Jacquie D'Alessandro (18 page)

Every look that passed between them inflamed her, heating her skin. Every smile he gave her fluttered excitement to her heart. She knew that her upcoming moonlight stroll with Andrew was responsible for a good portion of her giddiness, but the rest of it was due to the course of action she’d mapped out for herself. She was resolute. She knew what she wanted. And after several hours of mulling over her options this afternoon, she’d finally figured out how to get it. Now she just hoped that she could stand the anticipation until she could put her plan into action.

After dinner the three of them retired to the drawing room, where she watched Andrew and Spencer play a spirited, highly competitive game of backgammon.

“This is your last roll, Mr. Stanton,” Spencer chortled, rubbing his hands together with glee. “You are about to be defeated.”

“Perhaps. But if I roll a double six, I win.”

Spencer gave a derisive snort. “What are the chances of that?”

Andrew smiled. “One in thirty-six.”

“Not very good odds.”

“They could be worse.”

Andrew rolled the dice onto the board. Catherine stared in amazement at the pair of sixes.

Spencer’s eyes goggled, then he laughed. “Blimey. I’ve never seen such luck, have you, Mum?”

“No,” Catherine said with a laugh. “Mr. Stanton is indeed very lucky.” Her gaze shifted to Andrew, and when their eyes met, he smiled.

“Yes, I am indeed a very lucky man.”

His smile wrapped around her like a warm cloak, surrounding her in an aura of pleasurable heat.

Spencer rose, then extended his hand. “Excellent job. But I’ll emerge victorious when next we play.”

Andrew stood and solemnly shook his hand. “I shall look forward to the challenge.”

Spencer yawned, then shot Catherine a sheepish look. “I’m tired,” he admitted.

“You had a busy day.” She sent Andrew an arch, sideways look. “What with knocking Mr. Stanton on his bottom and all.”

Spencer chuckled, then stifled another yawn. “I think I’d like to go to bed. I need to rest up for tomorrow’s riding and pugilism lessons.”

Catherine ignored the brick of worry that landed in her stomach at the thought of those lessons. “All right, darling. Do you want me to help you with the stairs?”

“No, thank you. I can do it myself.”

Catherine forced herself to nod and smile. And accept but yet another step in her son’s need for self-reliance. “Sleep well.”

“I always do.” He kissed Catherine’s cheek, shook Andrew’s hand, then quit the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Andrew’s gaze met hers, and his eyes were filled with
quiet understanding. “The closer to adulthood we get,” he said, “the more we want to do things for ourselves.”

“I know. Deep down, I’m very proud of his emerging independence, but there’s also that part of me that misses the little boy who needed me for everything.”

“He’ll always need you, Catherine. Not in the same way he did when he was a baby, of course, but the need for your love and support will always be there.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. And I’m glad.” She smiled. “Being needed is a very nice feeling.”

“It is indeed.”

Something in the way he said the words made her suddenly wonder if they were still talking about Spencer. Before she could decide, he asked, “Would you like to take our stroll? Or…” He indicated the backgammon board with a tilt of his head. “Perhaps you’d first prefer to receive a trouncing, er, engage in a game of chance?”

She raised her brows. “With a man who has already demonstrated that he can toss double sixes at will? Thank you, but no.”

He inclined his head before extending his elbow with a courtly flourish. “Then to the gardens we go.”

Catherine rested her hand very properly on the crook of his elbow, knowing that if she had her way, it was the last proper gesture she would make for the remainder of the evening.

They exited the house through the French windows leading to the terrace. They walked slowly across the flagstones, and Catherine drew a deep breath, absorbing the welcome cool air on her heated skin and the comforting outdoor scents of grass, leaves, and flowers, mixed with the intriguing, subtle hint of sandalwood that belonged to Andrew. The full moon glowed in the dark sky,
a gleaming pearl against black velvet, blanketing the landscape with a shimmering silvery illumination.

After walking down the curved steps, they headed toward the garden. The path branched off in several directions, but Catherine veered toward the right.

“Would you mind if we took the left fork?” Andrew asked. “There’s something I want to show you.”

A frown pulled down her brows at this cog in the wheel of her perfectly laid plans. “What is it?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Confound it, the man vexed her at every crossroads—literally, in this case. There was nothing to the left except a few marble statues, while to the right was the gazebo. And the gazebo was where she intended to lure him. She wanted to insist they walk to the right, indeed she wanted to
gallop
to the blasted gazebo, but in light of his polite request, she couldn’t think of a way to deny him without appearing churlish. Or blurting out the truth of her plans.

“Very well,” she agreed, hoping she did not sound as disgruntled as she felt. Humph. Well, she’d politely stare at whatever this thing was he wanted to show her, then turn him around. Or she could just continue him along the same path, which would eventually curve around and lead to the back of the gazebo, albeit by a more circuitous route.

Anxious to get on with things, she started down the left path, barely resisting the urge to grab his sleeve and tug him along.

“Do you normally walk so fast, Catherine?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Do you normally walk so slow?”

“Well, this
is
supposed to be a stroll. Sadly, I did not remember to bring a dictionary, and it appears we are
once again in need of one. You seem to have confused the meaning of
stroll
with that of
sprint
.”

“I do not require a dictionary. I am simply not a woman who likes to dawdle.”

“Ah. An admirable quality,” he said, slowing his steps even more.
Good Lord, snails moved more quickly than this.
“However, there are certain things that
should
be dawdled over.”

“Such as?” She wasn’t particularly interested, but perhaps if she kept him talking, he’d be distracted enough to move along a little faster.

“The sound of a night breeze rustling the leaves. The lingering scent of the day’s blooms…”

She barely suppressed a sigh of impatience. Heaven help her, here he was, waxing poetic about breezes and blooms, while she grew more frustrated by the minute. Could the man not see that she was dying to be held in his arms and kissed until her knees turned to mush?

Ohhh
, she inwardly fumed. What sort of miserable luck had fallen upon her to curse her with an attraction to a man who was clearly as thick as fog? And who moved no faster than a sleeping turtle?

“…scent of a woman’s neck.”

That phrase yanked her from her brown study with a jerk. Scent of a woman’s neck? That sounded…interesting. Promising. Damnation, what had she missed? Before she could ask him, he paused, then stepped around to face her. She took note of their surroundings and realized they stood in her favorite spot in the garden, a small, secluded semicircle she fondly referred to as Angel’s Smile. He must have stumbled upon it accidentally, as it was hidden from the main path by tall hedges. A casual walker would pass it by unless they knew to look for it.

“This is your favorite part of the garden,” he said.

Her brows shot upwards. “How did you know that?”

“Fritzborne told me.”

“Indeed? I did not know you two were so…well acquainted.”

“We shared a lengthy chat the day I arrived. We also talked quite a bit while we cleared the debris from the room in the stables where I set up the pugilist’s ring, after which he offered me a glass of his whiskey. He’s a good man. Drinks absolutely vile whiskey, but a good man just the same.”

“You drank whiskey with my stable man?” She tried to imagine Bertrand ever doing something like that and utterly failed.

“I did. And the way that liquor tasted, I’m not sure I’d be able to repeat the task.” He smiled, and his teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “Actually, it was only the first sip that hurt. After that, my insides turned numb.”

“And while you were drinking this whiskey, he just happened to mention that this is my favorite part of the garden.”

“It was actually while we exercised the horses that first day. I asked him to describe your favorite part of the garden. He told me it was a place you called Angel’s Smile and that it was a replica of your mother’s favorite spot in
her
garden.”

She nodded, slightly bemused. “Fritzborne planted the hedges for me, and I did all the flowers—mostly roses, asters, delphiniums, and lilies, as those were Mother’s favorites.” She looked around her, the peace she always felt in this spot infusing her. “You need to see it during the day to appreciate the beauty and serenity. The way the sun shines through those trees,” she said, pointing to a copse of towering elms about twenty feet away, “bathes this little nook with a semicircle of light that looks like—”

“An angel’s smile.”

“Yes. Before her death, my mother and I spent many happy hours together in the gardens. When I’m here, I feel as if she’s with me, smiling down at me from heaven.” Feeling suddenly embarrassed by her ramblings, she said, “It’s just silly whimsy.”

He gently clasped her hands and entwined their fingers, a gesture that simultaneously comforted and excited her. “It’s not silly, Catherine. It’s important to have places that mean something to us. Places where we can go to settle our thoughts. Find peace. Relive our favorite memories. Or just enjoy a bit of quiet.”

“You must have such a place of your own, to understand it so well.”

“I’ve had many during my travels.”

“Have you one in England?”

“I do.” He smiled. “When next you travel to London, I’ll show you my favorite bench in Hyde Park, and my favorite alcove in the British Museum.”

She returned his smile and firmly ignored her inner voice, which coughed to life to remind her that she had no intention of traveling to London in the foreseeable future. “Why did you ask Fritzborne about my favorite part of the garden?”

“Because I needed to know for your surprise.”

“
Another
surprise? I’m not certain how many more surprises I’m capable of experiencing today.”

“Have no fear. Come.”

He released her one hand, then, still holding the other in his warm grip, he led her toward the copse of elms. Curious, she looked around, but did not see anything out of the ordinary. When he stopped near the tallest tree, however, the scent of freshly dug dirt tickled her nose, and she looked down. And stilled.

There, in the pale glow of the moonlight, stretched an unfamiliar flower bed filled with a profusion of plants of various sizes surrounding the two outermost trees. She instantly recognized the familiar foliage, and her breath caught. “What is that?”

“Do you not recognize the plant? It is—”

“
Dicentra spectabilis
,” she whispered. “Yes, I know.”

“You said the bleeding heart was your favorite. I noticed a number of bleeding hearts scattered about your garden, but not a single large grouping.”

As if in a daze, she released his hand and crouched down to run her finger gently over a delicate row of tiny, perfectly shaped red-and-white hanging blooms. “You did all this?”

“Well, I cannot take all the credit. I enlisted Fritzborne’s and Spencer’s help.”

“They know of this?”

“Yes. Spencer helped me pick out the plants when we visited the village. Fritzborne hid them in the stables, then transported them here this afternoon. Spencer and I planted them.” He chuckled. “I think keeping this a surprise nearly killed the lad.”

“Yes, I imagine it did.” She pulled her gaze away from the stun-inducing wonder of the flower bed and looked up at him over her shoulder. “This is why you wanted to go to the village? To purchase these?”

“Among other things, yes.”

She moved to rise, and he immediately extended his hand to assist her. She slipped her hand into his, absorbing the warm, callused texture of his palm as it surrounded hers. When she once again stood facing him, she did not release his hand.

“Other things?” she repeated, her heart thumping in slow, hard beats. “Don’t tell me there are more surprises.”

He smiled. “All right. I won’t tell you that.” He brushed an errant curl from her forehead, and her hard-thumping heart skipped a beat at the intimate gesture.

“I cannot believe that the small flower shop in the village had such an abundance of plants available,” she said.

“Actually they had only a few. When I told the shopkeeper I wanted more, he suggested some of the village residents might be willing to sell their plants. So Spencer and I proceeded to knock on doors.” He laughed. “I think we met nearly everyone in the village in our quest for bleeding hearts.”

She could only stare. “You’re saying you went to the homes of people you didn’t know to ask them if you could purchase plants from their gardens?”

“That sums it up very well. Everyone was quite happy to allow Spencer and me to dig up their plants for ‘Lady Catherine’s surprise.’”

Heavens, there had to be at least three dozen plants surrounding the elms. “You went to a great deal of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t call doing something for you trouble.”

Her gaze drifted downward again, and at the sight of what he’d done for her, a rush of tenderness swamped her, swelling her throat with emotion, and pushing moist heat behind her eyes. Returning her gaze to his, she squeezed his hand and spoke the simple truth, “No man has ever done such a lovely, thoughtful thing for me.”
And romantic
, her inner voice chimed in with a feminine sigh.
You forgot to add romantic
.