“Searching for a book on flowering trees.”
Verity pursed her lips. “That’s next floor up.”
“Ah.” He perused the book titles on the shelf. “I never knew you enjoyed this genre of Gothic fiction.”
“I’m here for Aunt.”
“Well, forgive my hand on your arm but you were so engrossed.”
“Well, I may also indulge once in a while. Tastes change, my lord.” She swallowed, needed to end this. “You know how fickle I am.”
“Just so.” His jaw tightened. “But it is fortuitous to happen upon you here as I wished to talk with you.”
“Did you? Do you?” She shook her head.
“Hmm. For I plan to tour the south of England soon and thought to visit this large botanical garden of Mr Locksley’s.After all, you were mightily enamoured with the thought of it. So, where…exactlywould I find it?”
Miles feltakin to a creeping tendril inching towards a succulent bloom. A bloom that had wilted upon hearing Locksley’s name.
“That is not possible,” she muttered, fiddling with the book in her hand. “When he died, his heirs dug it up and planted potatoes.”
Mendacious jade.
“What misfortune.”
“Not at all. For I was also made aware that his botanical garden was not as large as one had been led to believe.”
Miles’ lip quirked. “And what was the purpose of this botanical garden? Plants for scientific classification? Plants from a specific geographical origin? Plants for medicinal use?”
Her autumnal gaze met his and he cursed his curiosity. He ought to be sipping tea with some potential bride. Instead he was battling wits with–
“Poison,” she declared, tapping the book on her leg. “The purpose of the garden was the scientific study of plants that were highly poisonous. Or irritating. Another reason why his relatives dug it up.” She smiled – a little too smugly for his liking.
“Still, they would have preserved some specimens, so I’ll pay a call, nevertheless. If you could be so good as to draw me a map? Anexactone. I have a pencil and–”
“Oh, but I can’t recall the…” Her hands fumbled and the book slipped from her fingers.
He dropped to his haunches to pick it up.
As did she, their fingers brushing, both of them clutching the leather-bound book.
This close, he could smell her perfume of orange blossom. The same as she’d worn when young and he felt desire twist and coil within himself.
Damn her to hell.
Why after all this time did the gilflirt still affect him? She was like a blight that crept through your veins and he was determined to discover the truth before cutting the infection out.
Potatoes indeed, the fibbing wench.
She endeavoured to tug the book from him but he refused to release it and her gaze clashed with his once more, the ring that surrounded her pupil the colour of oak leaves in October, those lips he’d once kissed parting in surprise.
Miles tugged the book also but she did not let go and toppled towards him.
Her chest rose, agitated.
He tugged again and those lips–
“Oy, you two!”
