Bed of Flowers Page 8

  Before Mr. Gavin’s proposal, that had been Bonny’s greatest fear.

  “Fortunately, I’m content with my own company,” said Cordelia.

  Bonny blinked at her friend.

  “I believe your confidence is a sham, Miss Kelly,” said Mrs. Henley. “What, exactly, do you have to be so proud of?”

  Bonny took one look at Cordelia, her demeanor mild and steely, and realized that she’d have to step in to avert a catastrophe. “But Mrs. Henley, you’ve said such nice things about our circulating library—”

  “I hope this modest accomplishment hasn’t gone to your head.”

  “Oh! Look out the window. The rain has let up.” Bonny bounced from her own seat to Mrs. Henley’s, snuggling the older woman close in a hug. “Thank you for your wisdom, Mrs. Henley, and don’t blame us too much for being silly, hardheaded girls.”

  Mrs. Henley melted under this embrace.

  “And when will you learn, hmm?”

  “We learn every day,” Bonny promised. “It just happens so very slowly.”

  Cordelia’s indignant expression said that she had no intention of changing to suit Mrs. Henley, but Bonny ignored the silent rebuke.

  “Hrmph,” Mrs. Henley said. “I have some primers for Claire Morgan. She’s been doing so well with her literacy classes I thought it would be nice to gift her a hand. Can I send them with you?”

  Bonny hugged Mrs. Henley again. “Of course.”

  “I expect to see you again in two weeks.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Bonny promised.

  On the way to Mrs. Morgan’s, Bonny said, “Don’t let her upset you.”

  “Upset me?” Cordelia asked, obviously startled by the idea.

  “Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “Any man would be lucky to have you. Most men consider me a trial, and the sentiment is reciprocated.”

  With her wide-set blue eyes, thin blade of a nose, and chiseled jawline, Cordelia was as beautiful a woman as Bonny had ever seen—and having been praised for her beauty all her life, she had definite opinions on the subject.

  But while men flocked to Bonny with the bewildering single-mindedness of moths flinging themselves against a lit window at night, they utterly ignored Cordelia. Cordelia never seemed to mind—she hardly seemed to notice—but Bonny did.

  She minded a great deal.

  “Then all the men of the world are fools,” said Bonny.

  “Thank you for saving me from saying it myself.” Cordelia smiled wryly. “Which reminds me—what did you think of The Widow?”

  “I liked it! What a chilling mystery. Who do you think killed the husband?”

  “The widow, obviously. Mrs. Madott.”

  “Mrs. Madott!” Bonny exclaimed. “That was my first thought, but now I’m not so sure. She was so surprised when her husband vanished.”

  “Mrs. Madott had the stronger motive.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. Mrs. Godwin would have had a hard time finding a new place if that awful man dragged Mrs. Madott to an asylum. A younger woman might have been able to start over in a new position, without a reference, but at her age…?”

  “True.” Cordelia hummed. “Do you think we should add it to our catalogue?”

  “I… don’t,” Bonny admitted. “There’s something unsettling about the book.”

  “Of course there is,” Cordelia retorted. “That husband was murdered, and even if we don’t know who killed him, it’s obvious that neither of our suspects is sorry to see him go. That scene where Mrs. Godwin steps over his grave as though it’s nothing…”

  Bonny shuddered. “Though I’m not sure I’m sorry either. He was awful.”

  “Murder is wrong,” said Cordelia, effectively ending the conversation.

  Soon they reached the cottage where Claire Morgan spent the day minding her children while her husband worked at the brine pits. Bonny knew he hoped to be the foreman one day—he was always at Mr. Gavin’s side.

  Bonny offered Mrs. Morgan a staple-bound pamphlet, a children’s story that would take a literate adult some fifteen minutes to read. “This is from Mrs. Henley.”

  “Please thank her for me.” Mrs. Morgan returned a pamphlet whose pages had turned soft as the cotton from which they were originally made, the paper faded to a dirty gray. “This goes back to you. The children loved it as much as they did last time,” she said, only a little wry. “And the time before that.”

  Bonny laughed. “I’m glad we finally have something new to offer.”

  “Oh, they’ll be wanting their old favorite back before long. Once they grow attached to a story, they never seem to tire of it.” There was no real complaint in her tone though. “I know someone who would benefit from your library. She’s a fine woman but isolated by circumstance…”

  “Exactly the sort of person who appreciates the company of a good book.”

  “There’s something you should know about her.” Mrs. Morgan lowered her voice to a whisper, though there wasn’t a soul in range to eavesdrop. “She’s a wet nurse. She calls herself Mrs. Rhodes, but she was never married. She takes in children—illegitimate children, that is, of wealthy or highborn parents who won’t claim them.”

  “I’m not sure,” Bonny murmured, though she couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Gavin’s supposed child might have spent time in this woman’s care. Lord Loel hadn’t named the mother; if she existed, she could be anyone.

  “She deserves a bit of kindness, Miss Reed, and it would mean so much to her,” said Mrs. Morgan. “It’s been more than ten years since she… made her mistake… and she’s never repeated it. She mothers those poor abandoned children as if they were her own.”

  Bonny crumbled. “We’ll pay her a visit.”

  Bonny Reed did not look well when she visited Woodclose on Saturday. No. That wasn’t right. Beauty like hers never dulled. The whole range of human emotions could play across her face, and instead of diminishing her, the paltriest and foulest aspects of human nature would become beautiful.

  Fear, hatred, guilt. Even anxiety, which he saw now, could be transformed. She’d turned pale—exquisitely pale, like ivory—and shadows as delicately mauve as the petals of an orchid circled her eyes, making them appear deep-set and profound.

  It was absurd. A trick. And impossible not to be affected.

  “How is Mr. Gavin?” he asked, because it wasn’t hard to guess the source of her unhappiness.

  Miss Reed pointedly ignored him, humming as she filled the barrel of the syringe and carefully squirted water onto the Odontoglossum crispum’s potting material.

  “All’s well?” Loel prodded. “How nice for him.”

  “It’s mean-spirited to wish misfortune on your betters,” said Miss Reed in the prim voice she affected sometimes. He couldn’t tell if she used it to disguise the fact that she was saying something rather bold… or to highlight it. Either seemed possible.

  So he laughed, as intended, and her answering smile was shy and pleased.

  “I haven’t ignored your warning,” she added. “I’m investigating.”

  “You are?”

  “So there’s no point in insulting him further,” she said firmly. “You’ll only make me think less of you.”

  “I’m surprised that’s possible.”

  She looked at him sidelong. Her eyes were hazel, greenish near the pupil transitioning to amber at the edge of the cornea. Wide set, which contributed to her air of innocence, and lively. Every quick glance had a sparkle to it.

  “Of course it is,” she teased.

  “Either I’ve risen in your estimation, or”—he swept his gaze across the greenhouse—“the orchids have won you over.”

  “It’s the orchids,” she returned, and this time her smile was wide and genuine.

  He felt ridiculously proud of himself. He’d always looked down on men who made fools of themselves over women. He’d never hung on a woman’s smiles, lived for her attention, shattered at her tears… and he’d felt good
about that. Proud even.

  Pride did have a reputation for preceding a fall.

  He’d tried to resist. But there was no defense against her beauty, and—though it didn’t quite seem possible—he found her more beautiful every time he saw her.

  Miss Reed ducked her chin. Her hands fluttered around like a pair of nervous birds, faster and faster until she blurted, “Have you ever kissed a woman?”

  Had he—?

  Was Bonny Reed flirting with him? As soon as he had the thought, he knew the answer: No. She thought she was in love with the world’s greatest boor. She wasn’t, and he hoped she’d realize it in time to break the engagement, but in the meanwhile, she wasn’t flirting.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if you’d explain how it’s supposed to happen.” She tried to meet his eyes but lost her courage and scratched her nose instead. “The way you explained how to water the plant. Step-by-step.”

  “Tell me what’s upset you and I’ll try.”

  “Mr. Gavin is very enthusiastic—”

  “Enthusiastic.” Loel interrupted. A euphemism if he’d ever heard one.

  Miss Reed blushed. “It’s a great compliment, of course—”

  Hearing Bonny Reed make excuses for her fiancé’s swinish behavior filled him with a rage so white-hot it could have warmed his greenhouses for a decade.

  “He was rough with you,” said Loel, anger leaking into his voice.

  Miss Reed licked her lips and said… nothing.

  “And you didn’t like it.”

  “I thought perhaps I might be doing something wrong or not understanding something that should be obvious…”

  Good God. He couldn’t listen to any more of this. “The only thing you’ve done wrong is blame yourself.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” She cleared her throat in that prim, chiding way of hers. “Just… your instructions. Since you seem to have a gift for describing simple actions in minute detail.”

  Her reaction told him everything he needed to know. Charles Gavin had made her feel small and inadequate. But give her a bit of room to express herself, the most basic reassurance, and she had fire to spare.

  “Quite a compliment,” he said wryly. “No doubt it’s your gift for flattery that has made you beloved from one end of New Quay to the other.”

  “I’m an honest person who looks for the best in people.” Miss Reed clucked her tongue. “It’s unfortunate that you give me so little to work with.”

  It would have been easy to respond in the same vein. More humor would lighten her mood. It would be safer. But who else could she talk to? How many of them were looking out for her welfare instead of their own?

  She wanted to dance around the issue, but he addressed it directly. Plainly. With all the gravity he could muster.

  “You should never, ever be frightened of a man’s affection.”

  “I didn’t say I was frightened,” she said quickly.

  “You didn’t need to say it.”

  She crumbled. And he did too. He wanted, more and more, to be of use to her. But all he had to offer were these painful truths. Considering how his voyage aboard the Incitatus had ended, he found bitter irony in the fact that he could best help Miss Reed by hurting her.

  “Desire can be sweet and gentle and mild,” he said. “But sometimes it’s strong and fierce—it can be, it can feel, overpowering. Many people would say that’s the best kind.”

  Miss Reed’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Not nice people.”

  Oh, the nicest. But he wouldn’t convince her of that with words. He shrugged. “What matters is that any man worthy of the name learns to master himself, to control his desires. You should be able to approach as near as you like—to reach out and touch the most animal part of him—without ever feeling fear.”

  She shivered.

  The smallest, pettiest part of him rose to the fore. It saw her fear and insisted: I’ll show you how it’s done. He extended his hand, palm up. “Give me your hand.”

  She skittered away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  He held still.

  She promptly knotted her fingers together and mashed them against her breast. “Just my hand?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  She inched her palm toward his in fits and starts. He stilled the urge to reach or grab. Kept even his fingers immobile, waiting, lest the slightest twitch scare her away. All successful gardeners learned patience.

  He felt her touch through his whole body.

  This would be harder than he had expected. But he’d meant what he said and he would prove it even if it killed him. He was afraid it might.

  He shifted his grip so that her hand lay cradled in his larger one, both palms up. Then with his free hand he began to unbutton her glove, folding the soft leather over itself, a move that served two purposes: It bared her wrist and bound her fingers.

  Instead of lifting her hand to his mouth, he bent to kiss the bared sliver of flesh at her wrist, inhaling the scent of her skin like the finest perfume.

  Then he looked up to meet her eyes, because she needed to see the truth he’d wanted to hide—even from himself. Especially from himself. He burned with desire when he saw her. He burned with desire when she came close. Everything about her made him burn.

  And still he touched his lips to her wrist as lightly as a down feather falling onto a rose petal.

  It wasn’t what he wanted to do. He would have preferred to strip her, to explore her secret places, to feast. That didn’t matter, not at all. This was what she needed and—therefore—what she deserved.

  He kissed her wrist again, tasting this time. Savoring. His greed permitted this one small liberty. He wouldn’t likely get another chance.

  Enough. He occupied himself with folding back her glove, fastening the tiny shell buttons, giving himself time to reel in the beast he’d unleashed. By the time he’d straightened, he’d succeeded. His feelings for Bonny Reed were back where they belonged, locked tight and buried deep.

  “You know that you are beautiful,” he said.

  She began to shake her head, but he didn’t wait for her to contradict him. He would not offer the courtesy of pretense.

  “I do not think you understand how beautiful.” How could she? She’d never seen much of the world. He’d circled the globe, and he’d never met another woman who could compare. “If you wanted a husband who would prostrate himself at your feet and worship you, you would have no trouble finding one. If you demanded this of him every day of your married life, year after year until his knees crumbled to dust, he would still get down on those ruined knees to thank God that you chose him.”

  Miss Reed tittered. “Don’t be absurd.”

  He was dead serious. “If Charles Gavin has convinced you that he is your equal, he is a liar. When you chose him, it was an act of grace.”

  Her lips parted. Her pupils dilated. He’d expected horror, perhaps disgust, but he’d been wrong. She was aroused. He could hardly believe it, but she scrabbled at the buttons she’d just fastened, suddenly desperate to undo them again.

  “No.” Loel tapped his knuckles on the nearest table, jarring her back to reality. And to shame. “You are engaged to be married, Miss Reed.”

  She froze.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be,” he added.

  “I have to go,” she declared, backing away, smiling a false, brittle smile. Pale again and drawn and unhappy. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Very busy day ahead. You must have a great deal to do.”

  She babbled until she reached the door. He let her go, following slowly, giving her time to reach the drive before he followed her into the open air. It was cold and real, not the artificial softness of the orchid house, but the shock didn’t clear away the startling thought that rattled around in his brain.

  Bonny Reed was attracted to him.

  Not just attracted; he’d sensed that from the beginnin
g. He’d assumed she simply liked a certain style of man. He and Charles Gavin fit a similar mold, physically.

  But he’d been kissing women’s hands all his life and he’d never before been moved by the experience. Certainly not enough to open his mouth and spout passionate, dramatic nonsense. But that’s what he’d just done—and unless he badly misunderstood, her feelings had echoed his.

  What if he could have her? What if he could be the man on his knees, thanking God every day until he couldn’t stand? Even as he chided himself for concocting such a fanciful image, a thread of fantasy spooled out: Bonny Reed in his bed, Bonny Reed with his baby…

  He snipped it. If it hadn’t been for the fire, she would be wealthy and beyond his reach. And so she would remain, to him at least, because he would take no benefit from the harm he had caused.

  Bonny decided that nothing had happened. Lord Loel had kissed her wrist, which was quite ordinary and unremarkable. Even Mrs. Henley, renowned stickler for propriety, wouldn’t have much to say against that. Being alone with Lord Loel in the first place, yes. But a chaste kiss, the kind exchanged in polite greetings almost every day? No.

  So. Nothing. Bonny was glad to have that sorted in her mind because for a little while it had felt like something. For a little while she’d believed that she’d gazed into Lord Loel’s arsenic-green eyes and seen right through to his soul. For a little while she’d been terrified—though not of him. She could have stripped naked and sat down to tea with Loel, and he wouldn’t have taken a liberty that she did not grant willingly in advance.

  No, she’d been afraid of herself. Afraid that Loel had seen into her soul as she’d seen into his. Afraid because the heat in her blood, the hunger at her core, had been for him and not the man she’d agreed to marry.

  But that couldn’t be true.

  When she met Cordelia on Monday for their first delivery circuit to include Mrs. Rhodes, Bonny didn’t mention the kiss. Cordelia would have insisted that wanting something to be untrue didn’t make it untrue. Cordelia would have made Bonny examine her feelings and call each one by its proper name. By the time Bonny had finished this imaginary conversation with Cordelia in her mind, she knew better than to start it in reality.