It’s just a kiss,he insisted, forcing down his fears.No rules will be broken.
But as he walked, an image filled his head of children running around on the lawns, looking an awful lot like a mix of Albion and Matilda. He quickened his pace, urging the vision to fade as he put distance between himself and his wife. Perhaps, a kiss was more dangerous than he had realized.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
“Your Grace?” Laurence prompted.
Matilda blinked at him, half-forgetting that he was there. “Hmm? Did you say something?”
“I asked if you wished to relay anything else to the gardener,” Laurence replied. His spectacles were foggy with the sticky heat of the late afternoon, and though he stood tall and straight, she could see he was uncomfortable in his starched, stiff attire.
“Goodness, I was miles away,” she said, smiling.
He did not seem amused. “Then, you are happy to proceed with the plans he has prepared?”
Snapping out of her kiss-induced stupor, for she had thought of nothing else since Albion left the summer house, getting far less work done on her book than she had intended, she observed the freshly turned corner of the garden. Little, flat sticks had been pushed into the rich soil, labeled with the plants that Matilda had asked for, and miniature fences made of strings and twigs outlined how the ground would be partitioned.
“I would like lavender,” she blurted out, drifting back into a daydream. There had been lavender outside the window when Albion kissed her. And lavender drew bees which were always useful.
Laurence puffed out a breath. “Lavender, Your Grace?”
“It is excellent as an oil. When inhaled, rubbed on the skin, or used in a bath, it aids sleep and gloomy tempers,” she replied.
Laurence nodded. “So, this is not to be an ornamental garden, then?”
“Heavens, no.” She fanned her face. “It is to have purpose though that does not mean it cannot be pretty. Larkspur is exceptionally beautiful albeit dangerous.”
The valet arched an eyebrow. “Dangerous, Your Grace?”
“Oh yes. Even the tiniest amount of any part of the plant can have the most catastrophic effects,” she explained cheerfully. “A small amount will render a person immobile, removing all control of the body. A larger quantity can kill.”
The valet’s eyes widened in alarm. “Then, if I may say so, why would you want them in your garden?” He glanced nervously at the stick labeled with the plant. “Perhaps, it would be wise to put something else there?”
“Ah, but in very small quantities and mixed carefully with a great deal of water and neutral additions, it can be extremely helpful in alleviating the spasmodic symptoms of asthma,” she replied. “Dropsy, too. The larkspur stays. The lavender can go… here, instead.”
She gestured to a partition labeled “iris,” for there was already to be a square of those, and she doubted she would need two.
The valet seemed dubious but nodded. “I will inform the gardener of the change. He sent word that some of your plants and seeds had arrived and are in the greenhouses, but there are some he is struggling to find. I cannot recall which, but I will ask and inform you in case you need to consider replacements.”
“Thank you, Mr. Algernon.” Matilda beamed. “I must say, you are very helpful. Of course, I am no fool; I am certain there are a thousand things you would prefer to be doing as a valet instead of acting as my assistant, but I am grateful for your aid.”
He dipped his head again. “I am simply here to do my duty, Your Grace.”
“You may go,” she said, stifling a laugh, “before you melt.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He turned and strode away, tugging at his collar as he turned a corner and disappeared out of the gardens.
Matilda, too, was beginning to perspire in the balmy haze of the late afternoon, and she hadjustthe solution. She did not know if she was supposed to wait for Albion to come and find her or if she was supposed to fetch him, but she had never been the kind to wait for anyone.
She made her way to the manor, walking the narrow path around the outside until she found the window belonging to Albion’s study. She ducked down beneath the sill and chuckling to herself, raised up slowly to peek through the windowpane.
The little rascal!Her eyes fell upon a rather sweet scene. She had expected Albion to be hunched over his writing desk, plowing through estate business. Instead, he lay on a settee that took up most of the room’s far side, his arm above his head, his face turned to the right, one leg on the settee, one leg dangling off.
Fast asleep.
“He looks so peaceful,” she murmured, touching the glass.
If it were not for the heat and her eagerness to get to the beach, she might have let him continue sleeping. But mischief and the call of the glistening, cool water triumphed over the perfect stillness of his slumbering form, bringing her knuckles to the windowpane in a sharp rap.
