Everything had come sharply into focus. Her green eyes, wide with alarm, the delicious press of her breasts against his chest. The light, floral fragrance of her perfume.

  His cock twitched in his breeches.

  For the first time in eighteen months, he felt fully awake, alive in every part of his body. It was as if he’d been half-asleep and was only now waking up.

  Because of her.

  With a grunt, he stepped up into the carriage.

  Emma sat back against the velvet seat as Kit settled opposite her. His large body dominated the small space.

  “Do you often spend your time at Deptford docks masquerading as a porter, Lord Ashford?” she asked lightly.

  His lips twitched at her teasing tone. “I wasn’t masquerading as anything. You’re the one who made the assumption. And please, call me Kit. I think saving you from certain peril means we can skip the formalities.”

  Heat scalded her cheeks at the reminder of her body pressed to his, at how close his lips had been to hers.

  He leaned forward and reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, and his expression sobered. “Actually, I came to find you. I need to give you this.”

  Emma glanced down at the object in his palm and her heart clenched in anguish as she recognized the small silver locket.

  “Oh! That was mine! I gave it to Andrew when he left for war.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. Seeing it again was like a punch to the gut.

  Kit nodded. “I know. The two of us were held in the same prison cell for the last six months of his life.” His voice was low, full of compassion. “I was with him when he died. He wanted you to have it. He asked me to give it to you.”

  Emma swallowed hard, determined not to cry. “Thank you.” She managed a watery smile. “Forgive me. I know he’s gone but this makes it . . . more real somehow. I’ve been pretending that he’s simply sailing around the world, having adventures, like myself. It’s hard to accept that he really is dead.”

  Kit’s strong fingers gave hers a comforting squeeze as he closed her fist around the treasure.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to cause you pain. I did everything in my power to save him, but he was simply too ill. If it’s any consolation, he didn’t suffer for long. He slipped away not long after he tasked me with returning that to you.”

  The roughness of his voice revealed his own pain and regret, and Emma sent him a commiserating glance. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I’m glad he had someone with him, for comfort, at the end.”

  Kit nodded, then cleared his own throat and leaned back in his seat. The carriage rocked on its springs.

  “So. My promise is kept.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll bid you goodbye, Lady Emma.”

  Emma caught his forearm. “No, wait! Please. I . . . have a proposition for you.”

  His brows lifted, but she couldn’t tell if it was in interest or surprise. “Go on.”

  She had to seize the moment. The sudden reappearance of the locket was a sign, a reminder of just how important it was to honor Andrew’s memory.

  “I need heat. Immediately.”

  Kit’s lips twitched in the hint of a roguish smile.

  “I mean,” Emma blustered, certain he was about to misconstrue her words with a meaning far more scandalous than she’d intended. “I need a hothouse.”

  She thought she heard him mutter “disappointing” under his breath, but she couldn’t be sure.

  He sat back. “Forgive me for being blunt,” he said, more clearly, “but you’re an heiress. If you want a hothouse, why not just build one?”

  “I don’t have time. I need it now, this week, to ensure my orchids bloom in time to present them at the Botanical Society’s meeting on the first week of January.” She sent him her most winning smile. “I’ve heard great things about Ashford Court’s hothouse.”

  His eyes narrowed as he seemed to sense what was coming. She paused, wondering how much to offer, then decided to go in strong.

  “I’ll give you five hundred pounds if you’ll let me put my plants in your greenhouse for the next ten days.”

  His brows rose, and she prayed it was because he was impressed and not offended.

  “Only ten days,” she said hastily.

  “Over Christmas,” he growled. “It’s almost Christmas Eve.”

  “Well, yes. I regret that the timing isn’t ideal. But if you have guests coming, I promise to stay out of your way. You’ll barely even know I’m there.”

  His brows drew down. “I do not have guests coming. I like my solitude.”

  “A thousand pounds,” she said desperately. “Please. For Andrew. I want to name these new orchids after him.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. “I know he’s gone, but . . I just think that if I do this, then a part of him will live on. Those beautiful things will bear his name, and every time someone says it in the future they’ll give him back a little bit of life.”

  Kit frowned. Damn it, what a ridiculous offer! The last thing he wanted was this beautiful distraction invading his home and interrupting the week of festive brooding and drinking he had planned.

  Still, how could he refuse? His estates, while still profitable, had suffered from his absence and inattention for the past two years. A thousand pounds would go a long way toward setting things back on an even keel. And he had promised he’d try to be more sociable . . .

  She was still staring up at him expectantly.

  “The Ancient Greeks believed something similar,” he conceded finally. “That a man could gain immortality by having his name spoken aloud by future generations. The ancient Egyptians said that to speak the name of the dead is to make him live again.”

  She beamed, apparently warmed by the fact that he understood. “Exactly!”

  He sighed. “Oh, very well. I leave for Ashford Court in the morning. Come whenever you like. But I warn you, I keep a skeleton staff, and I’ve given most of them the week off to be with their families. It will not be the luxury you’re accustomed to.”

  She laughed, and the sound warmed his soul. He scowled, just to prove she didn’t affect him in the slightest.

  “I’ve just spent six months traipsing through the jungles of Brazil and another six weeks crossing the Atlantic,” she said airily. “I can live without luxury, believe me. And the sooner the better, for my plants. I’ll join you at Ashford Court tomorrow.”

  She sent him another brilliant smile and Kit suppressed a groan. Not notice she was there? He’d have to be dead not to notice her. Dear God, what had he let himself in for?

  Chapter 4

  Emma’s journey to Somerset went smoothly enough, despite the usual pre-Christmas delays. As her carriage finally swept along the drive that led to Ashford Court she tried not to be impressed—and failed. Andrew had described it to her several times, but her imagination hadn’t done the place justice. There was something particularly welcoming about the mellow stone façade and landscaped parkland, even with the slight dusting of snow that covered the ground.

  She’d hoped Kit himself might welcome her, but a polite, elderly housekeeper showed her to her room instead. Emma barely bothered to remove her coat and hat before sweeping back down the grand staircase to direct the footman who was unloading her plants to place them in the hothouse. She followed him through a series of corridors until they emerged into the infamous structure, and she couldn’t contain her gasp of delight.

  “Oh, this is perfect!”

  The footman placed her five precious orchids on a potting table by the doors, bowed, and left her to explore.

  Emma gazed upwards. A dizzying cobweb of iron arches and struts rose overhead, supporting hundreds of panes of glass. The air was both hot and humid. Clouds of steam billowed from a metal grille in one corner, and when she dipped her fingers into one of the small raised pools that had been built between the enormous flower beds, the water was as hot as a bath.

  Perfect.

  “The heat comes from diverting naturally-hot water from a spring not far from here. As the Romans did, at Bath.”

  Emma spun around in surprise; she hadn’t heard Kit enter the room. The sight of him made her pulse flutter erratically, but she sent him a friendly smile. “Ah, my lord. Good afternoon. I was just settling my plants into their new home.”

  “So I see.”

  “I’ve had my man of business write you a check,” she said quickly. “I can go and—”

  He waved his hand. “Later. I trust you.”

  He gestured for them to proceed down one of the pathways and Emma fell into step beside him, barely able to hide her delight at seeing so many familiar species of tropical plants thriving in the sultry conditions. Surely this boded well for her orchids.

  “This place is wonderful! I’ve noted several plants I last saw back in Brazil.”

  “It was my father’s pride and joy. But it’s been sadly neglected these past few years.”

  While you were recovering from your imprisonment, Emma finished silently.

  Her heart ached for all he had suffered. News of his convalescence had reached her, even in Brazil. She’d specifically asked after him in her letters home and her friend, Heloise Hampden—who happened to be married to Kit’s good friend, William Ravenwood—had kept her abreast of his progress. It seemed he’d only recently returned to London life.

  Should she be flattered that he’d broken his self-imposed exile to meet her at the docks?

  No, she was reading too much into it. He was a man of his word. Of course he’d want to fulfill his promise to her brother.

  “You have no interest in botany?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Some. I can certainly appreciate a pretty flower, but I’m nowhere near as passionate about the subject as you seem to be.” He glanced back at her orchids. “I admit I find it hard to visualize anything blooming from such an unpromising tangle of roots.”

  Emma sent him a diffident look. “They will flower, now that they have adequate heat and light. This level of humidity is perfect, although I’m going to have to keep a close eye on them. Orchids are notoriously temperamental. Once the flowers appear, they will bloom for several weeks before the petals fall and they go back into a dormant stage again.”

  They’d stopped in front of a pool much larger than the rest. Unlike the others, the surface of this one was not covered in lilies and other water plants, and Emma spied a set of shallow stone steps leading down into it.

  “Oh! A bathing pool!” she exclaimed in delight. “How wonderful!”

  “Yes. The heat of the water is extremely effective in relaxing the body. Feel free to make use of it yourself. It is a wonderful feeling, to float about in the steam.”

  She smiled. “I can imagine. The way the mist hangs over the water reminds me of the early mornings on the Amazon. I never swam in that, of course. I was too afraid of crocodiles. But I would have liked to.”

  He swept his hand over the pool in a grand gesture. “Then consider this your invitation to gain another unique experience to add to your tally. I promise it’s crocodile-free.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and started for the door, then swung back abruptly. “I’m afraid I cannot join you for dinner this evening, but I’ve asked Mrs. Bennington, my housekeeper, to serve you in your room. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

  Emma watched his retreat with a pang of regret. She would have liked to have dinner with him. His surly reticence intrigued her, although she could quite understand that it might stem from his mistreatment during the war.

  But something about him called to her. She felt the most ridiculous urge to try to lighten his spirits, to draw him out of the protective shell he seemed to have built around himself. Her heart beat faster every time he glanced in her direction, and every time she made him smile it felt as if she’d conquered a mountain or forded a particularly challenging stream.

  Lord, the man could prove dangerously addictive.

  That evening, as she enjoyed toast and crumpets in her room by a crackling fire, Emma was taunted by the idea of him, swimming in that hot pool. What would his body look like? What did he wear to swim? Did he ever swim naked?

  A flush that had nothing to do with the fire’s heat engulfed her and she forced herself to think of other things. Cold things. Like whether it would snow tomorrow.

  Chapter 5

  Emma awoke to the unmistakable hush of snowfall and when she glanced out of the window of her room she almost squealed in excitement. Despite being almost twenty four, she retained a childlike fascination with the stuff—especially after the energy-sapping heat of South America.

  Determined to take a brisk, invigorating walk in the gardens, she donned her stoutest boots, thick woolen stockings, and her warmest skirt. She’d just finished when a knock sounded at her door.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bennington.” She greeted the housekeeper with a warm smile. “Is that tea and toast I spy?”

  “It is ma’am.”

  “You needn’t have come all this way. I was about to come down.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother, but I’m sorry we don’t have a lady’s maid to help you dress. Bess and Sarah have been given the week off to visit with their families, so we’re a little short belowstairs.”

  “I quite understand. His lordship wasn’t expecting visitors. Rest assured I’m quite capable of seeing to my own needs. Just pretend I’m not here.”

  The housekeeper returned her smile. “Yes ma’am.”

  As she scoffed down her breakfast, Emma mentally congratulated Kit on being a considerate employer. Many aristocratic houses entertained lavishly at this time of year, and the poor servants barely got a moment to themselves.

  The formal gardens proved to be a delight, and she crunched happily through the snow, dodging low-hanging branches. A wilder patch of woodland grew a short distance past the maze, and she headed in that direction, her attention caught by the ball of greenery sprouting halfway along the branch of a sturdy oak tree. Since the oak’s leaves had all fallen away, the puff of mistletoe was easy to spot.

  She paused at the foot of the trunk and peered upward, her hands planted on her hips.

  As someone who’d spent a great deal of time scampering around the rigging of her father’s ships—her ships now, since the death of both her parents and Andrew—the branches of the stately oak provided little challenge.

  Hiking her skirts, she began to climb. She’d just reached the limb where the mistletoe grew when a shout from below broke her concentration.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  Emma smiled. Kit was glaring up at her from the bottom of the tree.

  “Dear God, woman, are you mad? You’ll fall to your death!”

  “I’m perfectly fine, but thank you,” she called back cheerily. “And Merry Christmas. I’m just getting you a sprig of mistletoe for the house. I couldn’t help noticing the lack of it in your festive decorations.”

  He winced at her sarcastic reference. Apart from a holly wreath on the front door, his ‘festive decorations’ were practically non-existent. She hid a grin. Teasing him was delightful.

  “Andrew told me you were a genius at getting into scrapes,” he growled. “I’m beginning to see what he meant.”

  Emma almost lost her footing on the branch. “You and Andrew talked about me?”

  “Of course. We spent six months sharing a cell. We shared life stories.”

  She risked a glance down at him and was alarmed to see a roguish grin cross his face.

  “He told me all your most embarrassing childhood tales.”

  Mortification brought a flush to her cheeks.

  “I loved listening to them,” he admitted. “I never had a sister. He loved you very much.”

  Her throat tightened with emotion, and she coughed to cover it, then busied herself snapping a handful of sprigs from the mistletoe. She started to descend, careful not to squash the sticky white berries against her skin.

  “Mistletoe and orchids have something in common, you know,” she called down. “They’re both epiphytes.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Parasites,” she laughed. “They both grow on another tree, getting moisture from the rain and feeding on the decomposing leaves of the host.”

  “Isn’t that bad for the tree?”

  “Not at all. They don’t take anything, or harm it in any way.”

  “I hope, as your host, you’re not going to harm me, either,” he joked. “Or steal anything.”

  She snorted at his levity. “As if I could harm you. You’re twice my size.”

  Unfortunately, she made the grave mistake of glancing down and became distracted by the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the twinkle in his eyes. As she reached for a snow-dusted branch, her fingers slipped, and she tumbled straight down toward him with a horrified yelp.

  He lifted his arms to catch her, and the next thing she knew they were both sprawled on the ground beneath the tree in an ungainly tangle of limbs.

  Oof!” he grunted.

  Emma flushed scarlet and tried to push herself upright, but her skirts were rucked up around her knees and their legs were entwined as she straddled him. Her chest was plastered to his, and the hard muscles of his abdomen flexed beneath her palms as she slid them around for a place to push upright.

  When she finally staggered to her feet she made a great show of brushing the snow from her skirts to hide her mortification. Kit rolled to his side and stood, chuckling as he, too, dusted the icy slush from his coat. He bent and retrieved the sprigs of mistletoe from where they lay strewn about and handed her the posy with a mocking bow.

  “Your bouquet, madame.”

  Emma accepted it with a wry smile. “Thank you. I’m not usually so careless. The ice made it slicker than I expected.”

 

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