Chapter Eighteen

Sebastian’s heart was beating very fast and completely out of proportion to the circumstances in which he had placed them.

“We are playing hide-and-seek. Is not the point to be found eventually?” she argued on a whisper. “It has been long enough. By now we must be the last Kent seeks.”

“But if he is to find us now, behind this sweet-smelling orange tree, clasped in a lover’s embrace”—for he still had her by the elbows—“he might draw all sorts of unsavory conclusions.”

“Wessex,” she said severely.

“You must admit, it does look damning.”

A leaf grazed her cheek and she batted it away impatiently. “If you had not spirited us away, there would have been nothing for Colonel Kent to discover. We would have been easily found, and there is nothing untoward about a gentleman and a lady not touching. Why on earth did you do it?”

The question set him back on his heels. Why, indeed? He had no answer. He had sought her out for the same reason he always did, namely, that there was something important he wished to say to her, and if everyone would leave them alone for a blasted minute, he might actually remember what it was he wished to say.

“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips.

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous blue slits. That kiss-shaped mouth yielded, her bottom lip falling open to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of pink tongue. He stopped breathing. His brain turned foggy, and he stared at her, fascinated, waiting to see what she would do.

A sudden, sharp pain in his fingertip brought him swiftly to his senses.

“You bit me,” he said incredulously.

“It was no less than you deserved.”

“An excellent point, Sigrid.”

“Quite so,” she said, somewhat mollified.

She pressed her palms lightly to his chest in a gentle command. The petulant boy within him protested mightily. Why must he put distance between them when he wanted only to draw her closer? Not because he had any special feelings for her in particular, but because she was warm and female. But as ever, he did as she wished. He released her elbow and stepped back.

She replaced the glove on her right hand, the glove she had removed in order to fully experience the feel of his plants, wiggling her fingers until the fit was correct. Then she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress.

When she was once again restored to order, she said, “Should we surrender to Colonel Kent? He must have found everyone else by now, and they will be wondering where we got to.”

He ignored this, as it was entirely at odds with what he wanted.

“Would you like to see the greenhouse? It is not attached to the house, but it is only a little way down the path. We will be out-of-doors for only a moment or two, so you won’t miss your coat. There are some very interesting plants there, as well. I think you will like it.”

She hesitated.

“I just had the roof replaced with solid glass,” he coaxed.

“Very well.” She peered around the orange tree. “But only for a moment.”

“Yes, of course. No more than a quarter hour,” he promised, leading the way.

The greenhouse was a large, rectangular building of white stone and Corinthian columns. Rows of arched windows stretched from the ground to nearly the roof. And there was the glass roof, a monumental feat of genius that he was really quite proud of, despite the fact that his only contribution was money.

“See, now.” He gestured as he spoke. “The slats of glass are perfectly angled to catch as much sunlight as possible during the autumn and winter months.”

She tilted her head back and brought a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes, for she was not wearing a bonnet. Her slender neck arched gracefully, and he allowed himself a moment of admiration before refocusing his attention on the matter at hand.

He held the door open and gestured for her to enter. “You will find it slightly warmer than the orangery. Citrus grows best in springlike temperatures, but in here we grow vegetables and such that require a few more degrees of warmth. There is a stove, but it is not necessary on bright days like today, now that the roof is glass.”

“It is warm and humid, almost like a day in late May.” She sounded almost surprised.

He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her take it all in, looking around with obvious curiosity and delight.

“I hope to build an additional hothouse next summer, in the modern way of things. Hot water heating is the very latest development, and Sinton cannot bear for Perivale Hall to fall behind the times. He has his pride, you understand.”

“So does his master, I suspect.” She leaned toward a pit lined with bark, wherein were several shrubs with blade-shaped leaves. In the center of each shrub was a green, spiky fruit. She turned to him with an amazed look. “Are these pineapple plants?”

“Ah, yes. Shrubby and short, aren’t they? When I first heard about them as a child, I had thought they would be tall and slim like coconut trees, but alas.” He peered into the pit. “They aren’t ripe yet. A bit temperamental, pineapples are.”

“But delicious. I am always delighted that you serve it so frequently, but I hadn’t realized you grew it here at Perivale. I love pineapple.”

Yes, he knew that.

He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t much care for it myself. I grow it only because it drives Lord Derring mad, for try as he might, his trees refuse to bear fruit.”

The door opened behind them, and Sebastian cursed inwardly before making the happy discovery that the intruder was not Colonel Kent, but a kitchen maid.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I hadn’t realized you were here.” She shifted the empty basket she was carrying from one hand to the other and shuffled her feet. “It’s the first Thursday of the month, Your Grace.”

“All right, Davis. Carry on.”

They watched Davis gather carrots, fennel, and asparagus, plopping each bunch into neat piles in her basket.

“Are these for dinner tonight?” Miss Benton asked the girl.

“Oh, no, my lady. That is, on the first Thursday I bring a basket to the tenants, those that is sick or hurt, and Mrs. O’Hare, as her man is drunk—oh, by-the-by, the baby is better, she says, thanks to the doctor Your Grace sent last fortnight. We bring whatever is growing in here, and some oranges and lemons if they aren’t still green, and bread and cheese and eggs, you see.” She skirted around Miss Benton to the pots of ruby fruit.

“Strawberries!” Miss Benton exclaimed. “How lovely.”

“Oh, yes, my lady.” Davis beamed. “His Grace is not overly fond of strawberries on account of the time a strawberry nearly choked His Grace to death, and so he said he would toss them all out. But I told him as my brother Tom loves strawberries, and His Grace agreed that since Tom lost his foot to the French he should have strawberries, and His Grace hoped he wouldn’t choke on them.” With this pronouncement she fell silent.

Miss Benton looked at him.

He looked at the ceiling.

“Davis,” he said mildly. “What did I tell you about that story?”

“That if I ever told it again you would dismiss me without reference,” she answered promptly. She blinked. “Oh. Oh, no.”

Sebastian sighed. “Go make your deliveries, Davis. And take care that I don’t see you for three days, or I’ll remember I sacked you again. Go on, now.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Davis hastily departed with a relieved look upon her face.

Miss Benton was still watching him.

He cleared his throat.

“I know what you are thinking, Miss Benton. You are wondering if I turned very purple and whether I will still want strawberry tart on my birthday.”

“No,” she said. “I am thinking about baskets on first Thursdays and a boy who lost his foot in the war and a baby who lived.”

It was unbearable, the way she looked at him.

“I have a theory about you, Your Grace,” she said. “Do you wish to hear it?”

There was nothing he desired more. He wanted to know all her thoughts, particularly the ones about him.

“Not especially,” he said with studied nonchalance.

She smiled. “It is something of a pattern, I think, for you to do the opposite of what you say. You claim to abhor deep thinking, and yet you read great books. You claim not to love, but you won’t forgive harm to your friends. You claim not to care, but you champion Colonel Kent and Abingdon in their quest for justice. Is anything you say true?”

“Every damn word, which is why I can’t be trusted.”

She regarded him silently for a long moment, during which he began to fidget in a most unduke-like manner.

“Oh, think what you will, Miss Benton. I care not.” He crossed his arms, putting an abrupt end to the fidgeting.

“I believe you care a great deal,” she said quietly.

“You are laboring under a misapprehension. You think that I showed a kindness to Kent, or Davis, or a tenant, and such kindness must belie tender feelings. I assure you, there is no such feeling. The world is a yawning pit of agony, a wailing shriek of despair. Do you understand that, Miss Benton? How does one choose what one cares about, and once one begins, how does one stop? How does one remain sane and happy in the face of all that misery? The world is an unbearable place for people who truly care.”

She cocked her head, listening, and said nothing. Which suited him perfectly well, because he wasn’t quite finished explaining how wrong she was.

“My steward is given broad authority to ensure the tenants have enough to eat and medicine when they are sick. I do this because they are my responsibility, and because healthy tenants are more productive, and because it is what my father taught me to do. I send monthly baskets to those who need extra help because it is what my mother had done—except she delivered the baskets in person. You see, she cared. She cared very much about the sick and unfortunate. She wept at beggars in the street and would give them her own coat.”

“Is that so terrible, to care for the suffering of others? To want to relieve their pain in some way?” she asked.

“To relieve suffering is a good thing, I will not argue otherwise. But there is far too much of it, and when one cares too deeply, one is prone to making foolish errors. Such as departing in a summer storm when it would be better to stay safely home. That is how one ends up dead in a ditch, you know.”

She looked at him with soft blue eyes that held far too much compassion in their depths. With a swish of wool, she turned away abruptly and took a seat on a carved oak bench. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

He blinked. No, he most certainly would not. He had never spoken to anyone of what had happened that day. Why would he? It was a very serious thing, and he detested serious things.

“Sebastian,” she said softly.

It was the first time she had ever called him by his name.

He frowned sternly.

And then he told her all about it.