Chapter 15
The humid warmth was a balm to William’s chilled skin after the short walk away from the bonfire. He closed the glass door behind them while Verbena forged ahead into the quiet dark of the hothouse.
“Such an improvement over our former company. Lord, what an ass he is,” Verbena said, her voice echoing against the glass panes.
She turned to William to smile wryly, her red hair ablaze from the light of her single candle.
“Do you think His Lordship merely enjoys listening to himself talk, or does he actually believe all the nonsense that comes out of his mouth?”
Easy as it was to heap derision on Lord Byron, William felt it unsporting to do so when the man was not there to defend himself.
And besides—“He isn’t so terrible,” he said.
“He is only afflicted with the artist’s disease: the selfish desire to capture attention, and the selfless drive to give the world something of ourselves.
It’s a struggle for all writers and poets, is it not? ”
“Ah.” It was difficult to tell in the shadows, but Verbena’s face seemed to fall.
She groped along a workbench until she found a chamberstick with a glass chimney—no doubt to protect the tender foliage from open flame—and used her own candle to light it.
“I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.
As I am neither, it would not have occurred to me. ”
Now that they had two candles lit instead of one, William could see more of their surroundings.
The hothouse was crammed so full of life, there remained only a narrow path down the center of the enclosure where a person might walk.
On all sides, exotic plants that William had only seen in books pressed close: green palms, orchids with brilliant purple and yellow blooms, spiky pineapples rising from equally spiky plants in brass pots, and lush waxy leaves the size and shape of an elephant’s ear.
The full, wet scent of earth enveloped them, along with the cloying sweetness of some unknown flower. William wondered what it could be.
“Frangipani,” Verbena whispered, as if she had divined William’s thoughts.
Her slim white hand reached out to caress a nearby branch, where a cluster of flowers bobbed.
Their deep pink petals faded into yellow centers, looking more like a cake’s decoration than a living plant.
Verbena put her nose to one such center and inhaled.
“Exquisite. It’s enough to make one write sonnets. Here, you must try it yourself.”
With great care, William picked his way over and sniffed at the offered bloom. It smelled a little like an almond pastry, but sweeter. “As you say,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet Verbena’s dancing ones. “Sonnets.”
Verbena tossed her head back in a laugh, a movement that caused her feathered bonnet to catch on a low-hanging branch. “Oh!” She lifted a hand to bat ineffectually at the limb.
“I might be able to untangle you,” William said. He reached for her, then stopped with his fingers hovering in midair, not wanting to breach any boundaries.
Yet Verbena seemed to have none, at least tonight. She smiled at him and undid the knot in her bonnet ribbon faster than William could blink. “This is simpler. It is so warm in here, after all.” Her head of fiery curls ducked free of the trapped cap, and then she stood before him bare-headed.
William nearly expired. Flora had seen Verbena without a bonnet, of course, but the implications of such undress in these environs set his blood aflame. Verbena tugged the cap free of the branch, now that she could see enough to do so, and placed the thing on the workbench.
He attempted to keep the stammer out of his voice. “How brave of you, to rescue yourself. Very admirable.” It was a paltry jest, yet Verbena laughed again.
William hovered close to her side, ostensibly to remain in the small circle of light cast by the candles but wanting desperately to be near her.
It was already too scandalous to be borne, the two of them unaccompanied in a darkened room while the merry party continued in the distance.
The fact that Verbena was not protesting the situation, and indeed had engineered it herself, made William think that she was perhaps feeling quite tender toward him.
“You are a most unusual gentleman,” she said.
Her hand, the one not occupied with her candle, came to rest on his arm.
Likely for balance in the dark, William told himself.
The alternative was that Verbena wanted to touch him for the sake of touching him, an idea that made his head spin.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever met one quite like you.
Have you always been sympathetic to the souls of women, or is it something you’ve learned by writing your tragic gothic heroines? ”
“Oh, I’ve always been like this,” William said breathlessly.
Verbena’s gaze trailed up and down his figure as if taking stock of him.
A slight smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.
“That is very good to know.” Her hand moved down his arm and touched the backs of his fingers.
She did not even seem to realize she was doing it, except that William’s hand twitched, causing her to inhale sharply.
They shared a look, William’s wide eyes finding Verbena’s.
William knew he possessed a somewhat overactive imagination.
It was this quality that allowed him to envision a life for himself that included Flora.
Without his capacity for dreaming of a world that did not yet exist, William himself would not exist. So we must excuse him for wondering, despite the mounting evidence, whether Verbena truly felt affection for him now or whether he was just seeing what he wanted to see.
He took stock of the facts: she liked his writing, despite knowing most people would look down on her for doing so; she had complimented his staunch defense of women; she shared his interest in the macabre; she had confided in him the secret that even Flora was not privy to; and, perhaps most pressingly, she had brought him to a dark, deserted place far away from prying eyes so that they might talk—alone.
It was not, he concluded, his imagination. Verbena felt as he did. She had to.
And so he had to tell her everything.
Heart thundering in his chest, William licked his dry lips. “Miss Montrose—” he began.
Miss Montrose, being Miss Montrose, must have assumed he had spoken a complete sentence, for she broke in with great cheer. “I would like to introduce you to someone,” she said.
William froze in his confusion. He had not expected another party to be introduced at such a critical juncture. “Wha— Now?”
“Yes, tonight.” Verbena practically glowed in the flickering candlelight. “Actually, I believe you are already somewhat acquainted. Do you know Flora Witcombe?”
Panic built in William’s stomach, making him lightheaded.
All around him, the thick walls of plants seemed to be drawing closer.
Why had he not foreseen this possibility?
Verbena was becoming fast friends with Flora; naturally she would want her companion to meet any potential suitor for the purpose of taking his measure.
Perhaps he could imply this step be skipped?
“I am very friendly with Miss Witcombe. Yes, we have met previously. Many times.”
Verbena’s lips parted. “Really? Many times?”
“Well, we do belong to the same club,” William said.
It was true, after a fashion; William had joined the club prior to Flora’s Athena-like appearance, but now that she was there, and the more successful writer between the two of them, he had neglected to pay the club’s dues for his own membership for nearly a year.
There was little sense in paying double for the privilege.
“I fear I have not visited the place in months, but in the past we have had many long and productive—conversations.”
“Strange that she hasn’t mentioned that…,” Verbena said slowly. “She said only that you two were mere acquaintances. We were discussing your book, you see. I would have thought she would have said more, if there was more to say.”
William forced a jovial laugh he did not feel. “Is that right? The excellent Miss Witcombe no doubt wished to see how you liked my writing before revealing our friendship. One cannot be too critical of one’s friends. Awkward business.”
“Then you are already quite close?” A strange look—eagerness and consternation both—overtook Verbena’s visage for which William could not account.
“Yes, she would tell you the same, I believe. And, I hope, vouch for my character.” Already he was composing Flora’s lines in his head. Nothing lavish—he was all too aware of his own faults for that—but complimentary enough to nudge Verbena toward a courtship.
“That is good to hear,” said Verbena. There was a coyness to her glance, eyes darting to William’s form—not lecherously like some barons he knew, but coolly appraising. “You know, I have always adored matchmaking.”
William wasn’t sure what to do about this sudden change in topic. “Oh?” he floundered.
“Perhaps you’ve heard the amusing story of my midnight carriage ride whilst being hounded by the Duke of Rushford.
” She leaned in with a sly smile. “Do not tell anyone, but that was all in service to his daughter’s love affair.
If I can manage to assist in a union such as that, surely I can arrange for Miss Witcombe to find a suitable husband. ”
The pieces began to fall into place. Horror gripped William by the throat. He sputtered. “But—but I—”
“She is a wonderful woman, I’m sure you’ll agree. Well, you already know.” Verbena smiled tightly. “And the two of you have so much in common!”
“More than you might imagine,” William muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“Hm?” He blinked rapidly at her.
Her face was creased with curiosity. “I thought I heard you say something.”