As Thea watched, a male figure crossed the lawn below her, heading toward the conservatory with the long, graceful strides of a man who could move quickly while seeming to make no effort at all. He wore no hat, revealing untamed dark hair.
Lord Luxborough had also arrived.
The nerve of the man! That the first thing he did was check his plants! Who did he think he was, to smile that gleeful smile, and speak those mysterious, menacing words, and then waltz off to check his plants?
Well, most likely, he thought he was an earl, and could say whatever he wanted, and waltz off to do whatever he pleased.
Arabella was right: The sensible thing would be for Thea to wait for Luxborough to make his next move in whatever rum game he was playing. Because those were the rules: He was the earl, and she was the merchant’s outcast daughter, so he was the one who chose the time and place, and all Thea could do was wait. Oh, how she tired of waiting. For three long, lonely years, she had waited, waited for someone to come for her, waited for her life to fix itself. No one ever came for her. Her life never fixed itself. She had had to brew plans to fix everything herself. And now this—this earl had come prancing along and started some game that threatened to ruin everything, and she was expected to—what? Sit quietly until he was ready to explain himself? Until he fetched her? Until he crooked his little finger to command her to come running?
Below her, he disappeared into the conservatory.
Thea was not going to be at his beck and call. Without another thought, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and made for the door.
In the conservatory, heavy air settled over Thea’s skin, and she breathed in soil and leaves. The plants were packed densely, and she could see little through the rows of thick, lush greenery. She wandered through the aisles, trailing her fingers over the leaves as she passed.
As Thea’s sum knowledge of plants was that they were mostly green, mostly pretty, and somehow produced fruit and flowers, she could not begin to guess which of these might belong to the earl. Certainly, nothing here seemed interesting enough for that big, sure-footed man with the tired, gleeful eyes. When Luxborough did not appear, Thea concluded that she had missed him and may as well head back to her room.
Then she entered an alcove whose single bench bore a dozen plants, including a flower unlike anything she had ever seen.
Closer inspection revealed it was not a single flower, but half a dozen yellow blooms clinging wearily to a single stem. The stem emerged from thick flat leaves that drooped around their pot like yesterday’s stockings. Each flower was no wider across than her little finger, and each had petals in three different shapes and colors: round, yellow petals at the front; long, purple petals behind; and a central dappled point that looked hairy like an animal’s snout.
How splendid they were! Dropping her shawl on the table, Thea bent to examine the flowers more closely. She reached out, eager to know the texture of those unusual yellow—
“Hands off!”
With a yelp and a jolt, Thea snatched her hands back close to her throat and spun around, heart pounding.
It was Lord Luxborough, of course, a large looming silhouette of tousled hair and broad shoulders and impatient legs. As he advanced, his face came into view. He looked tired and annoyed.
Annoyed with her, she supposed.
Well, she was annoyed with him, lurking in shadows and scaring her like that.
With an effort, Thea lowered her hands, straightened, and tried to behave as if this was perfectly normal. But nothing about this man was normal, not given his inexplicable words back at the inn and the haunting questions of what he knew and what damage he might wreak.
“You startled me. My lord. Um.”
“Do not touch that flower,” he said, in his low, rough voice, its smoky edges sliding down her spine.
He prowled closer and she managed to stand still, but such was the intensity in his eyes that she had to look away, back to the flowers, whose delightfully odd faces surprised her all over again.
“Is it a flower, then?” A silly sentence, but a coherent one at least, and her voice was not quite a squeak.
“No, it’s a monkey. Of course it’s a blasted flower.”
“I’ve never seen a flower like it in all the world.”
“And you’ve seen all the world, have you? You just happened to be passing through Bahia?”
“Bahia? Yes, I see, Bahia, yes,” said Thea, nodding and ignoring his horrid sarcasm.
“Have you ever even heard of Bahia, Miss Knight?”
“Of course I have.”
“When?”
“You mentioned it just now.”
He leaned a hip against the table, arms folded like a sentry, and examined her as if she, too, were a specimen he had never before seen.
Defiantly, Thea examined him back. Despite everything, she liked looking at him. Something about his surly roughness appealed, the way he was battered and worn, yet strong nonetheless. Like a castle that had endured storms and sieges and battles, yet remained impervious and indifferent, a place one could seek shelter, if one but dared to draw near.
She would not draw near. They should not be alone together, here in the fading light, but she could not leave, not until she discovered what he knew. As she sought the words to ask, her eyes strayed back to the flowers. The purplish petals at the back were ruffled, puckered like sewing when one pulled the thread too tight. She reached out and—
“I said, don’t touch!”
She snatched back her hand. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Forgot? I told you barely a minute ago.”
“It was a very crowded minute.”
Despite his scowl, he seemed perplexed, as though he did not know what to do with her.
He might think you are a mouse and pounce.
He might rub up against me and purr.
Thea whirled about and put a few steps between them before facing him again. She was growing used to him, and that made it easier to speak.
“I wouldn’t hurt it,” she said.
“Orchids are delicate. It does not need you poking at it.”
“What did you call it? An awkward…what?”
“An orchid.”
“Orchid.” She tried out the word, savoring its shape in her mouth. “What an odd name. Orchid.”
“It’s from an ancient Greek word,” he said irritably. “Orkhis.”
“Oh. You’re going to educate me. Very well.”
She folded her hands and waited politely.
“You don’t sound thrilled,” he remarked.
“On the contrary, my lord. I’m always thrilled when a man wants to tell me all the important things he knows.” His brows hitched a fraction. “I suppose now you will tell me what the word means and where the plant comes from, and if I’m very lucky, you’ll explain at length how you know more about it than anyone else.”
That little half smile curled his lips. The scars on his cheek twisted slightly to accommodate it.
“No, I wasn’t going to tell you what the word means, actually.”
He shoved off from the table and strolled around her, coming to a stop by a pillar. He fell back against it, arms folded again, and regarded her as patiently as if he had all night.
Thea waited. He added nothing. She looked about, looked back at him, studied her hands, glanced up to meet his eyes. Still he said nothing.