Candice Hern (38 page)

"Robert Plimsoll."

He shook his head and laughed. "It is a good thing you sought my advice on this list of yours."

She lifted her chin at a challenging angle. "Is there some objection to Mr. Plimsoll?"

"Only that he keeps a mistress and their five children in a house in Hampstead."

She gave a little gasp of surprise. "You're joking? I never heard such a thing about him."

"Women never do. Sometimes not even wives know about their husbands' second families. Trust me, my dear. Every man of the
ton
knows about that house in Hampstead."

"Oh dear. How very frustrating. It is indeed fortunate that I asked your advice." She sighed and took a sip of wine as she looked down at her list. "Harry Shackleford?"

Adam frowned, but said nothing. This exercise was becoming more distasteful. The thought of any of these men with Marianne was intolerable.

"What? Is there something wrong about him, too?"

He shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just a gut feeling."

"And what does your gut say?"

"It may sound odd, but I don't like the way the man treats his horses."

A puzzled frown marked her brow. "His horses?"

"Yes. He shows no care at all for them, and is a tad too free with the whip and the spur. He is downright cruel to the poor beasts, running them until they’re lame. And I have observed that a man who mistreats his cattle often shows the same disregard for his women. I don't trust him."

A suspicious glint lit her eyes. "You think I should cross him off the list?"

"It is entirely up to you, my dear. I am only offering an observation."

"Hmm. All right then. Lord Rochdale."

Adam almost choked on his wine. "Rochdale?" he sputtered. The fellow was one of his closest friends and a notorious libertine. The very idea of Marianne and Rochdale together was simply not to be borne. The man would use her and toss her aside without a second thought. Surely she knew that. "You're not serious?"

She smiled. "No, I'm not."

He heaved a sigh of relief.
Thank God
.

"I only wanted to get back at you for objecting to every other man on my list."

"Wretch! You almost gave me an apoplexy."

"Serves you right."

Her dimples flashed and she looked adorable, all curled up and cozy in her shawl with her feet tucked underneath her like a girl. Funny. He'd never noticed what dainty feet she had. Despite Adam's best efforts, it seemed some lucky fellow was going to tuck those pretty feet in a very different posture and wrap himself around her better than any shawl. Damn.

"Now," she said, "shall we continue?"

"There's more?"

"Lots more. It's quite an extensive list, you see."

She held up the paper and it did indeed look like there were twenty or more names on it. Adam poured another glass of wine. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Like it? Download
IN THE THRILL OF THE NIGHT
from any ebook retailer.

You might also enjoy these sweeter, traditional Regency Romances from Candice Hern, all available at most ebook retailers.

A PROPER COMPANION
(Book 1 of the Regency Rakes Trilogy)

A CHANGE OF HEART
(Book 2 of the Regency Rakes Trilogy)

AN AFFAIR OF HONOR
(Book 3 of the Regency Rakes Trilogy)

A GARDEN FOLLY
(Book 1 of the Country House Party Duo)

THE BEST INTENTIONS
(Book 2 of the Country House Party Duo)

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?"