Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Ten

M adeline had poked at her breakfast, pushing items around on her plate rather than eating them until all that remained was a muddled mess. One food item was now barely distinguishable from another. If it had held any appeal when freshly plated, it was certainly gone now. Placing her utensils together on the plate, she waited for the footman to come and remove it. He did so quickly and efficiently.

Reaching for her cup and saucer, she took a sip of the rich, dark chocolate that had been prepared. It was a luxury for her. So much so, that even in her current troubled frame of mind, she would not squander the opportunity to indulge. Coraline had not cared for chocolate, and therefore it had never been served. She had claimed the very scent of it made her ill.

“Horrid, wretched, vile creature,” Madeline muttered.

“I do hope that is not directed at me.”

Madeline gasped, nearly tipped the cup into her lap and only just managed to avoid spilling the lot of it. She hadn’t heard him enter. Nor had she seen him enter. Where had he come from?

Turning to face her husband, she noted that he was freshly shaven, yet his eyes were slightly bloodshot and had deep hollows beneath them. Whatever he had elected to do on their wedding night, it did not appear to have included sleeping. A terrible thought occurred to her then. Had he spent it with someone else?

“Good morning, my lord. I did not realize you had entered the room. I presume there is an entrance I am not privy to?” she stated. Her tone was cool but not sharp.

He reached behind him with one hand and pushed a cleverly disguised panel. It slid open to reveal a servants’ staircase. “This house has been renovated numerous times over the decades. To that end, it is riddled with hidden doors and passages. Sadly there is no great mystery or adventure behind them. Simply mundane disagreements in architecture.”

“How disappointing,” she said. “I imagine they would provide hours of entertainment as a child.”

“And an infinite number of scoldings,” he answered. “I see you are not overly hungry this morning.”

“No. I’ve never been one for early meals,” she lied. Normally, she ate like a robust farmer’s wife, at least according to her mother.

“Since Mrs. Wilson has taken it upon herself to show you the house, perhaps you will permit me to show you the gardens,” he suggested. Madeline sat there for a moment. In part, she was stunned at his simple request given the very complicated nature of their relationship. Another part of her, one she was not particularly proud of, cautioned her not to look too eager. It wouldn’t do to let him know that she desired his company when it remained to be seen whether or not he truly wished for hers. “That sounds very nice. When should you wish to do so?”

“I rather thought we might do so now… unless you are otherwise engaged?”

He knew she wasn’t. She was a social pariah for heaven’s sake.

With a tight and very polite smile, she replied, “Nothing terribly pressing.”

If he thought anything of her less than effusive agreement, he didn’t give it away. He simply offered his own enigmatic smile and proffered his arm. “It’s quite warm out already. Your current attire should be suitable for the weather.”

“You are not hungry?” she asked.

He shuddered slightly, as if the very notion of food was off-putting. “No. I had coffee. It was quite enough for me. Shall we go?”

Madeline rose from the table and accepted his arm, allowing him to lead her toward the double sets of French doors which led out onto the terrace. There were steps down into the garden that took them beneath an arbor covered in thickly hanging wisteria. Beyond that, there were dozens of varieties of roses, all of them mixed with lavender, vervain, cranesbill and salvia. It was a riot of colors and scents. Meandering stone paths cut through the foliage and created a sense of being lost among those glorious flowers. It was not at all the typical formal garden. Beyond the sheer size and scope of it, it looked far more like something one would see in the country, as if a cottage garden had been left to grow wild.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Who was the designer?”

“There was no designer. My mother had started this garden years ago when she resided in London with my father. I’ve added numerous plantings until there was hardly any room left to walk. The gardeners, in protest I think, put in stone paths wherever a vacant spot permitted,” Oliver replied. “I wanted to bring a bit of nature back to London. If I can’t go to the countryside, then the countryside can always be brought to me.”

“It’s completely remarkable,” Madeline noted, forgetting that she should temper her response and not appear quite so enthusiastic. “I’ve never seen these flowers before. What are they?”

“They are from America. Virginia roses. I have plants here from all over the world, roses specifically. Their color is especially brilliant, the pink veering so dark it is almost purple at times. I’m attempting, at present, to graft cuttings from that plant to a white cabbage rose. I’m hoping that the color produced will be more lavender than pink or blush. It may take several generations to produce just the right hue, of course.”

Madeline glanced back at him. He’d mentioned his love of plants, of gardening. She hadn’t known just how passionate he truly was about the matter until she’d heard him speak of it just then. “You truly love this, don’t you?”

“I do,” he admitted. “I’ve been working on it for years already. I anticipate working on it for many more.”

“And when you produce this perfect rose?”

“No rose is perfect,” he said. “That’s what makes them beautiful. Each petal is a different shape or a different fold. On each bloom, they are arranged in a manner that will never be duplicated exactly. They do not have to look or be exactly like their neighboring blossom in order to shine. We could all take lessons from them, I think. Your sister specifically.”

“So we could,” she agreed.

It was an impulse. Oliver leaned over, and with the small knife he always carried, cut a single tea rose from one of the bushes before them. The bud was still tightly furled. Handing it to her, he stated, “Those are the most fragrant roses in the garden. Every day, as it opens, more of its lovely perfume will permeate the air.”

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the blossom. “I’m a bit envious of you. I don’t have anything I love as much as you love this. It makes me feel rather like I’ve wasted my time on meaningless pursuits.”

He shrugged. “Some would argue this is meaningless. I’m tinkering with flowers, after all. I’m hardly changing the world or doing anything grand. This,” he waved a hand about to encompass the garden, “was something that my mother loved. And I learned to love it by watching her. Neither my father nor brother understood it, but they didn’t interfere. I can’t imagine, that in the house where you resided, that loving anything would have been easy. Your sister took everything. And if she didn’t take it from you directly, your parents would have in order to gift it to her. If that isn’t the perfect breeding ground for apathy, I cannot imagine what would be.”

She stopped walking and simply stared at him for a moment, her expression one of utter dismay.

Realizing that he might have said too much and offended her, Oliver bit back the curse that hovered on the tip of his tongue. “I am sorry. I spoke without thinking. I should not be so free with my opinions.”

“No. You should be so free with them. I should, as well. I’ve never really stopped to consider how much time and effort was devoted to not upsetting Coraline. I never realized how much I gave up, or avoided, in order to not incur her wrath or disfavor. And I’m flabbergasted by it. I must stop living every moment as if she is hovering nearby on the verge of a tantrum. For the first time in my life, or the first time since she was born, I suppose, I’m free to discover my own interests and my own passions. Aren’t I?”

Oliver took her hand and placed it on his arm once more, continuing their stroll through the garden. “What do you think you will do with this newfound freedom?”

She laughed at that. “I wish I knew. I detest needlework. My watercolors are utterly useless. They all just look muddy and smeared. Mrs. Wilson runs this house and, from what I can see, does so impeccably. Women aren’t really encouraged to have causes or hobbies or endeavors that they are passionate about. We’re taught that we should be wives and mothers and little else.”

“There are charities and causes to which you could devote your time if you choose… until we have children enough to occupy you.”

Her steps faltered and she looked back at him in surprise. “You want… that is to say, do you want very many children?”

He shrugged as if the subject were not of great significance, mostly because he realized he’d thrown her terribly off balance by broaching it. “We have all the time in the world to decide, don’t we?”

She stepped closer to him. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes and the fanning of each individual eyelash. There was a single freckle on her nose. It was an invitation to kiss her, whether consciously or not, she was seeking that contact. And he was very eager to oblige.

Oliver leaned in, his lips hovering over hers for just a moment, and then he heard it. The opening of a door. Hurried footsteps. Interruptions .

“My lord? Lord Foxmore?”

Easing back, disappointment a pulsing thing inside him, he glanced back at the house. A footman had stepped out onto the terrace and was scouring the garden like a sea captain looking for land. When he spotted them, he scurried down the steps toward where they strolled. “Forgive, my lord. There is a gentleman here to see you… a Mr. Edmund Wortham. He did not provide a calling card.”

Oliver looked at Madeline once more. She was biting her lip in dismay. “I will see him. You do not have to.”

“I have no wish to honestly… if it can be avoided. There is naught now that needs to be said. Though I imagine this is nothing more than another plea for some portion of my inheritance to be shared with them.”

“He came alone?” Oliver asked of the footman.

“Yes, my lord. He is alone.”

“Show him to my study. I will be there shortly,” Oliver instructed. To Madeline, he asked, “Do you wish to wait here or retreat inside?”

“I will be a coward in this instance and retreat inside. I don’t want to risk bumping into him and having an unpleasant scene… again. I’ll be upstairs.”

Oliver turned to walk away, but then turned back to her, “Madeline—”

“Yes?”

There was nothing that needed to be said. He was simply reluctant to part company with her. But she was correct. The last thing either of them needed was for Edmund Wortham to rattle her even more than he had done already. “Never mind. I’ll see you for afternoon tea.”