Chapter 6
Edmund wanted to go home, sit in his greenhouse and stare at his latest failed hybrid tea roses and ponder why they weren’t working.
This conversation was exhausting. Having other people know why he couldn’t just say no to his brother’s manipulations didn’t give him the power to suddenly say no.
He still had to protect his roses. It wasn’t worth the risk to antagonise someone who held all the power.
“No one should have that much power over another person,” Gabriel said, and Edmund couldn’t help himself.
“My brother’s problem is that he doesn’t see the power he has, only the power he doesn’t have.”
George clapped him on the back and roared with laughter, but Edmund didn’t understand what he’d said that was so funny.
“Can you imagine being a Duke, having power in parliament to make the very laws of this nation, having all that land and money, and even after all that, you still can’t control your own son?” George laughed even though it wasn’t very funny.
Edmund shoved the last piece of bread in his mouth.
It was dry against the roof of his mouth and hard to get down, but finally he finished.
He thanked Cook and bowed to George, before leaving the room.
He had to get away from this discussion as quickly, but politely, as possible.
Checking on his Himalayan climber in the garden here at Lamington House was the perfect excuse.
As soon as he reached the secluded corner of the garden, he leaned against the brick wall and stared at the bare deciduous branches of the climber.
“It looks like dead sticks.” Gabriel kept his voice low.
“Oh no, you can tell that it’s perfectly healthy.
See here,” Edmund stepped closer to the plant, and scratched one of the branches to reveal healthy green tissue underneath.
“This one is a Rosa Brunoii, known as a Himalayan musk rose. It’s not well suited to the climate in England, it’s too wet here and I have had to create a special soil for it to mimic its homeland and I’ve put it in this part of the garden as it is more sheltered from the rain.
It likes tougher drier soils and takes it moisture from the snow.
In the spring it will have plentiful white blooms and a large rose hip that can be used to treat the flu. ”
“Why on earth are you trying to grow a plant from, where did you say?”
“The Himalayas. I acquired the seeds from Loddiges as I wanted to create a hybrid Damask climbing rose that would be suitable for walled gardens.”
“Damask? As in Persia?” Gabriel leaned in close, and Edmund shook his head.
“Careful. The thorns are very sharp and if they scratch, you’ll get blood-poisoning.
” He waited until Gabriel had moved back a safe distance.
“To answer your questions, roses are not native to England. We have collected samples since the crusades and tried to breed them for our conditions. They thrive in warmer, drier, climes than here and take a lot more management here. The Damask rose comes from Damascus in Syria. Robert de Brie, the French crusader, brought it from there to his home in France in 1148.”
“So long ago.”
“It took another four hundred years for the rose to reach England, when one was gifted to the Royal Gardens in 1540, but some people say the Romans brought them here too.”
“You are very knowledgeable.”
“It is my life’s passion.” Edmund could talk for hours about roses, and he’d been told so often that he was boring, obsessed, and not fit for society when he blathered on about them without understanding society’s rules.
Gabriel placed his hand onto Edmund’s arm, the touch searing through his heavy winter coat.
“When you talk about breeding roses, does it involve a lot of discussion about intimate relations?” Gabby asked. Edmund shuddered, his mind frozen for a moment reminded of his brother accusing him of being inappropriate as he talked of breeding in front of ladies. He swallowed.
“I’m not being judgemental. Look at me, my Lord. I dance in a club that ... well, you know. I’m not going to judge you, in fact I want to know all the intimate details.”
Edmund was so confused. “This is a very unusual discussion.”
“Answer the question.” Gabriel stroked his hand along Edmund’s arm, wrapping his fingers around his bicep, and Edmund couldn’t really think at all.
Last night, they hadn’t really touched, only lips to cock, nothing much else.
This touch was more intimate, more caring, and it sunk in deep inside him, wrapping around his heart.
“Yes. But it’s very boring. In breeding roses, I am doing the job of the bee, moving pollen from one flower to another with a paintbrush.
It’s a procedure. I don’t understand why I can’t talk to ladies about this.
All farmers deal with propagation and breeding.
I’m not discussing animal breeding.” Even then, breeding animals was a necessity for society—where did people think carriage horses came from?
He didn’t understand why it couldn’t be discussed in ballrooms, much more interesting than all the gossip about various families or politics.
“Do you remember how I mentioned that I am planning a Christmas charity event for work? Something that is scandalous and different to our usual fare at the club.”
Edmund blinked at the change of subject. He wanted to push Gabriel’s hand away—his touch was very distracting—and he wanted to place his own hand on Gabriel’s and encourage him to touch him more. “It was only last night.”
Gabriel’s grip tightened. “I want you to give a talk.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Tell everyone about your roses. Tell them why they are important and need to be protected—”
Edmund’s world exploded in lightness and joy.
“Father said I needed to do that too. He recommended inviting society to view my gardens at Galforth House, so that people would fall in love with them, and it would protect them from my brother. He can’t destroy something that people like without public censure, and his image is more important to him that anything. ”
“If you know this, why do you obey him?”
“My work is much more than an annual display of blooms for people to gander at. His Grace is clever. He can destroy the things that no one sees, the parts only I care about, the real work in my glasshouses.” Edmund had once lost years of work when a pane of glass on one glasshouse had broken, letting in bees who’d upset his carefully planned propagations, and killing several of the more delicate plants with the sudden change of temperature.
He suspected his brother had done it because someone had used a broom to deliberately break the glass in a way that could not have been an accident, but he’d never be able to prove that it was his brother.
“Then it’s even more important to tell people what you do.”
“It’s boring. Gathering of data is mostly time consuming and I already talk too much about this.” All the temporary lightness disappeared and his skin began to itch. He needed to do something, like shovel snow onto the root stock of his Himalayan rose to give it the chill it needed.
“Not if you make it about sex. Imagine, you could talk about roses and how you breed them in great detail. The audience want to be scandalised, listening to a discussion on intercourse and breeding, and you could simply teach them the reality of your passions.”
Edmund took a step backwards and his spine collided with the brick wall. “I could?”
“A beautiful man like you in our club talking about sex? That would definitely be a scandal. It would be perfect for our charity event.”
“Beautiful?” Edmund gulped. “You think I’m beautiful.”
Gabriel reached up and stroked Edmund’s cheek. “Darling, you are beautiful in the way that a rugged landscape is beautiful. You take my breath away and I want to be overwhelmed by you.”
Edmund couldn’t breathe. Someone, an angel, was saying these things about him. “But I’m too brutally strong to be suitable for society. I’m not beautiful, I’m a blight.”
“Whoever told you that was wrong. Lord Thwaitepiddle, oh damnation. What is your name? The title is so—” Gabriel grimaced.
“It—”
“Yes, it’s a lot.” Gabriel interrupted and Edmund’s already scattered thoughts were lost.
“Your title is too much. I want your name.” Gabriel’s imploring expression gave Edmund enough hope that perhaps Gabriel wanted more than his name. Perhaps he might want a kiss. Heat flushed through his body.
“My name is Edmund Elizabeth Wilkinson Billesfelt. I’m the Earl of Thwaitepiddle, a courtesy title given to the second son of the Duke of Galforth.” He recited his whole name by rote, as all his blood had rushed south and he could not think anymore.
“Edmund.” Gabriel’s rough whisper was more than Edmund could deal with. “Please kiss me.”
Could he? Edmund had known this man’s lips on his cock, and now he wanted them on his mouth. It was incredible to be wanted, and Edmund ... oh how much he wanted, but could he really do it?