Seduced By His Touch Page 30

  Taking a breath, she worked to form a response, so conflicted she scarcely knew how to react. But before she could, he moved his fingers to cover her lips.

  “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just wanted you to know how I felt. How I feel. And that I’m going to fight for you, Grace. You loved me once. I can wait and hope you will again.”

  Leaning close, he pressed his mouth to hers—quickly, gently.

  “In the meantime,” he said, his tone thick as he pulled away, “I’ll be here for you and the baby. We’ll live wherever you want. The choice will be entirely up to you. Just don’t ask me to go away. I tried that once and it nearly killed me. I’d rather live with your indifference than not live with you at all.”

  Stepping back, he went to his bedside table. He returned carrying something. Opening his palm, he revealed the heart-shaped pendant he’d given her so many months ago.

  “I’ve kept this,” he explained. “You might say it’s become a talisman of sorts. I…I carry it everywhere. But I’m going to give it to you again, if you’ll take it. Whether you decide ever to wear it or not is up to you.”

  “Jack,” she murmured, as she let him press the jewellery into her hand.

  Smiling gently, he kissed her forehead. “Now, enough of such syrupy talk. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll finish doing the same. We can have breakfast together. Then I’m off for an appointment with a couple of the local farmers.”

  “Farmers?” she repeated, nonplussed at the abrupt change of subject.

  “I have an idea for planting an orchard in the fallow field that lies south of the house. You may not realize, but a couple hundred acres are attached to this property. I thought it might provide us with some extra income, while also giving the people around here a new source of employment.”

  “You’re right. It would,” she agreed. “It’s an excellent notion.”

  He smiled again. “I’m glad you approve. Well, go on now and get dressed, sweetheart. The rest of the day awaits.”

  They met in the breakfast room three-quarters of an hour later, sharing a meal and friendly conversation during which neither of them remarked in any way on Jack’s unexpected declaration. Nor did they discuss the fact that she hadn’t said anything in reply.

  Once breakfast was finished, he bid her a warm good-bye, then departed for his meeting. Meanwhile, she was left to do as she wished for the remainder of the morning.

  Deciding she would enjoy some fresh air, she donned her most comfortable walking boots and a bonnet, then set off along the tree-lined path that led toward the village. She told Mrs Mackie she wouldn’t go far or be away too long, promising to turn back immediately should she experience the least hint of vertigo or nausea.

  But she felt well. Excellent, in fact. The best she had in weeks. Physically, at least.

  As for her emotional state…

  She listened to her boots slap softly against the packed earthen path and to the random call of birds perched in various tree branches above her.

  I love you, Grace.

  His words echoed in a dulcet whisper through her mind.

  Without realizing, her step slowed, her thoughts turning inward.

  I love you, Grace.

  Yes, but did he really mean what he said?

  And if he did, why had he waited until now to tell her? Why today and not yesterday? Why not last week or last month or last year?

  Maybe because he hadn’t realized his true feelings until recently, the emotion coming on him so gradually that he hadn’t seen it for what it was?

  Or perhaps he’d known for ages that he loved her but had been hesitant to reveal himself and risk rejection.

  Then there was another possibility—one she found the most likely and the least satisfactory. He didn’t really love her but only said he did because of the baby.

  Her hand went to her stomach, thinking of the life inside. Was it this little baby he actually loved—and through a sort of benign default, her too?

  Lowering her hand again, she walked on.

  If she were the same person she’d been a year ago, she would have been dancing on air to hear him speak such words, never questioning his truthfulness. But she wasn’t that woman anymore—that naïve girl—and to her chagrin, she realized she did need more from him than words. He’d hurt her too deeply in the past for her to blithely accept his declaration of love on its face.

  But as he’d pointed out himself, what other proof could he provide, if words weren’t enough? What could he do, except show her each and every day that he meant what he said, that he honestly and truly loved her?

  Still, that would take time.

  Should she give it to him? Dare she take the risk again? Yet how could she not when he was her husband and the father of her child? How could she turn her back on a chance at happiness when she loved him and always would?

  Could she trust him, though? Could she ever give her whole heart to him again?

  Unsure, but knowing her path led back to the house and to Jack, she stopped and turned around to retrace her steps.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 28

  The next ten days passed in much the same way as the ten before them—with a few very important differences.

  Each morning when Jack greeted her, he now also said those three important words.

  I love you.

  And every night at her bedroom door, he told her again. Often giving her a sweet, soft kiss that lingered on her lips long after he’d sought his own solitary bed.

  He spoiled and cosseted her, bringing her interesting little gifts that ran the gamut from a new set of sable-tipped paintbrushes to a trio of smooth stones he said would be perfect for skipping on the little pond not too far from the house.

  Every day brought a new delight and a new experience as her body continued to change. When she complained about putting on weight, he told her the extra pounds only made her more beautiful. Expectant women were supposed to glow, he informed her, and she was more radiant now than the sun itself.

  After a few days, she realized that it was almost as if he were courting her, seducing her all over again, as he had during those halcyon days in Bath.

  Only this time was he courting her for real? She found herself wondering more and more often. Or was she only imagining what she wanted to believe?

  She was no closer to knowing the answer, as October moved into its second week. So far the temperatures had been unusually warm for fall, allowing the plants and flowers to bloom long past their usual growing season, as if nature had given them all a reprieve.

  Deciding to take advantage of the clement weather, Grace gathered her art supplies, and with the help of a footman, set up a table and chair so she could paint in the garden. If Mother Nature changed her mind and brought cold temperatures tonight, this might well be her last chance until next spring to capture the colourful blossoms. And with Jack away in the village for a few hours, painting seemed an excellent occupation.

  Actually she’d been doing a great deal more painting lately, resuming her work on the flower folio at Jack’s urging—and Terrence’s, as well.

  She’d had a lovely letter from Terrence about three weeks ago, in which he’d expressed his delight at learning of her pregnancy. He shared the latest goings-on in London. Then he went on to tell her about his efforts to expand the business with his new partner and how much happier he was of late. In closing, he assured her that her artwork would always be welcome at Cooke and Jones Publishers and to send word when her next set of paintings was complete.

  Later, when she’d mentioned Terrence’s comment to Jack, he instantly agreed.

  “Of course you must paint!” he stated with an emphatic tilt of his chin. “It would be nothing short of a crime if you did not.”

  And so with lighter spirits and a renewed enthusiasm for her creative endeavours, she’d pulled out the partially completed folio and set to work.

  Seated
now in the garden, she swished her brush clean before twirling the soft bristles over a small block of yellow paint. Humming under her breath, she mixed it with a little blue and watched a compelling, muted shade of green spring to life. She smiled and feathered the new shade in light strokes over the watercolour paper.

  Pausing, she took a moment to study the results.

  “’Tis a right fine ’un, that picture, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” declared a wizened voice from somewhere over her right shoulder.

  Glancing around, she saw the gardener standing a few feet distant, his squat body and nearly bald pate always putting her in mind of a monk. But the old man, with his twelve children and twenty-two grandchildren, was far from a sombre or celibate holy man. Although, as she’d long ago noted, he did seem to have an almost miraculous ability with plants. Everything he touched seemed to thrive.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Potsley. Come to tend the grounds?”

  “Right y’are, missus…I mean your ladyship. Although I’d have likely been here sooner if I’d known ye were going to be outside. Prettiest flower in the garden, ye are,” he said, giving her a friendly wink.

  She laughed, not the least offended, since Mr Potsley was not only married but had just celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday last month. Despite the impropriety of a servant addressing his employer in such a casual manner, she didn’t mind his harmless banter. Light-hearted conversation was simply part of who he was, in the same sort of way that charm was an intrinsic part of Jack. Neither could help who they were.

  Nor would I want them to, she realized.

  Pushing aside the thought, she swished her paintbrush clean again. “Well, I shan’t keep you from your work. I’m sure you’re anxious to take advantage of this beautiful day.”

  He nodded. “Exactly so. And ye as well. These blossoms won’t keep past the first frost. I see ye’re paintin’ them pinks.”

  “The dianthus, yes.”

  “I just know ’em as pinks,” he said with a shrug. “Same as I know the marigolds, the honeysuckle, and the hollyhocks. Now, that’ll be the last of those ’til next year, since they’re not so hardy as the others. ’Tis a wonder they’ve lasted as long as they have. Mebbe ye ought te paint them first.”

  “Yes, well, luckily I have already finished a rendering of that particular variety.”

  He grinned and shook his head again. “Ye sound jest like his lordship. He’s always puffing on with them fancy names and fancy words.”

  Was he? How curious. But doubtless Jack was discussing something other than plants with Mr Potsley. Though what else she couldn’t easily imagine.

  “Still,” the old man stated in a proud tone, “I get things to grow whether I know their fancy name or not.”

  “That you do,” she agreed with a smile. “And very ably, too, I might add.”

  “Thank ye, milady,” he said, glancing away, as though he were embarrassed by the compliment. “I do my best.”

  “You’ve obviously put a great deal of care into this garden. I’ve rarely seen one so lovely and with such a thorough range of plantings. Sitting among so many gorgeous flowers always lifts my spirits, no matter what they might be. I expect the former owners of the house used to feel the same.”

  His grey brows drew tight. “No, ma’am. Least I don’t suppose they did. But then I didn’t tend to the property when the Chesters lived here.”

  This time her brows furrowed. “Oh, but I assumed you’d worked here for years.”

  He shook his head. “Just started a few months ago, right after his lordship bought the property. Until then, weren’t all that much call for a gardener.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cause there was hardly a garden to tend. Least not one worth mentioning. The trees were here and some of the shrubs, but the flower beds were thin and sad. The Chesters said nature should see to itself and whatever grew, nor didn’t, was fine with them.”

  “So you cleaned up what was here?”

  “Ripped out most of it, more like. His lordship told me he wanted this garden to be a showplace and that whatever I couldn’t seed by summer, I was to find and transplant. Wanted it to look established-like with colour for every one of the seasons. When I said it would cost him plenty, he told me he didn’t care. No expense to be spared, he says.”

  She laid her paintbrush aside, hardly able to grasp what she was being told. “You designed the garden then?”

  “Oh no, ’twasn’t meself at all. His lordship did all the work. Had drawings and lists of every plant to be used and knew exactly where he wanted ’em put. Knew all the Latin names of ’em too. Saw that first plan meself with all his notes and jots before he gave me another copy with the common ones writ out so I could tell what they were. He asked me what I thought and if a lady would like it. Says as I thought the Queen herself would approve.”

  Breath grew thin in her lungs, her pulse speeding faster in confusion. Jack had done all this? Had arranged for the planting of this garden months ago before she’d even known about the house?

  “Yup, even a Queen would like it, I says,” she heard the gardener continue. “An’ do ye know what he says back?”

  “No,” she whispered in a faint voice. “W-what did he say?”

  He gave her a smile. “He says it don’t matter if a Queen likes it, cause the only woman who matters is his wife. ‘If this garden makes her smile,’ he told me, ‘then my efforts will have all been worthwhile.’”

  Her hand shook as she realized that Jack had designed the garden.

  For her!

  “I said you must be a special woman,” Mr Potsley went on. “He said there was none finer. And he was right. Yer a sweet ’un, milady, and no mistake. I can see why his lordship is so smitten with ye. Fact is, ne’er seen a fellow so in love as that man o’ yers. But then you must know that, way he dotes on you and that babe yer carrying.”

  And suddenly she knew the truth, knew the answer she’d been seeking. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do know.”

  After a long minute, as if sensing her need to be alone, the old man turned away, ambling deeper into the garden.

  As he did, a knot formed in her throat, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  Then she smiled.

  It’s not working, Jack thought as he rode his horse up the lane to Grace’s house.

  I’ve been here in Kent for weeks and I’m no closer to winning back her trust and love than I was at the start.

  But those were two emotions that couldn’t be forced; they had to be freely given and honestly earned. And considering his past actions, he’d given her good cause to do neither.

  Even so, as he’d told her, he would do whatever it took, for however long it took, to win her back.

  What if that day never comes? Whispered a terrible voice in his head, bleakness stealing over him like a shadowy spectre.

  It will, he assured himself. It must.

  What other choice was there, when he loved her so much he literally ached with it sometimes?

  At least she’d given him some reason to hope, since she hadn’t asked him to leave. He took comfort in the fact that they were living together again—even if it was in the most innocent and platonic of ways.

  Lord only knew how many nights he’d lain awake, wanting her, knowing she was just in the next room. But until she invited him into her bed again, he would continue to sleep alone. Of course too, there was the baby to consider, so he might be in for many, many long months of doing without.

  Yet, despite his desire, simply being with her was enough. Loving her, privilege enough.

  The thought reminded him of his passionate declaration that morning in his bedroom. The way he’d poured out his heart to her as he’d never done before. Because he’d never been in love before.

  Not truly. Not for always.

  Which is why he would continue to wait—and pray—that someday she would do more than let him into her home: she would let him into her heart again, as well.

  Arri
ving at the house, he dismounted, exchanging a brief good-evening with the groom before allowing the man to lead his bay gelding to the stable.

  He entered through the front door, working to shake off the last of his blue devils as he handed his coat to the footman. He was about to go upstairs to change his clothes when one of the housemaids approached.

  She gave him a timid smile as she curtseyed. “Her ladyship would 1-like you t-to join her in the garden, my lord.”

  “The garden?” He paused for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll join her now.”

  “Oh no, not now!” the girl stated. “At six. I-I was to tell you most expressly not to be there until six.”

  He frowned, a puzzled smile hovering over his lips. “Six, is it? What’s this about, then?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know, milord. She just told me to give you the message and naught more. Beg pardon, but I’ve duties to attend, and Mrs Mackie gets right peevish if I’m late.”

  “Heaven forfend you turn Mrs Mackie peevish.”

  The servant stared, clearly not understanding his teasing.

  “Go on,” he said, taking pity.

  Visibly relieved, she dropped another curtsey, then scurried off.

  Crossing his arms, he stood still for a moment, wondering at this latest development. It was slightly past five o’clock now and the sun would be setting in the next hour, so what possible reason could Grace have for wanting to meet him in the garden at six?

  His arms fell to his sides, though, as a sudden thought occurred, a memory forming of another meeting they’d had in another garden. The morning at Braebourne when she’d told him she would marry him, but only if he gave her this house and, later, a separation.

  A lump formed in his throat. Had she finally made up her mind about them? And if so, had she decided to choose her freedom over making a life with him?

  * * *

  CHAPTER 29

  The garden shimmered with candlelight from dozens of sweetly scented beeswax tapers set around to illuminate the space. In the centre stood her painting table, now neatly draped in a crisp, white linen tablecloth and laid with her best china, crystal and silver.