She continued to stare at him while she lifted the kettle and smiled smugly when she felt water sloshing inside.
“I rarely use it,” he amended, shrugging.
With an entrancing combination of grace and efficiency, she placed the tin kettle on the stove, rinsed out a chipped teapot, and polished a dimpled strainer. Reese sank into an armchair and watched, grateful for the distraction and—to his amazement—her company. For there were very few people he could tolerate for more than five minutes, and even fewer people who could tolerate him.
While Miss Kendall waited for the water to heat, she moved about the room humming softly as she fluffed the pillows on a threadbare settee, organized the random pieces of crockery and dishware on the shelf, and stacked a week’s worth of old newspapers in a neat pile beside his chair.
Once the room was mostly in order, she leaned over a small potted plant that looked like ivy but probably wasn’t and began tenderly plucking off its brown, shriveled leaves. Reese snorted to himself, thinking she’d have more luck resuscitating Marie Antoinette. “Why are you tidying up?” he asked.
Her long, graceful fingers froze, and her gaze slid toward his. “Because it’s untidy.”
“But it’s not your duty to clean.”
She frowned at the gossamer layer of dust on the table holding the pot. “Apparently, it’s no one’s duty.” The comment would have sounded snide coming from most people, but Miss Kendall managed to make it sound like a compliment. “Besides, it’s more pleasant to pass the time in surroundings that are serene and free of clutter,” she said.
Reese grunted. He could row to the center of a glass-surfaced lake on a windless day. He could meditate in the middle of a peaceful, ancient forest. No amount of tranquility on the outside would ever calm the tempest raging inside him. But Miss Kendall wouldn’t understand his particular brand of misery. What could a vibrant, beautiful young woman know of war and terror and shame?
When the teakettle began to whistle, she reluctantly left the plant she tended and set about preparing two cups of tea.
“I told you I don’t drink tea,” he said, acutely aware that he sounded like a crotchety old curmudgeon.
“You did.” She deftly poured, then handed him the larger of the two cups. “I’m hoping that you’ll indulge me and try a taste. I’ll even join you, just to prove that there’s no hemlock or eye of newt mixed in.” She perched daintily on a wooden stool, lifted a cup to her pink lips, and tilted her head. “Not bad, but you may prefer to add a lump of sugar.”
“Absolutely not,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t want to mask the flavor of toad and newt.”
She raised her teacup, amusement shining in her eyes. “Cheers, Mr. Peabody.”
Shit. He’d forgotten she didn’t know who he was. But it didn’t matter. “Cheers, Miss Kendall,” he said, before taking a drink of the earthy, potent, but oddly soothing tea.
They sat and sipped their tea in comfortable silence for a while, and when she offered to pour him some more, he agreed—just so she might stay a little longer.
When she rose to clean her cup and the teapot, he stood, but she waved him back into his chair. “Finish it up,” she urged. “And if you nod off, don’t worry about me. I’ll let myself out.”
He chuckled at that. “I won’t fall asleep,” he said confidently. “And the hour’s grown late. You should permit me to walk you home or secure you a hackney cab.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said, “but thank you.”
He opened his mouth to insist, but thought better of it and contented himself with watching while she ran a dishcloth over the small table where the plant sat, lifting the pot to dust beneath it. Then she retrieved the cooled teakettle and carefully poured water into the thirsty, cracked soil. The sickly plant only had three yellowish leaves left on it, but it looked grateful nonetheless, perking up under her ministrations.
“You have a green thumb,” he said, his voice sounding unexpectedly groggy to his own ears. “Do you enjoy gardening?”
Her face took on a dreamy, ethereal quality. “Very much so. There’s nothing more satisfying than watching a garden grow and change and thrive.”
“I can think of a few things more satisfying,” he said, half-amused, half in awe.
“Plants give us food, medicine, and beauty,” she said. “For me, they also bring a sense of peace—a tangible connection to nature. A feeling that I’m part of something bigger.” She paused and shook her head. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said sincerely. It seemed important that he knew one true and important thing about her—before she walked out of his door and his life, never to return again.
“And now,” she said playfully, “I think you should tell me something about yourself. Just so that we are even.”
“Fair enough.” He swallowed the last drops of his tea as he searched his mind for something to tell her. Something true and important, like she’d told him. Something that wouldn’t send her running for the hills or scare the devil out of her. “The only time I feel free is when I’m riding my horse. Not trotting around town or through the park but galloping across wide-open fields and jumping over rushing streams. When the wind licks at my face and billows my coat behind me. That’s when I can forget, briefly, who I am and what I’ve done.”
Jesus, he hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. But he didn’t regret it. Miss Kendall deserved to know that much. Deserved to know he was unworthy of spending time with someone like her.
But if his words gave her pause, she gave no indication of it. She merely continued to fawn over the plant as she said, “Then I’m glad you have your riding. We all need an escape now and again.”
He wondered what she needed to escape from. Fear, drudgery, fate? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but it seemed his brain and mouth weren’t working in tandem. So he sank back into his chair and allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. His eyelids twitched, and though he strained to keep them open, they fell with the inevitability of a stage curtain at the end of act two.
He could still hear the whisper of Miss Kendall’s skirt as she moved around the room. Her scent—the same as a field after an April shower—tickled his nose. Her soft humming, unexpectedly sultry, seeped beneath his skin and calmed his soul.
As sleep grabbed his boots and inexorably pulled him under, he had two distinct thoughts.
The first was that Miss Kendall would soon be gone—a very good thing, given the ugliness that was sure to ensue.
The second was that he would never see her again. And that was a damned shame.
Chapter 3
“How was the meeting last night?” Fiona asked, glancing up from her sketchpad, where she’d outlined a couple standing beneath a garden trellis. Even in its unfinished state, Sophie could see that the drawing was destined to be one of her favorites. The way the gentleman held the woman’s hand was so tender—almost reverent. Flowering vines trailed all around them as they leaned toward each other, their lips only a breath apart.
Sophie gave a wistful sigh and walked to the window of the lovely studio where she, Fiona, and Lily met every Saturday morning to conduct business related to The Debutante’s Revenge. The studio, located in Fiona’s house, reflected the passions of all three women. Fiona’s breathtaking paintings graced the walls; Lily’s exquisite desk—a gift from her besotted duke—flanked shelves filled with novels, poems, and other inspiration; and Sophie’s lush plants sprouted and blossomed in every nook and cranny, adding beauty and softness to the elegance.