Authors: Emma Wildes

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

A Growing Passion (2 page)

BOOK: A Growing Passion

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Lord
, Victoria thought irritably. How to retreat gracefully from this was a mystery, as they were standing just a few feet away. Moving a scant bit, she turned around, hoping to tiptoe away unobserved, but suddenly freezing when she heard his reply. “No thank you, though the generous offer is much appreciated.”

The deep voice was familiar, startlingly so.

Stephen?

Unable to help it, she pivoted back and stood there like a statue and watched. Stephen—it was indeed him, for as he moved to remove the woman’s arms from around his neck, he stepped into a shaft of filtered moonlight and she clearly saw his face—added, “Not that I didn’t enjoy your bountiful charms, my dear, but you are now married.”

What was worse, the woman was clearly none other than their hostess, the new wife of the Earl of Haldon, her pretty face drawn into a scowl, the decadent cut of her gown showing off a great deal of white, creamy skin.

Dumbfounded, Victoria simply couldn’t believe her eyes. Stephen Forsythe? The man she’d known since childhood, the quiet, serious scholar who had as much a passion for botany as she did herself, perhaps more?

And Lady Haldon? Who, according to Aunt Clara, was little more than a high-born slut.

“Please.” The earl’s wife didn’t seem willing to give up easily, rubbing her hand in a familiar gesture up his shirt front. “My marriage needn’t be a deterrent. We both know how these things work. Your misplaced sense of honor is inconvenient. I need you now. Besides,” she added in a purr, “my new husband doesn’t have your magnificent stamina, darling.”

“Good God, Isabelle, you do have the capacity to be blunt.”

“I have the capacity for a lot of things, remember?”

“Indeed I do. Your sexual neediness is etched forever in my memory,” Stephen said, smiling wryly, stepping back away from the lady’s questing hand, “but my honor is simply that. My honor. I won’t cuckold your husband, my dear. He’s a friend. Let’s forget you ever asked, shall we?”

Petite and dark, her shining hair drawn up in an elegant chignon, Lady Haldon lifted her chin. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she asked in a lethally silky voice. “That bluestocking bitch with the red hair.”

“Victoria?”

At the sound of her own name mentioned in this bizarre exchange, Victoria stiffened, realizing that she should have gone ahead and retreated long ago as was her first impulse, or else made her presence known. But now it was entirely too late. She wouldn’t have been able to move anyway, even if her life depended upon it.

“It’s not natural the way she digs in the dirt, like a common servant.” The countess sniffed. “And she discusses it too, not even ashamed to be so—”

“Intelligent?” Stephen supplied in a voice that sounded cool, still standing a bit back from the woman confronting him. “The men here tonight don’t seem to think she’s common at all. Don’t be catty, my dear. It makes you sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” the countess sputtered, for a moment the malicious gleam of her dark eyes visible in the meager light. “Of a chit on the shelf? Of a girl who would rather talk about rotating crops than fashion? I think not. She’s . . . rustic.”

Is rustic a bad thing to be
? Victoria wondered, feeling a slightly hysterical urge to laugh. It was true, she had led an unconventional life, but she didn’t realize anyone disparaged her for it.

The clouds above shifted and she could suddenly see Stephen’s face clearly, the clean line of mouth and jaw, his steady light blue eyes, the faint frown between his well-shaped brows. He said mildly, “She’s beautiful and learned and well-traveled, my dear Isabelle. Some men might find it intimidating that she’s a botanist, but most would overlook it, I think, the moment they saw her. The only reason she is ‘on the shelf’ as you term it, is because she wishes not to marry. I know for a fact her father has turned down many offers for her hand.”

The countess sniffed, lifting one bare shapely shoulder. “You take her side because you are like her, obsessed all day with your stupid plants.”

“Well,” he agreed in the reasonable tone Victoria had heard a hundred times, “that is true, I suppose, but we have also been friends since childhood.”

Her hands clenched in her silk skirts, Lady Haldon demanded hoarsely, “Are you in love with her?”

His brows winged upwards. “Not that it is any of your business, but she doesn’t think of me that way.”

Stephen was rarely wrong, Victoria thought wryly, but the truth was, she most certainly did think of him
that
way.

By God, what a terrible evening.
Stephen Forsythe leaned back in the carriage and resisted the urge to close his eyes and sigh out loud in audible relief to be leaving the Haldon fete.

Besides, if he had his eyes closed, he wouldn’t have to face Victoria, who sat straight across from him. Hell and blast, he was reasonably certain she’d heard at least part of the exchange between him and the insatiable Isabelle, who had all the discretion of a feline in heat. He certainly hoped Haldon’s wife would soon find a new man to stand in stud service so she would leave him alone if she was so determined to ignore her newly married status. Social situations were getting awkward with her relentless pursuit. That affair had obviously been a mistake.

“Thank you so much, dear boy, for escorting us. It’s convenient to have a handsome young neighbor like yourself with my brother out of town so frequently.” Clara Manwell, Victoria’s maiden aunt, beamed at him.

Seated next to her niece, Clara was a familiar figure—almost like a second mother to Victoria, and to him, actually, as he’d known her his entire life. Victoria’s mother had died young, and Clara had provided stability much needed in a somewhat unconventional household.

Stephen was very fond of her. That’s why when she had sent a note requesting that he squire them to this evening’s festivities, he had agreed. “My pleasure,” he responded, lying through his teeth.

“Ah, so you enjoyed yourself then?”

At that question, asked in a slightly amused tone, Stephen had to look finally at Victoria. It was the first she’d spoken since their departure. He cleared his throat. “It was a bit crowded.”

“But the air in the gardens was lovely, was it not?” Arching one perfect brow, Victoria had her head tilted slightly to the side, studying him as if he were a new species of exotic water lily she had never seen before. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap, wisps of red gold hair escaping from her simple chignon and curling against her slender neck, long lush lashes lowered slightly over her dark blue eyes. The speculative gleam he caught in her gaze was disconcerting.

She had
definitely
seen them.

He sure as hell hoped she hadn’t heard Isabelle’s crude comment about his
stamina
. He said coolly, “I wasn’t out there very long. Lady Haldon wanted to show me some new shrubs she had planted recently.”

“Is that what she wanted to show you?” Victoria murmured, her pretty face twitching into a mischievous smile.

He sent a quelling glance at her, well aware that Clara was listening, and changed the subject. “Congratulations on having your article on your travels in America published, Tori. You didn’t tell me. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“You mean for a woman.” Victoria sighed, to his relief, seeming to accept the new topic. “You are so widely recognized as a botanical expert that I felt it was a bit humble in comparison, but thank you. I was pleased.”

And he was pleased, he thought as they lapsed into silence with the cool autumn air drifting in the windows as the carriage rolled along, that she had chosen to stay home this time. Her father, who she accompanied often on expeditions, had gone to Arabia to search for plant life in the arid climate, but she had decided that the attitudes there toward women and the local customs might be too confining.

It had probably been a wise decision, he thought, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest. She was infinitely noticeable with her unusual strawberry blonde hair and flawless skin, the contrast striking. Her face was oval, her cheekbones delicate, and her mouth soft and pink. . . . His gaze drifted lower, to where her breasts swelled above the bodice of her dark blue gown. They were so tempting, the pale mounds quivering slightly as they rocked over a rough patch of road. . . .

But, he told himself, tearing his gaze away so she didn’t notice the lascivious way he was staring at her, she didn’t think of him in any capacity except that of friendship.

What she was about to do was reckless. It was more than that actually, it was . . . wanton.

Of course, she would be in trouble if he turned her down in the same honorable way he had turned down Lady Haldon. She could already feel an odd tingling in her nipples, and her breasts were tight.

It had rained almost all day, gradually lessening to a fine mist, and Victoria tugged her hood a little farther forward, protecting her face and hair. Skirting a pile of fallen leaves, she didn’t bother to approach the front door but instead walked around her neighbor’s big house to the conservatory in the back. It was much more likely Stephen would be there, working with his plants. Opening the door with the ease of long familiarity, she slipped inside, assaulted by the fecund smell of soil and vegetation.

And for once that odor, so beloved to her, didn’t stir her at all––but more the sight of Stephen, exactly where she’d expected him to be, quickened her pulse which was already racing.

He was in the back, where he’d recently shown her his new experiment: hybrid trees that would produce fruit with fewer seeds and higher yields. Coatless, his white shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to show muscular arms, he was bent over a small specimen in concentration and she stopped for a second, just studying him. He was very good-looking—she supposed she had always known that—but in more of an abstract fashion. But upon her return to England from this last trip to the colonies, where she and her father had explored the American desert, she had suddenly seen Stephen in a different light.

It was odd how he looked so familiar, yet so . . . exciting. She couldn’t remember when she hadn’t known him. They had grown up together, their family estates not even a mile apart. Aside from the usual childish quarrels, he had been her best friend for most of her life. Two years older than she, he had tolerated a young girl tagging along, patiently teaching her how to fish, how to ride her pony. . . .

There was something
else
she wanted him to teach her.

“I brought you a gift.”

At the sound of her voice he lifted his head and smiled in welcome, obviously not surprised in the least at her unannounced arrival. “Tori. I didn’t hear you come in. What kind of gift?”

Her breathing was a little erratic. She was nervous, but it was something else too. “Actually, I guess I brought you two gifts.”

“Oh?” Wiping his hands on a cloth, he lifted a brow. His hair, chestnut brown and a little too long, was ruffled attractively.

Almost against her will, her gaze strayed lower, to where his dark breeches hugged his legs. What did stamina mean, and was it important? she wondered with scandalous speculation. The inferred meaning—considering the context of Lady Haldon’s request of him—was scandalously apparent, but she still didn’t really
know
.

“Tori, are you well?” He frowned and came forward, taking her arm. “You’re trembling, and it’s so wet outside your cloak is soaked. Come, let’s go into the house. There’s a fire in my study. I just left there.”

The study would be more private than the glass walls of the conservatory, so she let him take her there, allowing him to remove her cloak, shaking out her damp skirts as she slid her slippers from her feet.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked, still obviously concerned.

She was actually too warm, her skin glowing, her body beginning to throb. Not only were her breasts sensitive and hard, but a strange, sweet ache had begun between her legs. “Here,” she said breathlessly, bending over and plucking the vial from her discarded cloak’s pocket as they stood by the fire. “This is for you.”

Taking it in a long-fingered hand, he said curiously, “They look like seeds. What are they?”

Oh dear, she knew she was flushed, glad she was wearing absolutely nothing under her day dress. He would realize that in a moment, she guessed, because her nipples were rigid against the thin fabric. “It’s a rare plant that grows only in a small area of the desert on the American continent. The native people there use it in certain ceremonies and treat it like gold. Sometimes it is even traded like coin is here. Consuming the seeds themselves is reputed,”—her voice was so husky she could hardly speak—“to be a powerful aphrodisiac.”

At that word, he glanced up and she saw his expression change, his gaze slipping from undoubtedly pink cheeks to where her breasts strained against her bodice. “It works by the way,” she added. “I just took some.”

“You . . .
what
?” he asked incredulously.

“I took some and I think I need you to help me.” Reaching up, she tugged the pins from her hair.

BOOK: A Growing Passion

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