He opened them again.What?
“I…I baited Lady Hurst. And for that, she struck out at you, so I’m sorry.”
Lucas opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it again, lest he look like a cork-brained nodcock.
“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Good night, Lucas. Don’t stay here too long.”
She rose, but he still couldn’t say anything, so he caught her wrist instead. It was delicate in his hand, and he ended up saying the first thing that came to mind.
“You really must eat more.”
She laughed and it sounded so bright and loud in the silent green-house. “You’re as bad as Benedict.” She turned and stood in front of him but he didn’t let go of her wrist. The rose perfume grew and blossomed in the damp heat, dispelling the odour of decay.
“I wasn’t upset by Lady Hurst.”
“But you’re sitting here all alone…with a bottle of whisky.”
“I’m not upset, just…contemplative.” He knew he shouldn’t, but the words came out anyway. “Sit, please.”
Her cloak rustled as she lowered herself to the bench, and he stroked his thumb over the soft skin of her inner wrist.
“It was not the lady’s words that upset me. How can I explain…”
Calloused, she thought. The thumb was calloused and rough, and it kept rubbing abrasively over her sensitive wrist. The sensation sent quivering, hot feelings in all directions, and her heart pounded an erratic rhythm, yet Lucas seemed unaware, so intent was he on finding the right words.
Rosalind dug her teeth into her bottom lip, not daring to move, in case she broke the intense moment. Lucas had looked splendid as she’d entered the green-house. He’d been sprawled on the bench, his feet up and his head back, an arm, clad in only a billowing white sleeve, trailing to the whisky glass on the ground. The cravat had been abandoned on an orange tree, and his brown neck was exposed, a powerful contrast to the snowy-white shirt.
He’d looked like some king awaiting his concubine, fanciful maybe, but hehadlooked magnificent. Her musings only made his touch worse, much worse.
“I felt fairly aimless after my father died,” he said, without looking at her. “I was restless and angry so I joined the army. I soon found out, however, what it was I was actually fighting for and no longer felt aimless. I fought for beauty, for a summer’s day, for the smell of red roses in an English garden after rain. I fought for jovial inns like The Green Man, and for everyday good people. I fought for the delicate beauty of a woman…”
He looked up, and she felt her breath catch, his compelling grey eyes caressing her face as he continued, “So when I see such ugliness and cruelty in that beauty, I can’t help but feel…disappointed.”
“Oh.” It was no more than an exhale. Having lived with Benedict for so long, she had forgotten the poetry of words. “Lady Hurstisvery pretty,” she muttered.
“Shall I tell you about Lady Hurst?”
“You’ve met her before?” Rosalind suddenly felt out of her depth, ignorant. They’d met before; maybe they’d already been lovers; maybe tonight had been some complicated love game.
“Yes, in London, the previous year. She was very…attentive to me, despite the burns. I wasn’t attracted to her, don’t ask why. At that time, I wasn’t in a fit state to find anyone attractive, so don’t think me virtuous.” He brought the glass to his lips and sipped. “I went into the gardens, one night, at some ball. She was talking to her friends. Apparently, Lady Hurst has a…Hero List. I’m sure aherowould not have listened in to their conversation, but I never made that claim, so I did. She attempts to bed every war hero on her list, and my name was mentioned. Her friend asked her if she minded the scars and she replied, ‘when candles be out, allheroes are grey in the dark’.”
Rosalind gasped. “The scraggy trollop.” She couldn’t help those words escaping. She’d heard that old proverb about cats, but to turn it on Lucas, well…
He casually shrugged and smiled. “Her husband married her for the dowry. Apparently, she thought he loved her so now she repays him by bedding soldiers. Circumstance has made her bitter.”
“Circumstance does not have to make you bitter,” Rosalind retorted. “That is all her own doing. Yes, life can be hurtful, but experience can bring appreciation and strength. When you smell a rose now, do you regret your role in the war? What it did to you? Or do you now savour the fragrance more, knowing you helped fight for it?”
To answer, he leaned close until his face was almost at her neck. She felt him inhale deeply and then pull back. Her entire body prickled with awareness and heat; she wanted to drag his face into her neck and demand he kiss her there.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“Kiss me.” The words blurted from her. She hadn’t meant to, not like that.
He cocked his head and looked…confused. “Why?”
“Erm…the usual reasons.”
“You can do better than that, Miss Trewent. Doyouhave a tally of war heroes? Do you want to make someone jealous? Or is it sympathy? After all, that is why you came here tonight, was it not? Because you felt sorry for me.”
