tilting in study of her. “And how do you know this?”
“Well, the truth of the matter is, I overheard him saying those words to Lord Holt only a few minutes ago. I sent my aunt with the rest of the party, promising to join her posthaste, but now I find myself wishing I could remember where I last saw the lemongrass.”
“Right this way.” With a knowing wink, he shuffled off the path, finding a narrow break between the slumbering foxglove and poppies. After a few steps they arrived at a small pebbled bird basin, surrounded by the lemongrass. Immediately, he withdrew his pruning tool from some unseen pocket and began to snip the fronds. “You are kind to think of everyone’s comfort.”
“It is only a kindness repaid to his lordship. He has selflessly ensured our enjoyment and even our contentment each day.”
“He is a dutiful host.”
“And the finest of men,” she whispered, closing her hands over the offered bundle. Then, seeing the discerning expression on the gardener’s face, she felt her cheeks grow hot. “I should go.”
“If you had a ribbon in your hair or around your neck, I could tie those into fans for you.”
“A fan! Oh dear, my aunt asked me to fetch one for her, and I forgot. She simply despises the scent of lemongrass, preferring to shoo away the insects instead.” She peered over her shoulder to the house, wondering if she still had time.
The gardener took the fronds from her hands. “Go. I left a spool of twine under the bench beneath the arbor. I’ll have these tied in proper bundles by the time you return.”
“Thank you so very much.” On impulse, she pressed a kiss to his papery cheek and then rushed back into the house.
Guided by the light from the sconce in the hall, Gemma went to her own chamber since it was closer than Aunt Edith’s. Once inside, she walked toward the vanity where she kept her fan and grasped it before turning to leave. Yet when she spotted her jewelry box, she thought about the coral necklace.
Hmm . . . Sam looked at her rather warmly whenever she wore it, and she certainly wouldn’t mind if he looked at her the same way this evening.
Making a quick decision, she placed the fan down and set her hand on the carved lid of the bleached wood box that stood on four shiny brass claws. A wealth of memories returned to her.
She’d been eleven years old when she’d first spotted it in a basket of wares in an Egyptian market, and she’d fallen instantly in love. Unfortunately, all she’d had were the few coins her father had given her to buy his snuff and her food. But given the fact that she’d had little guidance in money management up to that point—as her father always found a way to acquire whatever he wanted—she’d carelessly bartered away her entire fortune. She’d squandered every para, failing to gain a fair price because she hadn’t concealed her desire for the box from the tajir.
As expected, her father had punished her. But not with a firm reprimand. He hadn’t locked her in her room as he usually had, sent her to bed without supper, or even throttled her backside. No, instead he inflicted a far more severe and lasting penalty. He’d forced her to barter off every piece of her mother’s jewelry.
Gemma had been six when her mother had died. The shape of her face, the sound of her laugh, and the scent of her hair had already begun to fade from Gemma’s memory, leaving only faint traces behind. Those precious baubles had been the only things that were tangible, the only things that were left of her mother.
She remembered standing in the market that day, the heat of the sun bearing down on the scorched top of her head, drying the endless flow of tears on her cheeks. She’d wept pitifully, clutching each piece in her hand, refusing to sell because the people didn’t understand that, to her, they were all priceless. No amount of money could take their place. But the offers only increased, and her father had been delighted to take their money.
When it was all over, and she was left with nothing but an empty jewelry box, her father had wiped away one tear from her cheek and held his glistening fingertip up for her study. “Now this is what makes something valuable. If you are selling, show them your reluctance to part with this precious trinket. And if you are buying, show them your indifference to it.”
Indeed, Gemma had learned a valuable lesson—that a great number of people were inherently selfish. And she had to battle them all by herself.
Pushing those thoughts back into the past where they belonged, she lifted the lid to find her necklace. Then she frowned, momentarily confused. The few pieces she possessed were out of order. However, lying in the center was none other than Lady Tillmanshire’s ruby brooch.
Gemma’s heart slowed, and she stared at the crimson cluster for a beat or two, as if it were a deadly Buthridas scorpion. Then her pulse began to pound in her ears, her blood heating with anger as she realized what this meant.
The blasted four were trying to make Gemma out to be a thief.
Curling her hand over the cabochon gems, she felt the pin in the back prick her palm. Without waiting another moment, she strode out of her chamber, prepared to put it back in Lady Tillmanshire’s room. But halfway down the hall, she paused.
What if Lady Tillmanshire had a maid waiting on her to do just that, waiting to catch her in the act? Gemma wouldn’t put it past the conniving baroness.
The only way to avoid any consequence would be to return the brooch without her awareness. Perhaps a little sleight of hand would work. Gemma was out of practice, but she could find a way to slip it into the baroness’s reticule. Better yet, she could pin the bloody thing on Lady Tillmanshire’s frock—then let her try to accuse Gemma of stealing it.
Mind made up, Gemma stormed down the hall and toward the wide staircase.
Much to her surprise, she found Sam on his way up. They stopped simultaneously on the brocade runner, both out of breath. Though it was unlikely that Sam had an incriminating brooch burning the palm of his hand.
“There you are,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “I was told you returned to fetch a fan. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost.”
She glanced down at her empty hand, realizing she left the fan behind. Hesitating, she wondered if she should tell him about the brooch, or if it would be better to handle this matter on her own. But what if he didn’t believe her claim?
She didn’t think she could live with seeing doubt in his expression.
“I couldn’t find it.” She swallowed, tasting the lie at the back of her throat. “I thought it would be better to join the others as quickly as possible. I would not wish to miss the fireworks.”
He held out his hand. “Then come, for I have a surprise for you.”
Descending the stairs, she slipped her free hand into his and allowed the comfort of his grasp to ease some of her nerves.
Sam guided her down to the first floor, and while they walked along the corridor, she tried to tuck the brooch away. Unfortunately, she hadn’t sewn pockets into her dress. Under her sash seemed too risky. It could fall and land with a clatter on the hardwood floors. Her only option was to slip it covertly into her bodice, securing the warmed metal between her breasts, low enough to be concealed and nestled firmly in her short stays. And she was just in time too, because Sam stopped suddenly at the end of the hall.
“I thought we might watch the fireworks from here,” he said, opening one of a pair of double-arched doors leading to the ballroom. “That is . . . unless you’d prefer to join the others.”
Inside was dark, absent of the golden sconce light in the hall. Through an expanse of crystal-clear mullioned windows, the beauty of the night sky was laid bare. And at the prospect of being alone with him, a jolt of anticipation zinged through Gemma, causing her hand to squeeze his tightly. “I’d like to stay.”
“I’m glad,” he said, pleasure warming his voice as he pulled her closer, leading her deeper into the room. “I took the liberty of sending the bundles of lemongrass you made down to the others with a footman.”
Oh! It was awful of her, but she’d completely forgotten about the others. “The bundles weren’t solely my idea. I offer the credit to your clever and thoughtful gardener.”
“My gard—” He gave her a quizzical glance. Then he issued a sound that was something of a laugh. “Oh, yes. My gardener is invaluable to me.”
Stopping when they reached the windows, she watched as several footmen, below, were snuffing out the torches one by one. “He is quite fond of you as well. Then again, I believe all your servants are.”
“Most men, I imagine, wish to earn the regard of those not in their employ,” he said wryly.
“You have that as well, and no doubt in abundance.” Playfully, she nudged him with her shoulder. Yet by the time she felt the puffed sleeve of her lutestring dress crumple against her skin and connect with the firmness of his arm, she realized her error. If holding hands caused her pulse to riot, then she should have known that pressing another part—any part—of her body against him would have a similar if not substantially greater response.
Instantly, she bloomed with heat, their contact lighting a firework inside her. At the same time, the thick muscles of his arm bunched and a breath staggered out of him.
“How can you be certain?” he asked, his voice an intimate murmur.
It sent a shiver through her. “Well, I know my aunt is fond of you.”
He angled toward her, his boots shifting to the outer edges of her slippers. The lapels of his coat were only a breath away from the rise and fall of her breasts. Lifting his hand to her cheek, his fingers glided along the slope of her jaw to her chin and tilted her face up to his. “And what of her niece?” The rapid beat of her heart made it difficult to release a breath. It was locked inside of her like so many recent hopes and dreams. Her lips tingled, plumping under his dark, searching scrutiny. And when the tip of her tongue darted out to wet them, his head dipped toward hers, close enough that she caught the clean, spicy scent of his shaving soap and felt the heat of his breath.
Her eyes drifted shut of their own volition. “I have it under good authority that she likes you. Very much, indeed.”
His other hand released hers, his fingertips skimming up the length of her bare arm, setting off a shower of tingles. Cupping her face, he drew closer, his nose nuzzling beside hers. His lips brushed one corner of her mouth and then the other. “Enough to permit me to kiss her?”
A soft laugh escaped her. “I believe you already are.”
And it was heaven, these slow, searching nibbles at her lips, the feel of his warm breath against her skin.
“Not yet,” he said with more sampling tastes of the corners of her mouth and a sly sweep along the center. Cradling her face in his hands, he went still, waiting for her answer.
Restraint emanated from him in the small vibrations through his fingertips and in each shuddered breath between her parted lips. He would take only what she was willing to give. He was not selfish. His honor and decency were not merely for show. These qualities were part of him and in his every action.
And she loved him all the more for it.
But this was not the time for hesitation. They’d been patient for long enough. Ages and ages. She wanted him to know that he didn’t need to hold back. Not with her.
Slanting her head, she whispered against his lips, “Then show me.”
On a low groan, he dragged his mouth across hers. The hot, firm pressure caused pleasure sparks to explode behind her eyelids, and she melted against him, feeling the faint rasp of his whiskers. A series of wanton tingles spiraled through her body and shuddered out of her throat.
“Do you like that?” His heavy breath brought the rich, earthy flavor of him into her mouth, his tongue skating across the plump, sensitive inner swell of her bottom lip. Then, nudging her lips apart, he fed his tongue to her in small sips, easing himself deeper into the warmth of her mouth. “And this?”
She couldn’t speak but only emitted inarticulate mews of pleasure. He swallowed them down in ravenous open-mouthed kisses. Long, scorching kisses that incinerated any vestige of hesitancy or uncertainty. Wanting more, she slipped inside his coat and splayed her hands over the cashmere of his waistcoat as she rose up on her toes.
His hold on her shifted, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other at her waist, her hip. Then, fitting into the curve of her lower back, he hitched her up against the solid length of him. Delicious tremors tumbled through her. There was a sense of inevitability in the gesture, a promise that this was only the beginning.
He slowed his assault, his tongue gliding over hers as deep rumbles of pleasure rippled from his throat. Somehow she knew their kiss would be like this—a hot torrent one minute, a languid savoring the next—as if they were both saying At last, and I need you now, but also Let’s not rush and Don’t ever stop.
Outside, she could hear the distant pops and crackles of the spectacle, but she wasn’t missing anything. Inside, she was on fire, burning for him. His teeth nipped her bottom lip and her stomach clenched so tightly—so sweetly—that she gasped and pulled herself closer, her hips tilting to fit against his.
A stab of pleasure bolted through her, causing another sound to escape, this one throaty, greedy, and foreign to her own ears. But Sam seemed to recognize it, for his hand slipped down to the curve of her derriere, drawing her tightly against him. And when he rolled his hips forward, her knees went weak.
“My legs are trembling,” she said when his mouth left hers, and his damp lips grazed the underside of her jaw in a way that made her entire body clench with untried desire.
He pressed kisses along her throat, his arms locked around her. “I have you. Mmm . . . you smell as sweet as woodbine here.”
His ardent attentions only made her problem worse. Now her entire body was trembling uncontrollably.
“Put your arms around me.” Then he turned her, moving them a few steps along the floor in something of a slow, sensuous dance until the wall was at her back, cool against her bare shoulder blades, while he was pressed along her front, hotter than ever. “Is this better?”
She blushed but nodded, her hands sliding through the cool tips of his soft golden curls to the heat of his scalp. Boldly, she pulled him closer and slanted her mouth beneath his. His lips were well suited for kissing, even more than for smiling and laughing. It was easy—effortless—to lose herself against their broad shape.
In his arms, she began to hope that she could have the life she’d only dared to imagine in her dreams. With a good, solid man to love her as much as she loved him.
She breathed his name, her head falling back as he blazed a new path down her throat, dipping his tongue into the hollow notch.
He groaned against her skin. “You taste like nectar and rain. Somehow, I knew you would. And your skin”—he lifted his head to watch the unhurried progress of his fingertips follow the line of her bodice over her rapidly rising and falling breasts—“your skin is softer than petals.”
Her whole body clenched again, her breasts drawing taut, her nipples newly sensitive beneath her chemise. “And did you know that too?”
“Aye.” He grinned at her and then kissed her again, his hands skimming down the outer swells and settling into the warmth beneath. His long fingers curved around her rib cage while his thumbs swept tantalizingly, back and forth, against the plump underside of her breasts.
Sam’s gaze was hungry, tender, and drowsy all at once. He looked from her face down to her bodice and to the pebbled tips of her nipples outlined against the layers of cambric and blue muslin. They were nearly painfully taut and heavy. As if he sensed this, he slid his hands higher to assuage the ache, molding them around her breasts, his thumbs rasping over the peaks.
“Sam,” she said, choking with a need she didn’t know how to name. Reflexively, she arched her back, filling his hands. Her lips parted to gasp, to moan, but pleasure clogged her throat, and all she could do was feel those tight buds growing even tighter until she thought she might go mad. “Please . . . ”
He dipped his head, pressing his mouth to the top of the plump globe of flesh. But it was not enough. He continued to press kisses all along the line of her bodice, increasing the ache until it spread throughout her body, seating itself in a tense, throbbing sensation at the apex of her thighs. Dragging the edge of her sleeves down her shoulders, he drew down the fabric, and exposed her flesh to the balmy night air, inch by inch.
And then the worst thing that could possibly happen, happened.
She’d forgotten about the brooch.