Chapter Six
Rose stood at her bedroom window, watching Sebastian cross the lawn toward the rose garden.
Observing him from afar like some lovesick schoolgirl had become a habit she could not seem to break.
The way he moved captivated her. Long, confident strides.
Head high. His flat cap pulled low to shield his eyes from the morning sun.
For three days now, she’d found excuses to position herself where she might catch glimpses of him working. What was it about this man that intrigued her so? He was a gardener, for heaven’s sake. A decent man, no doubt, but hardly appropriate company for the lady of the house.
She knew the rules. Knew her place. Knew his.
Yet here she was, fingers twitching with anticipation, her pulse quickening at the sight of him.
Before she could think better of it, her feet were already carrying her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the bright morning sunlight. She grabbed her bonnet on the way, tying it hastily beneath her chin as she crossed the dewy grass.
When she reached the rose garden, she hesitated at the entrance. Sebastian looked up from where he knelt beside a yellow rose bush, pruning shears in hand. He stood with easy grace and inclined his head.
“Lady Rose.”
His voice, low and steady, stirred something deep in her chest.
“I’ve come to collect roses for an arrangement,” she said, relieved at how steady her voice sounded. “For the drawing room.”
“Of course, my lady.” He gestured to a neat pile of freshly cut blooms on the grass. “These yellow ones might suit. Or perhaps the pink over there?”
She moved toward the pink rose bush, drawn less by the flowers and more by the man behind them. Kneeling beside the bush, she bent to inhale the delicate fragrance, the petals brushing her nose like a whisper. The scent was sweet, but it was not what made her dizzy.
She reached for one of the cut stems and winced as a thorn bit her finger. “Ouch!” Without thinking, she pressed the finger to her mouth.
When she looked up, Sebastian was watching her. Not politely, but with something darker. His gaze had gone molten, and she could see the pulse fluttering in his jaw. The space between them shimmered with a sudden, breathless tension.
“Let me see.” He moved toward her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. His movements were purposeful, but not rushed.
She didn’t pull away when he dropped to one knee beside her and gently took her hand. His fingers were warm and calloused—honest hands, capable hands—and the contact sent a jolt through her. The scent of leather and clean soap clung to him.
“It’s nothing, really,” she whispered, but her voice sounded unfamiliar. Low and husky.
“A hand as delicate as yours shouldn’t meet with thorns.” His thumb brushed across her skin as he wrapped the cloth around her finger. The touch was so gentle she could barely feel it, and yet it set her entire body alight.
Her eyes fell to his mouth, then to the hollow of his throat, where dark hair curled against damp skin. What would that skin taste like? She swallowed hard, horrified by her own thoughts and yet unable to stop them.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. For a moment, they stayed like that—silent, locked in a gaze that said far too much. His brown eyes held amber flecks she hadn’t noticed before, and his lashes were far too thick for a man.
She pulled her hand away with effort. “Thank you. I’m fine. It was just a prick.”
“I’ll remove every thorn before you take them inside.” He turned back to the flowers.
She stepped away, retreating to the swing beneath the rose arbor.
The shade offered no relief. Not when heat pulsed through every inch of her.
Not when she couldn’t stop watching his large hands as he worked, flicking each thorn off the stem with quiet efficiency.
Now she knew what that thumb felt like against her skin, and some foolish, reckless part of her craved the feeling again.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said. “I shall be more careful next time.”
“It’s no trouble, my lady.” He looked up. “I won’t have you pricking yourself again.”
She flushed. No man had ever spoken to her that way before. So gently and with such care.
“A lady such as yourself should know only beauty, not pain.”
Oh dear. That did it. She pressed the handkerchief still wrapped around her finger to her damp forehead. It carried his scent. Earth, leather, soap. She would keep it. He wouldn’t want it back anyway. Not with the bloodstain.
She took a breath to collect herself. “Let me do something for you in return. What would you like? A treat from the kitchen?”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, “I don’t suppose I might borrow a book from your library? The evenings in the bunkhouse are long. I’m not much for cards.”
“You read?” It came out more surprised than she intended.
He chuckled, a warm sound that curled around her spine. “Does that surprise you?”
“A little.”
“I enjoy poetry. Love stories. Shakespeare.” His gaze was steady, and something in it caught her off guard. “Anything, really.”
“I’d be happy to find something for you,” she said softly.
“There we are.” He stood, cradling the roses in his arms as if they were fragile. “All safe now.”
He stepped toward her. She reached out to take the flowers, and as he placed them in her arms, his fingers brushed hers again. Had he done it on purpose?
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.
For a moment, they stood in the golden hush of morning. Bees hummed, birds called, but all she could hear was the thunder of her own heart.
Sebastian looked down at her lips, then stepped back.
“My pleasure, Lady Rose.”
*
That evening, before supper, Rose slipped into the library. The room was warm and heavy with the familiar scents of tobacco and brandy. Her father had been there recently.
She found what she was looking for quickly—A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Perfect for Sebastian, especially with the upcoming ball theme.
“Rose.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Her father sat in the shadows of a high-backed chair, a brandy glass glinting in his hand.
“Father. You startled me.”
“What are you doing?”
She hesitated, the play still in her hand. “Looking for something to read.”
He took a slow sip of brandy, his pale eyes assessing. Then came the familiar condescension, coiled in civility.
“You must remember what a privileged life you’ve had Rose.”
“What does that mean?”
“Access to books. An education. Sometimes I wonder if you truly appreciate all you’ve been given.”
“But I do, Father. Especially my education. Books are one of my greatest joys.”
“You’ll have ample time to read once you’re married. Baron White has assured me that you’ll have whatever it is you wish for.”
She gripped the book tighter. “What if my wish is to remain here. With you.”
A snap of irritation sparked in his eyes. “We’ve been over this. This is what is best for you. A tidy marriage serves us both.”
“But why?”
“You know the answer to that question,” he said.
She did not, actually.
He got up from the chair and walked toward her, then held out his hand. “What have you chosen?” A slight smile played at his lips. “Ah, yes, preparing for the ball. Excellent.”
“I am glad you approve.” Her voice came out flat. The tone of someone who had given up. What else could she do?
“The work you’ve done to prepare for the ball has pleased me. I hope you will continue to do so. Please me, that is. By doing as I ask. You may not see it now, Rose, but I know what is best for you. I always have. You will have a good life with Baron White. Children. A home of your own.”
She shuddered at the thought of Baron White’s touch.
“You mustn’t succumb to unhealthy thoughts,” he said. “Your mother was not successful in doing so and it caused us both much unhappiness.”
“What do you mean?” Rose held her breath, knowing her father’s temper and his lack of patience when it came to her questions.
“I mean that your mother was prone to hysteria and melancholy. Most husbands would have had her committed to a place that could help her. Perhaps had I done so, she would still be here.”
“How would that have kept her from being murdered?” The words were out before she could stop them.
He took hold of her upper right arm, crushing it in his strong grip. “You will not ask any further questions. You will do as I ask. Or there will be consequences. Perhaps the one I should have given your mother. Do you understand?” His grip tightened.
She nodded, tears blurring her vision so that her father’s face distorted, making him even more menacing.
“Say the words,” he said.
“I understand.”
“That’s my good girl.” He let her go and charged from the room.
After he left, Rose stood frozen. He had threatened her. There was no mistaking what he’d meant. Marry Baron White or he would have her committed. She thought she might be sick.
But she gathered herself enough to escape to her room. Once there, she took out Sebastian’s handkerchief and breathed in his scent. It had a strangely calming effect.
She slid it beneath her pillow. She had no idea why, other than it provided comfort.
*
The next morning, after breakfast and a meeting with Mrs. Blythe, Rose tucked A Midsummer Night’s Dream into a basket and headed for the rose garden. Earlier, she’d spotted Sebastian with his leather satchel of tools headed in that direction.
She thought about bringing his handkerchief to him but decided against it. She wanted a little piece of him with her, nestled under the place where she rested her cheek during the night.