Treacherous Temptations(14)

“Insidious plants they be,” the gardener cursed. “Always invading where they don’t belong.”

“May I have them please?” Mary asked. “I would like them for my room.” The gardener cocked his head and frowned at the wilted bunch in her hand. “Perhaps they’ll recover if placed in a bit of water?” she suggested hopefully. Noting that many still had clods of dirt attached to their roots she suggested, “Or mayhap I could place them in pots?”

“’Tis no matter at all tae me what ye do wi’ ‘em, miss. Take the lot of ‘em if ye wish.”

Without any better way to carry them, Mary scooped up an apronful of the discarded blooms, dirt clods and all. “Where might I find some pots?” she asked.

“There be a gardening shed o’er yonder,” the grizzled man gestured with a jerk of his head. “I could do it for ye miss, after I finish here.”

“I think I would prefer to do it myself, if you don’t mind,” she answered with a smile. In her short time in London, Mary had found the life of a lady mind-numbingly dull. In truth, the idea of putting her hands to any good and sensible use held infinite appeal. After retrieving a couple of flower pots from the gardener’s shed, she placed herself on a stone bench by the ornamental fountain, for the sheer convenience of its running water. It was there, while she was deeply engrossed in dirt, that he came upon her.

It was his shoes she noticed first, a flash of light reflecting off the ornamental buckles catching her eye. She looked up and almost didn’t recognize him, so different was he from the day before. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and a richly embroidered silk waistcoat, with his lustrous black hair uncovered, unpowdered, and unbound, hanging loosely to his shoulders. While yesterday she would have guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, today he appeared almost a decade younger. Devoid of courtly trappings, this was an entirely different, and for Mary, heart-racing version of the Conte Vittorio Amedeo di Caserta.

Mary shaded her eyes, but still felt as if she stared straight into the sun’s blinding brilliance when he smiled at her. “Mistress Mary, the extraordinary. How does your garden grow?” He purposefully misquoted the old nursery rhyme.

She swallowed hard and rose instantly. Flowers forgotten, they scattered at her feet.

“Buongiorno, signorina.” He swept her a bow. “We meet once more under less than decorous circumstances. Will you run away again, I wonder?”

Mary fought her impulse to do just that.

He looked to the flowers and back to her with a quizzical expression. “You have uprooted these only to re-plant them?”

“But I didn’t…I was.” Mary cast her flustered gaze to the strewn flowers. “They are—

“Primula Vulgaris,” he volunteered. “Better known as the Common Primrose.”

“But not roses at all,” Mary said. “They are imposters and interlopers here.” She tamped down the urge to add, just like me. “The gardener was plucking them out from amongst the rose bushes as ruthlessly as one would weeds.”

“An absolute travesty,” he teased and gestured to the bench. Mary gathered her skirts and sat. Rather than joining her, he propped a foot on the bench and an elbow on his knee.

“But it is!” she protested with passion. “They are my favorite flower. They have much more than just an ornamental function. They are practical too.”

“A practical flower?” The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Indeed!” she replied. “Primroses are very practical and can be used for several purposes. Firstly, they are easy to gather, as they are commonly found in the wild. Secondly, both the blooms and leaves are quite edible. In Leicester, cook often used them. Moreover, the leaves can be used for tea and the flowers can be made into a wine.”

“Primrose wine?” He looked skeptical.

“It’s quite good,” she insisted. “Although I don’t suppose the better class drink such things. Yet I find I miss many of the simple pleasures.”

She gazed up to find him regarding her with a curious expression and then he took hold of her chin. “Hold still my little Antheia.” His grip was warm, firm, commanding. He must have seen the wariness in her eyes for he added with a chuckle. “Though I might be tempted, I’m not going to bite you.”

If he’d intended to set her at ease, it had the opposite effect. She sat perfectly still, frozen by eyes that were not black, as she had previously thought, but the darkest shade of indigo. “Antheia?” she asked, willing herself to relax.

“A goddess of flowers and an attendant of Aphrodite, but one whose cheek is currently smudged by her labor of love.” He withdrew a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket and raised it to her cheek, wiping and then scowling before dipping it in the fountain pool. She blushed while he dabbed the damp linen to her face with a touch that was efficient but surprisingly gentle.

He was so close that his scent wafted over her, washing her senses in his wonderfully heady essence. She wanted so badly to inhale deeply, to breathe him into her lungs, but Mary found she could hardly breathe at all. She was beginning to feel light-headed from lack of air when he released her chin.

“There now.” He continued as if the world hadn’t just stopped turning. “You don’t care for town life?” he remarked.