Must Be Magic (3 page)

He removed her hand from his chest with a strength that could have broken bones and with a gentleness that didn't.

“That's about the most inane thing anyone has said to me all evening. Go away before I chew you into little bits and spit you out.” Dunstan flung her hand away and retreated from her reach. He'd been without a woman for so long, he'd forgotten their alluring scents and softness, the sway and rustle of tempting curves, the hot bloodlust that throbbed through him when the need was on him.

He couldn't afford passion any more than he could afford women. Whatever she offered, she would take too much in return.

“I am not an empty-headed twit,” the lady replied with scorn. “You can't frighten me with exaggerated threats and intimidating stances. If you are the best agronomist in all England, then I need your services.”

Intimidating
stances.
Dunstan almost chuckled at the way the irritating scrap of fluff stood there with her hands on her hips in her own version of intimidation.

“I
am
the best agronomist in England, but I am already employed,” he avowed. “The last person in the world I'd work for is a Malcolm witch.”

Even though he could barely see the lady in the darkness, she was still working her witchy Malcolm wiles on him. A part of him wanted to show her he was far more than the best agronomist in all England. He wanted to prove he was first and foremost a man—but that pathway led to hell, and he refused to take it, no matter what enticements she offered.
Name
his
own
terms!
Gad, the woman had parsnips for brains if she didn't know the power of her own seductiveness.

Lady Leila had the most luscious curves created in the eyes of God and mankind. He was far better off out of her presence, and she was far better off understanding with whom she toyed.

Dunstan wrapped his hands around her corseted waist and lifted her to the potting bench, knocking plants out of the way with her wide panniers.

She gasped and got in a well-placed kick with her heeled shoes, but Dunstan merely grunted and staggered away.

Name
his
own
terms
, indeed. She would scream and have his head cut off if he told her exactly what terms he'd choose.

Wiltshire, April 1752

The last person in the world I'd work for is a Malcolm
witch
. Famous last words. Taunting a Malcolm was as witless as teasing dragons.

Cursing and wiping the filth of the road from his brow, Dunstan halted at a crossroad near Swindon and let his aging mount nibble grass while he debated his route.

Dismissed.
The best damned agronomist in the land, and he'd been
dismissed.
For insubordination. Imagine that. And not another fat-headed lordling on the horizon seemed interested in hiring him.

Dunstan returned to pondering the crossroad. He could take the route east and crawl back to Drogo, but he'd rather eat his own foot than ask for help. The fiasco in London had proven he was a detriment to his noble brother as well as to his own son, whom he was determined to take under his wing one day.

Years ago, Celia had been horrified when he'd suggested bringing his by-blow, Griffith, into their household. Celia's death and the subsequent rumors had effectively destroyed his hopes of developing any filial relationship with the boy. Until Dunstan's innocence was established, Griffith was better off with his mother.

Dunstan might be a failure at his social obligations, but he knew he possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of experimental agricultural techniques. He wasn't too proud to work, provided someone would let him.

The cursed Malcolm witch had seen to it that no one would let him.

You
may
name
your
terms.
Had she really said that? Was it a trap?

He glared up the road leading west, toward Bath and the Staines estate. He had no proof that Lady Leila was responsible for his current situation. After Celia and London, his reputation could be the reason that no man would hire him. But it had been the lady's half brother who had sacked him, even though Dunstan had tripled the estate's profits over the past year. It certainly looked like the lady's doing to him.

Of course, to be fair, Rolly was a prig of the worst sort, and Dunstan might have let the lordling know that a time or two. He didn't tolerate fools gladly.

Dunstan leaned against his horse's neck and considered his alternatives. His saddlebag still contained the experimental turnip seeds. He could crawl back to his brother—and the few acres Drogo had promised him—and never earn enough to pay his recently hired investigator to seek the truth of Celia's death, much less make a life for his son.

Or he could turn toward Bath and accept the lady's offer.

His
terms.
The possibilities intrigued him.

He had catered to Celia's whims for years. Like a blithering fool, he'd showered her with fripperies and jewels he could ill afford, placating her with the dream of someday becoming a countess, since Drogo had no heir. He hoped she would be patient and learn to love him.

The instant Drogo had married and had a son, Celia had danced off to London and a round of lovers, and never looked back.

Dunstan would rather rot in the Tower than play carpet for a woman's dainty feet again.

He particularly wouldn't play the part of carpet for a seductive Malcolm. Lady Leila was too attractive and determined. She could walk all over a man, if he let her. Then again, no one said he had to let her.

She'd said he could name his own terms.

Crawl or fight. Friggin' hell of a choice.

Reining his gelding to the right, he set his jaw and hunkered down for the battle ahead.

***

Dunstan pounded on the door of Lady Leila's rural mansion until a stiff-necked butler answered. Accepting Dunstan's hat, the servant led him toward the back as if he'd been expected. The witch had probably read of his arrival in her tea leaves.

Entering what was obviously her late husband's masculine study, he watched as the woman he thought of as the Black Widow paced before a sunny window. Or at least, he assumed it was she, given her black skirts. The bright light threw her features into shadow, and he had deliberately avoided looking closely at her in London.

At first, this female appeared every bit as tight-laced and haughty as the woman he remembered from the ball. But noticing the way she clasped and unclasped her hands, he sensed in her an uncertainty that he hadn't discerned earlier.

“I've come to inquire if the estate agent position is still available.” Clenching his jaw, Dunstan focused on the cap covering her tightly pinned and powdered hair, avoiding any contact with her provocative Malcolm eyes. He didn't believe in fairy tales, but if even Drogo could be tempted by a Malcolm witch, he would take no chance that there was truth in the legendary attraction between Malcolm women and Ives men. He figured the legendary disasters between their families were to be expected of any Ives who was foolish enough to fall for a witch.

He wished the devil she'd sit down.

“As I told you before, I need someone who is willing to help me develop new strains of flowers, ones grown for fragrance,” she announced, as if they were continuing the conversation begun in her home weeks ago.

Her perfume, which he remembered from their earlier encounter, smelled sweeter than the jasmine in her conservatory. He concentrated all the more on the lady's white curls.

“I know nothing of flower breeding.” He tried not to bite off his stubborn tongue for flapping when it shouldn't. He
needed
this position.

“Learn.” Advancing from behind the desk, she gestured with long, beringed fingers at shelves of books behind him. “I wish to start with propagating roses and progress to the development of other varieties. I mean to produce perfumes from my own distillations.”

Standing there beside him, she absently patted his arm. “I have discovered that growing things is very”—her voice caught—“difficult.”

Beneath the sizzle of her caress, Dunstan lost the power to focus on the hitch in her voice. He had the distant notion that she'd just hired him without question or interview, but the headiness of her perfume and her stirring touch blurred his brain.

As if sensing that, the lady tilted her coiffed head to regard him carefully, and Dunstan steeled himself, refusing to look down any further than the cap beneath his nose. If he tried hard, he could watch the robin in the bush outside the window.

“Flowers produce no income,” he insisted, gritting his teeth. “My usual salary is based on the income I produce. How will you pay for my services?”

He thought she glared at him before she swung on her high heels and click-clacked away.

“I believe I told you to name your price,” she said. “I have use of my late husband's entire estate. Take a higher percentage of sheep sales for your salary to make up for the non-income-producing acreage.”

Use
of
her
husband's estate?
That did not sound very permanent. Dunstan debated questioning her, but he had no real choice. He needed money. His seeds needed immediate planting. He was here. She had land. It galled him to be obligated to a woman, but he knew he could prevent some other man from robbing her blind while doubling her income—if she'd allow it.

“I can do that,” he said, testing the waters. “But I'll need a field of my own for my experiments.”

“Take whatever fields you need, drain fens, plant crops, whatever you wish outside of the flower gardens. Start as soon as you like.” Leila swung around to see how the arrogant son of an earl accepted her offer. She tried not to clench her fists and show her despair. This past month living in the country had sorely tried her patience. The few flowers she'd planted were dead or dying. She needed Dunstan Ives and his knowledge more than she'd imagined.

Standing in front of her accounting desk, frowning at her as if she were some form of insect, Dunstan seemed to steal all the air in the room. He wore muddy boots, his tailored wool coat and vest were unfastened in the warmth of the spring sun, and he vibrated with male energy and hostility. She opened a casement to let a spring breeze enter, but the masculinity of his fragrance made him impossible to ignore. Restlessly, she picked up her fan and opened and closed it while pacing behind her desk.

These past weeks had taught her how little practical knowledge she possessed, despite all her reading. Dunstan's unexpected arrival had revived her hope, but now she understood the difficulty of dealing with the strong attraction of an Ives. How annoying that she must learn to face temptation at this late date.

If only she could surrender her role as a pillar of society to explore these feelings… But circumstances didn't allow that yet. She still had appearances to keep up and her authority to maintain, or her nephew and his fellows would run all over her.

“I'll need a house with an adequate cook and housekeeper,” Dunstan asserted.

Leila lifted an inquiring eyebrow, but the thorny Ives refused to look at her. More experimentation in managing his prickly exterior was called for.

“The farmhouse down the lane is already prepared,” she answered, testing her strange perception of this angry man. “Have my butler give you directions. I've ordered more roses and will need to begin planning their location soon. I'll expect you to return this evening so we may discuss the best approach.”

Dunstan rested an insolent shoulder against the bookshelves and crossed his arms over his chest. Thin lines creased either side of his set mouth, and she could read refusal in his dark eyes as if it were printed there. Therein lay the problem of hiring an aristocrat to do a servant's job. They simply didn't know their place.

In the sunlight, she thought him wickedly fine. His well-endowed nose suited his rugged features. Blue-black highlights gleamed in his raven hair, and a frown added to his dangerous appeal. He might not be handsome in the conventional sense, but he possessed the Ives maleness that spun a woman's senses.

She shuddered and turned away. She dared not place herself in the power of a man again, and definitely not one as commanding as this one.

“As you suggested,” he answered her calmly, “I'll ask a higher percentage to compensate for non-income-producing fields. That could be costly, so your paying crops should be planted first. The roses must wait.”

She could get angry and crisp him to ashes. Instead, she donned the deliberate smile with which she'd conquered society. Granting him a smoldering look from beneath lowered lashes, an expression that always conned men to do her bidding, Leila glided closer, until she could tell he was holding his breath. She could smell the sensual awareness on him. Seductively scratching a manicured fingernail over his jabot, she detected the rapid beat of his heart.

“The rose garden,” she insisted, “comes first. If your income does not equal what my father and Rolly paid you by year's end, I will provide the difference as a salary.”

“I'll study roses,” he agreed, not really agreeing. He abruptly turned his back on her and scanned her bookshelves. “I'll take a few of these books with me,” he added, “and go back to the inn to fetch my things.”

He selected a few sturdy volumes and walked off.

May
the
goddesses
rain
toads
upon
his
head!

Leila wasn't certain if she should laugh with relief or fling books at his stiff spine as he departed.

She wanted to hate the man for being so obdurate. Instead, she longed to be just like him. She wanted to know her abilities and where they could take her with full confidence, as he did.

Releasing her disappointment and puzzlement, Leila let an almost giddy excitement renew her resolve.
Dunstan
Ives, the best agronomist in all England, had come to work for her.

Finally she had what she needed to explore her interest in scents. She could only pray that her explorations would lead to the discovery of her Malcolm gift.

The extraordinary gifts her sisters and cousins possessed all related to their more common talents. Lucinda had the gift of revealing character through portrait painting. Felicity, the bookworm, picked up images of the past from old maps and letters.

Surely,
surely
, her own gift must be related to her talent for scents. Perhaps someday she might discover in herself a gift capable of saving a life, as Ninian's had saved her husband.

Ripping off her cap and shaking a cloud of powder from her tightly pinned curls, Leila massaged her scalp and sighed in relief. Now, if she could take off this damned corset and gown and slip into the fields to see how her newly planted roses had fared through the night…

Glancing out the window, she watched Dunstan ride away, and an odd excitement possessed her. Could it be possible to work side by side with a man who might respect her for her talents rather than for her position in society?

Then again, how could she possibly work with an Ives? Whom was she fooling?

A carriage rolled up the drive. Running a hand through her hair to loosen it, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She didn't want to put her hair up again for visitors. She'd invited several of her younger sisters and cousins to stay, but that wasn't one of her family's coaches.

She crossed to the study door to listen as the butler greeted her unexpected guest. She heard no feminine laughter, only a single male monotone. One of her suitors, then, hoping to beat the competition. Fie on him.

If that brat of a nephew of her husband's had some idea that she would marry and thus give up this land as stipulated in her husband's will, he had another lesson or two to learn. She intended to wear widow's weeds into eternity.

She hurried up the back stairs to her chamber and rang for her maid. “Who has arrived?” she demanded as soon as the maid entered.

“Lord John Albemarle, milady.” She sounded scandalized, as well she should be. It was highly improper for a gentleman to call without a family member in attendance.