Chapter Seven
With the gentlest gloved hand, Roger reached out and removed the last spent bloom from his hothouse roses.
A yellow German species that could be grown in the winter, as it didn’t require much sun.
He’d been working with a new variety that was supposed to flower in a shade somewhere between pink and orange, but no luck as of yet.
Patience. He needed patience. His most necessary quality. His wealth, his face, his intelligence, all double-edged blades. His patience was what permitted him to succeed where others failed. And even though he’d practically lost it earlier with Miss Adler, he would not permit that to happen again.
Not during these six weeks. Not ever.
Patience.
He’d never truly understood the word until his brother David, of all people, introduced him to his first rose, the Slater’s Crimson, twenty-four years ago.
Louis’s behavior had escalated from fighting with family members to sneaking out with all sorts of hooligans to fight for money in a ring, to a near arrest. His family, fearing for both his life and the community, called in every gentile favor possible to have his brother admitted to an exclusive school for boys, sending Roger along for good measure.
To assure he’d not fail them too. The plant and the advice on its care had been a parting gift of sorts.
Roger pulled another spent bud, recalling how he must have appeared exiting the carriage, clutching the thing.
If he hadn’t already been marked for a hundred reasons beforehand, well…
Shaking his head, he wandered to the corner to visit that same first plant, still alive, still his, still there. Reaching out, he stroked its leaves.
And yet, despite the mockery, or perhaps due to it, along with the other indignities he’d suffered from not merely his classmates but every single adult—tutors and servants alike—he’d become nearly obsessed with its care.
David had certainly made him work for his success. The Slater’s Crimson was no common English rose, a former wildflower. Such a gift would have meant immediate success, but no, for once he’d correctly understood his need for a challenge. And an ability to rise to the same.
One that could be just his and not fraught with the dangers of competing against his gentile peers—well, gentile classmates, as they’d never be his peers—nor Louis.
A private challenge, for him and him alone.
It hadn’t been easy.
The plant had been fickle and frustrating and nearly died several times.
He’d read every treatise he could find—not only on that variety but also on the climate in the region of China to which it was native, as well as what else was grown there and the latest scientific theories on climate and wind.
When he finally yielded that beautiful red bloom, the satisfaction was like nothing he’d ever felt. And nothing he’d felt since.
After that he’d become obsessed, cultivating every variety he could find.
Uncle Naphtali raised them, David had explained, reverence in his voice for their father’s brother, the strategist behind their family’s fortune.
He said that you must treat those whose favor you seek like roses.
Study them and tailor your care to their particular needs and variety.
Be patient and they will bloom for you. Never held much interest for me, but I felt they might be fitting for you.
If only it were still so simple.
But his past failures no longer mattered. Teres had offered him a miracle. Once he married the man’s daughter, he would be king.
Besides, his children needed a stepmother, and Leone Teres would be good for them. She’d never replace Lucy. No one could. Lucy had been a good mother, despite what Miss Adler had implied. However—
“This is impressive. Are they all yellow?” a voice behind him said, causing him to whirl around, nearly stabbing his unwanted guest with his shears.
Apparently, merely thinking her name could conjure the woman herself. Something he’d need to avoid in the future.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, laying the tool down on the table behind him and stepping back from her person. She was still dressed in the borrowed burgundy gown. The neckline fell far lower than any he’d seen on his relatives. Quite inappropriate.
Fortunately, he was well-mannered enough not to stare.
Miss Adler was certainly no great beauty to be lusted after, no matter how objectively pleasing her small but perfectly formed tits happened to be.
Not that glancing at the same would cause lust. Nor would he ever engage in such in the first place.
People, even those more powerful than he, did not maintain their status long if they yielded to an emotion so reckless.
One of the benefits of having older brothers who collected and bequeathed you a veritable trove of erotic materials upon your bar mitzvah was the advancement of abilities with one’s own hand.
Mechanics and know-how were key to pleasure, not the identity of one’s partner.
“Do you maintain this yourself?” Miss Adler asked, interrupting his thoughts, as she gazed up at the ceiling of the glasshouse, now almost completely covered in snow. He and Lopez would need to clear it in the morning, as even partial sun was better than none.
“Yes,” he said as she moved his space, inspecting his roses. “Mostly.”
“Does that mean you merely futz around from time to time? Or do you take the lead?” Her hips swished as she turned back to him then reached out and stroked one of his leaves.
Despite all his training and sense, Roger’s body tightened with desire. Ridiculous. The woman was plain. And rude. And critical. And obnoxious.
Already, she’d implied that there was something wrong with his children, his household, and even him. As if forgetting a blessing—which he typically could only recite in his head due to the company—erased all the good he did for the entire community.
She was supposed to be intelligent.
Wrong. That’s what she was. Completely wrong.
Worse than the Ricardos and Strausses and Friedlands and Ellenbergs and their ilk.
Not to mention, now causing an irritating delay.
If it weren’t for her, he’d be officially betrothed to Miss Teres. Not forced to decline a dinner party with several members of parliament, given by one of the least tedious of his former schoolmates to boot.
Mercy, these were going to be a long six weeks.
Patience. He needed to call upon his patience, and with that, he could make her bloom. He frowned. That sounded wrong. He shook his head a little. He would manage her. Properly.
He cleared his throat. “I do most tasks, including planting, pruning, feeding, and rotating, but I occasionally need to delegate. Roses are very delicate to maintain.”
“I’ve heard,” she said, running a finger along one of his pots. “It would be a shame for your hard, careful work to be ruined by someone else’s reckless actions.”
Ah. Someone was still angry about the “accident.” That explained the lashing out at him. Childish as that might be. Perhaps someone else should learn patience. Highly unlikely at her age, and thus he’d have to provide maturity for both of them.
“I apologized for what happened to your belongings,” he said, keeping his voice mild.
“Yes, you did.” She leaned over another plant, her hand hovering threateningly. Glancing at him, she raised her brows. “Very sincerely.”
He’d not glower. He’d not.
She glanced at him again, almost certainly attempting to trick him into an improper reaction. For what purpose, that was another question. Especially as her ability to wound him was rather limited. Perhaps she merely sought to provoke him for her own perverse amusement.
Not a particularly clever or original sort of humor. Though considering her background…
“I’m just commenting,” she added, pulling her hand away and turning to walk down another row.
Quick as he could, Roger moved to her side. She picked up his shears and spun them rather deftly in her uninjured, allegedly nondominant hand.
“What are you doing, Miss Adler?” he asked, eyeing the weapon.
“I was coming to remind you that you’d promised me a workspace as well as supplies.
And to let you know that I shall have a list for you tomorrow.
But now that I’m here… I suppose I’m exploring.
” She raised the shears to eye level, stared at them for a moment, then placed them back down.
In the low lamplight, glints of gold from her hair glowed. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“With what? I don’t renege on my promises. I told you before, you’re permitted to do anything you’d like while you’re here.”
“Truly?” She narrowed her rather sharp, blue-gray eyes at him. As if she could hear all the commentary running through his head. Unnerving, to say the least.
He cleared his throat. “I’d prefer activities that didn’t involve dodging objects aimed at my head.”
“A fair point,” she acknowledged, squinting at him. “How did you know I’d aimed at your head? The pillow merely grazed your shoulder, did it not?”
He smiled. “The expression on your face suggested you’d only be satisfied with the most painful result.”
“Then I wouldn’t have been aiming for your head, would I?” she asked.
Where did she—oh, right. Roger’s lip curled despite himself. Naughty, naughty woman. He recalled her clever banter from that night in the Lira library and wondered if anyone else knew exactly what went on in her head, what she could do with her tongue. In more ways than one.
Nothing good could come from pondering that question. “Then, it’s fortunate for me that, like your skills in provocation, your aim is poor,” he finally countered.
She halted and glanced up at him, an odd look in her eye.
“Trust me, I’m quite skilled at provoking several emotions.
” Her voice was calm and controlled, unlike his mind, which was absorbed with the visual of her counting off on her rather long and elegant fingers.
“Irritation, affront, and boredom are the most common.” She raised her chin with a touch of defiance.