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“As you wish,” Emma replied, placing one small pot on the worktable. “Take one of those,” she said to Kingsley, pointing to the small group of plants on the floor.”
Kingsley shook his head as he gathered a plant and brought it closer. “I cannot believe you are making me do this.”
Emma smiled. She didn’t think anyone could make the man do what he didn’t want to do. “Now, in the empty pot, place some pebbles at the bottom.”
He watched as she filled just the bottom of the pot with the small stones. “Why am I here again?”
“To help out.”
“And...?”
“To keep me company,” she answered lightly. “Mr. Webb is very nice, but he tends to take his work very seriously.” She added a mixture of peat and dirt. “I mean, it is just a plant after all.” She held up the small planting. “An exceedingly small plant. And the worse that might happen is it doesn’t survive the transfer to a new pot.”
Simon blinked at the chatty Emma. “My dear Miss Drake, I don’t believe I have ever heard you say so much.”
Her hands stopped moving in the dirt. “Indeed? I’m sure my sister would tell you I am usually quite talkative.” She released a small sigh. “Some gentlemen have even noted that I tend to be a bit flirtatious, but I don’t think that’s true, do you?”
“Not around me,” he replied with a smile. “Are you nervous?”
“How so?”
“Many ladies get tongue-tied around a devil like me. Others tend to talk incessantly.”
“I am not nervous around you. You are my sister’s brother-in-law, after all. Family,” she mumbled the last word.
Kingsley pressed his lips together as if to keep from laughing. He tipped the pot oven to let gravity release the plant from its current home.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed as a thorn poked his thumb through the glove.
“Sir!”
“Excuse my language. You didn’t tell me these the plants had thorns.”
“They are sweetbriar roses, Mr. Kingsley. All roses have thorns.”
“You told me they were sweetbriar, not sweetbriar roses,” he countered.
“You will survive a thorn prick.” She shook her head and started working on her second planting while he returned to his first.
“Is this right?” He pressed the small plant into the bigger pot. “Perhaps the drop of blood added to it will fertilize the damn thing.”
“You are doing fine. And I doubt the plant will even notice the small droplet of blood.” Emma returned her focus on the plant in front of her.
“Tell me about your mother, Mr. Kingsley. I heard she had a lovely voice. I never did get to hear her sing.”
“Well played, Miss Drake,” Kingsley replied.
She raised a brow in question.
“Changing the topic of conversation.” Kingsley moved his first transplanted pot over on the worktable and reached for another container and plant.
“Your mother?” she inquired.
“Yes, my mother had an exquisite voice. Not that I was truly aware of it until I attended an opera as an adult.”
“When did she stop singing?”
“When I was ten.”
