An Extraordinary Flirtation

Amidst the rural splendor of the Cotswolds, behind ornately scrolled ironwork gates, perched an immense residence made of honey-colored local stone, with a moss-covered slate roof. Surrounding it was undulating wooded country to the south, orchards and green hills where horses and cattle and sheep grazed, and extensive gardens all around. The house was embellished with a flagged courtyard and pedimented portico, windows of every description, a chapel, and more chimneys than a cat could count; the gardens with hothouses and forcing-beds, rock grottoes, mock Gothic ruins and a menagerie long fallen into disuse. Since the current mistress of those gardens believed in allowing the plants to enjoy themselves in unplanned ways, wisteria twined voluptuously along the old brick walls, and clematis scaled enchanting heights before tumbling drunkenly downward in sheets of graceful foliage and cataracts of pure white blooms, and the south terrace was an orgiastic blaze of lilacs in every imaginable hue.

On this particular overcast spring morning, Lady Norwood was strolling along the old stone paths with a basketful of sprigs and seedlings, which she paused occasionally to pop into all manner of odd nooks.

Trailing after her were two curious lambs, several clucking chickens, and an undergardener laden down with spade and shovel, rake and pruning knife, watering pot and shears and saw. The head gardener, a proponent of symmetry in all things, was hiding in the greenhouse, as he did whenever her ladyship set about wreaking disorder in his domain.

Lady Norwood knew that her servants thought her eccentric. Her deceased husband’s servants, to be more precise. She spied a lonely spot in the underskirt of a hedge, and dropped to her knees to investigate. The sun burst through the clouds then, to caress her graceful back, kiss her perfect cheek, linger on her lovely (if somewhat untidy) hair. Master Sol could hardly be blamed for this sign of blatant preference. Lady Norwood—
nee
Loversall—bloomed more brightly than any of her posies ever would. The Loversalls bred astonishing beauties. Chaucer had coined the phrase “fair as is the rose in May” while gazing on a Loversall.

It had been a nine days’ wonder, this Loversall’s decision to choose from among her countless suitors a gentleman at least thrice her age, for the women of Cara’s family were notorious for their determination to love unwisely and too well, as the gentlemen were renowned for the number and quality of their mistresses. Both tendencies seemed to Lady Norwood excellent reasons for marrying as she had. She shooed a lamb out of the way, and pressed a marigold firmly into the ground, then sprinkled coal ash on the surrounding earth to insure that it would root well before she rose and brushed carelessly at her shabby skirts.

“There!” she said to the undergardener, who was squinting speculatively at a crack in the garden wall. Her smile dimmed as she glimpsed an approaching figure. “That’s enough for now, Willie. Send word up to the house that we’ll be wanting tea.”

Willie eyed the newcomer. “Yes’m,” he said. Squire Anderley owned the property adjoining the Norwood estate. ‘Twas common knowledge that he’d also like to own Lady Norwood. So far the mistress was having none of it, bless her heart. Queer her ladyship might be, but Lord Norwood had doted on his wife, and his servants—excepting the head gardener—had gotten in the habit of doing likewise. Willie would send word to the house, right enough, and suggest to Cook that she might put some senna seed in the squire’s tea cakes.

Squire Anderley strode briskly along the crushed stone path, his riding crop in hand. Paul would have been surprised to learn that an undergardener mistrusted him, not that he particularly cared what Lady Norwood’s servants thought of him, or even his own. Servants existed to serve their masters, not to think. His thoughts were all for Lady Norwood as she stood among her flowers, awaiting him. Cara took his breath away, even in that outmoded dress, with dirt on her hands and cheek, her hair skewed in a careless coil atop her head, and chickens pecking at her feet. She was the most outrageously beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her features were as divine as any goddess’s, her skin fair and fine as the most priceless porcelain; her eyes a rich sapphire blue and her hair a glorious mass of tousled red-gold ringlets; her figure so mouth-wateringly voluptuous that every gentleman who saw her wished to whisk her off to bed. Paul was no exception. That he had thus far refrained from slinging her over his shoulder like some love-starved Viking warrior spoke volumes for his self-discipline.

Lady Norwood absently plucked a posy as she watched her visitor approach. The squire was a tall, handsome man of five-and-thirty, with a sun-bronzed countenance, hazel eyes, and chestnut hair, broad shoulders and lean hips and strong thighs that showed to good advantage in his tight breeches and well-tailored coat. His stride was confident, his smile self-assured. As it should have been. Paul Anderley was master of the Gloucester Hunt, a person of no small importance in these parts, a leisured country gentleman blessed with no less than thirty thousand pounds a year. Ladies jostled for his attention, for he was currently without a wife. Men trembled to think the squire might learn of some half-drawn covert, or unstopped earth, or fox that shouldn’t have escaped.

Cara wondered if she intended to escape, and if in that case he was prepared to pursue her through gorse, forest, and wood. Paul nudged the chickens aside with one booted foot and raised her hand to his lips. “Bat guano,” she murmured.

Squire Anderley was accustomed to Lady Norwood’s tendency to speak whatever thought was passing through her mind, which was admittedly a trifle queer in her; however, her astonishing good looks made a man willing to overlook what might in a less bedazzling female have been considered extremely annoying quirks. He drew her hand through his arm. “Yes, and I am pleased to see you, too, my dear.”

Cara smiled, revealing an enchanting dimple at one corner of her mouth. Paul decided that it was long past time he took another wife.
This
wife, thereby attaching the considerable Norwood property to his own estate. Not to mention attaching Lady Norwood to himself. That lush mouth was made for kissing and nibbling and certain even more intimate pursuits.

Cara wondered why he was staring at her mouth, almost as if he was thinking about stealing a kiss, which was of course absurd. Paul Anderley was far too much the gentleman to go about stealing kisses from ladies in their gardens. At least from this lady in this garden, patently.
“Or
one may burn limestone to make lime. Whale bone is also said to be efficacious, though I’ve never had occasion to try it myself. My late husband had excellent results with seaweed. Some people keep dovecotes. You should know about these things, for the benefit of your estate.”

She chose the oddest things to talk about. Ladies shouldn’t know about fertilizer, surely. Paul eyed the lambs chasing each other through the foliage. Or discuss it, at any rate. “I employ gardeners, a large number of them, to tend to such matters. As do you. I thought we might pass a pleasant half hour together. Come, walk around the gardens with me, and show me what you’ve most recently done.”

The man didn’t care a button for her gardens. Save to own them, that was. At which point he and the head gardener would doubtless set about restoring order to everything. However, Cara was always pleased to show off her latest horticultural endeavors. And while she was embarked upon an animated discussion Paul could hardly profess his great regard for her again. “I have been experimenting with hydroponics,” she said, as she freed one of the lambs from a rosebush.

Cara thought she might distract him. The squire realized this, and was amused. Not that Cara wasn’t herself a distraction, her lush body unfettered in her simple gown, and coal ash smudged on her perfect cheeks, and her glorious hair coming unpinned. Gravely, he listened, or pretended to listen, even entered into a discussion about a new variety of melon with which she was having some small success. Lambs and chickens trailed along behind as they strolled past a stone colossus, and along a fine yew hedge. At least Lady Norwood’s favorite cow didn’t accompany her today. The gardens were in an appalling state, as Paul already knew, due to some clandestine explorations of his own. He had assured the unhappy head gardener that the clematis would be the first to go, and then the wisteria. The lilac might stay, he thought, providing it was severely pruned.

Unless, that is, Cara begged on bended knee, and then she might do anything she pleased with the gardens, as well as with himself. With that tantalizing thought in mind, Paul maneuvered her beneath low-hanging tree branches, through a wooden archway covered with jasmine and roses, across a little footbridge, and into a cozy nook that featured a marble maiden pouring water from an urn, along with a sundial and a great oak bench designed in the shape of a shell.

He clasped her hands. She looked at him quizzically. Paul parted his lips to speak. An English setter bounded out of the shrubbery, plumed tail waving wildly, and knocked him smack off his feet.

“Naughty Daisy!” Cara knelt to give the dog a hug, and allowed her face to be licked. “Sit down and behave. Squire Anderley will think you are shockingly ill-trained.”

Squire Anderley didn’t think the beast was trained at all. He stood up, brushed dirt and twigs off his jacket, and surveyed the setter with the critical eye of a man who owned a pack of hunting hounds. The cur
looked
well-bred enough, with her long, silky, slightly wavy coat, white flecked liberally with orange, long fringed tail, orange ears, and speckled mask. Better Daisy was off chasing partridges or woodcocks, however—or perhaps the blasted chickens—instead of sprawling at Cara’s feet, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, which was curled in what looked to him like the canine equivalent of a sneer, or knocking innocent gentlemen down.

Cara disliked the stern way Paul was looking at her dog. “I have been wondering,” she murmured, “if the grafting of a sweet onto a sharp-flavored apple would produce a fruit of dual tang.”

To be alone with him—well, almost alone, except for the damned dog, the lambs, and the chickens—seemed to make Cara nervous. This was a good sign. Paul grasped her wrist again and pulled her down beside him on the bench. “Cut line, my dear! I’ve gone to great lengths to speak privately with you. Not that my words will come as any surprise.”

Cara looked at the hand that clasped hers. Paul had never tried to kiss her, for all his honeyed words. Would he do so now? Or, as she suspected, was it only her property he sought? Cara was no longer a green girl. She had buried her innocence and youth in these gardens, among the seedlings and bulbs. The more curious of the chickens, a rooster, flapped its way up onto the bench and into her lap.

Cara smoothed the bird’s soft feathers. Not that she
truly
wished to kiss Paul Anderley, or anybody else. Firmly, she withdrew her hand from his. “I am very much obliged to you, Paul, but pray spare your breath. It is an oddity in me, I admit it, but I enjoy my single state.”

God’s teeth, but she was stubborn. Paul reminded himself again of how much he enjoyed the pleasure of the chase. Though she couldn’t know it, he wished to kiss his quarry very much, even if she was clutching a damned rooster, but he was afraid that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Blast it, Cara, it’s unnatural for a woman to live alone.”

Cara overlooked the profanity. “It’s nothing of the sort. Moreover, I’m hardly alone, having something like three-score servants at last count. Norwood left me wanting for nothing, you know that. Be honest, Paul! You wouldn’t truly wish to be married to so contumacious a female as myself.”

No, but once he wed her, she wouldn’t be contumacious long. He hoped. “You’re a young woman still. Surely you must wish for a family of your own. Unthinkable that you should be content with only your servants and your plants and your hound for friends.” Not to mention her bloody chickens and cows and lambs. Paul didn’t dare reach out to touch her. The rooster looked as if it wished to give him a good peck.

Who said she was contented? wondered Cara. At least Paul had called her young, even if it was a clanker, which was kind. “I thought
you
were my friend.”

“Of course I am your friend.” Paul regarded her with exasperation. “You know very well that I wish to be more.”

She knew that the squire wished to become master of the Norwood estate. Cara wondered if she would let him. She also wondered if he would try and kiss her then.

Mentally, she kicked herself. Kissing was entirely too much on her mind.
“You
should marry, my friend, but some lady other than myself. Someone who isn’t unfashionable, and capricious, and years beyond her youth, which I am, no matter what you say.” Absently, she brushed at a red-gold tendril that had escaped its moorings to tickle her cheek, as other ringlets had escaped from their pins to lie softly on one shoulder or tumble untidily down her back.