A Most Sinful Proposal (15 page)

B
y the time Marissa arrived in the breakfast room the following morning, Valentine, Jasper, and her grandmother were already there and were involved in a spirited conversation. Marissa hadn’t slept well and the last thing she needed was loud voices, but she smiled when Lady Bethany paused to wish her good morning and then, for good measure, complimented Jasper on his return to the breakfast table, before sitting down and pouring herself a much-needed cup of hot tea.

After a sip or two of the restorative, Marissa was feeling strong enough to glance surreptitiously at the far end of the table, where Valentine was ensconced. Even that brief glimpse of his face was enough to make her heart begin to rattle in her chest. Memories of the evening before took hold of her mind, causing all manner of dangerous emotions.

She hadn’t meant to end their lovemaking in such a way, with her storming from the room in tears. They had played such an exciting, erotic game, and when he held her naked in his arms she’d felt the thrill and joy of being with the man she wanted
above all others. And she
did
want him. She could no longer deny it. The feelings she was experiencing for Valentine were deep and real. Which was why she was so upset when he refused to accept the gift of her virginity.

He was acting the gentleman, refusing to ruin her, but Marissa didn’t believe him. She sensed there was far more to his behavior than he was letting on. But if he wouldn’t tell her the truth then what could she do? As she’d lain in bed, tossing and turning, she’d wondered whether Valentine’s response to her could be due to his unhappy marriage. Was he determined not to make the same mistake again?

“Valentine has received a message from his friend in London. The medieval scholar.” Jasper was leaning toward her with a smile. “He has given us a little more information on the list of names.” He turned to his friend. “Tell Miss Rotherhild what he said, Kent.”

Valentine finished his sausage and set down his knife and fork, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin and avoiding her eyes. “We know now where the three remaining families on the list lived, and it just so happens that the Prideauxes are quite close to Abbey Thorne Manor.” He dropped the napkin carelessly beside his plate and reached for the coffeepot. “We could be there and back in two hours, and I was trying to persuade Jasper and Lady B that they are fit for the journey.”

He was speaking to her so offhandedly, refusing to look at her, as if they were distant acquaintances rather than almost-lovers. No, not even distant acquaintances, more like someone he didn’t like
very much and was wishing to the far side of the county.

“Really?” Marissa spread marmalade on her toast, concentrating on playing a similar role. “So are you going rose hunting today, Lord Jasper?”

Jasper looked down at his arm, still awkwardly encased in a sling. “I wish I could say yes, but I fear my arm isn’t up to it just yet. I’d only be a burden to the fitter members of the party. I rather think it would be better if I stayed here and awaited the news on your return.”

Lady Bethany bestowed a sympathetic smile upon him. “Then I am determined to remain with you, Jasper, and keep you company. I’m certain Kent and Marissa can manage perfectly well on their own.”

“Of course we can,” Marissa said, sounding far more certain than she felt, but she was dashed if she was going to hide in her room and refuse to go with him. If he could play this game of pretending she meant nothing to him, then she would play it, too. Last night she’d discovered she was good at playing games.

Valentine downed his coffee and rose to his feet. “Then I will meet you at the stables in half an hour, Miss Rotherhild,” he said brusquely, and he strode from the room.

“Good luck, old chap!” Jasper called after him, but Valentine barely acknowledged him.

Marissa, toast in one hand, teacup in the other, felt a wave of depression.

“Whatever is up with Kent?” Jasper said in an undertone to Lady Bethany. “He’s like a frog in a rainstorm, twitching and hopping all over the place.”

Lady Bethany laughed. “I can’t imagine,” she said, her gaze sliding to Marissa. “Do you know what is wrong with him, my dear?”

“No, Grandmamma, I don’t,” she replied. “And I am not at all sure I want to.”

By the time Marissa had changed into her emerald green riding habit and hurried back downstairs the clock was showing she had taken more than her allotted half an hour. She found Valentine outside, marching impatiently up and down in his riding boots, breeches, and jacket.

“Ah, there you are!” he said, his head snapping up. “Come on, let’s go.”

Marissa quickened her steps, trying to catch up to him. “I didn’t realize it was so urgent,” she grumbled, further annoyed by his high-handed behavior.

“Of course it’s urgent, Marissa. Von Hautt is probably already on his way. He’s known every move we’ve made so far. Why should it be any different this time?” He stopped and turned to face her so abruptly that she almost ran into him. “George saw Von Hautt in Magna Midcombe.”

Her eyes grew round.

“He came home last night. Late,” he added, his eyes holding hers, their meaning clear.
Late, so he didn’t see us together.
“Von Hautt stopped him at Magna Midcombe, threatened him, and said some things George found rather puzzling. He also knew about…well, he knew things he shouldn’t have known. Things he could only know if he had a very good source of information inside Abbey Thorne Manor.”

“So he really does have a spy here?”

“Yes, I rather think he must.”

“Then he’ll know about the letter? And where we are going today?”

“Which brings us back to why we’re in a hurry, Marissa.” His smile was warm, as if last night had never happened, but she still didn’t trust him.

To her surprise she was presented with a mount very unlike the sluggish animal she’d ridden to Montfitchet. Restless, nervous, and well-bred, this creature would test her abilities. Evidently Valentine had come to the conclusion that Marissa was a more capable rider than he’d given her credit for, and she relished the chance to show him his confidence was not misplaced. Before long they were galloping across the bridge that spanned the moat, and through the park.

“Did your London friend discover anything more about the Prideaux family?” she asked, while they paused to allow a farmer to drive his sheep across the road from one field to another.

“Yes, he did. He wrote that the last female Prideaux married a Longhurst, but they continued to reside at the Prideaux manor. The manor is called Canthorpe, and it is still there—more or less. This is the best chance, the most likely chance, we have of finding the rose, Marissa.”

That would explain his restless excitement. And she hoped he would find his rose, she really did. But, if he did find the rose today, then what would become of her? A sense of loss filled her, but her feelings were more complicated. She’d come here on a husband hunting expedition and ended up with the
wrong man. If Valentine found his rose and turned his back on her, she would be left with nothing.

Not that she cared about returning home a spinster. She’d rather be alone than marry the wrong man—that was what hunting the right husband was all about. But she was beginning to believe that the wrong man was in fact the right man, the man she should have been hunting all along.

“You’re very quiet,” Valentine said.

Marissa was too proud to want him to see the true state of her emotions. As far as Valentine was concerned she was a woman of the world, a woman who planned to lead a free and unfettered Bohemian life. If he discovered that she was actually longing for a cozy hearth, husband and children, then he’d probably ride off at top speed. She suspected his opinions on domestic bliss were grim to say the least.

Marissa couldn’t bear him to pity her or avoid her.

So she smiled and played her part and said, “I was thinking about your quest, Valentine. If the rose is at Canthorpe and you find it…”

The change of subject worked. He was soon too involved in discussing his quest to notice her introspection. All she needed to do was nod understandingly, smile occasionally, and return to her own thoughts.

But she was wrong. Valentine was more observant than she’d imagined.

“Marissa? Marissa!”

She blinked at him, trying to remember what he’d been saying, but something in her eyes must have given her away. His own gaze sharpened and when
he spoke it was in that stiff, autocratic manner.

“What is it? You’re miles away. You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I’d forgotten all about it.”

They both fell silent again. For her part Marissa was busy pretending not to care.

“Last night—” he began.

“You must live your life as you see fit,” she interrupted airily.

“Last night—”

“That was the agreement we made, remember? Neither of us are bound by the other. No recriminations, no explanations.”

“Stop it!” he said in a deep, shaken voice.

Surprised, she finally looked at him and saw that he was angry.
Really
angry. For a moment she was at a loss. Should she continue with her chosen role or open her heart to him? But anyway it didn’t matter because he was the one doing the talking.

“Do you really believe a word of that stuff you spout at me? I know you’re upset over last night. You’ve convinced yourself that I don’t really want you, that I’m the sort of cad who plays games with innocents.”

“Now you’re being silly,” she managed but her voice shook and he wasn’t convinced.

“If you think I’m going to allow you to go off and throw yourself at some…some bloody bounder then you are seriously array in the head, my girl,” he growled.

“But you agreed—”

“
I never agreed.
No gentleman would agree to allow a lady to ruin herself, no matter what she thought
she wanted. Last night you accused me of treating you as if you didn’t know your own mind. Of not understanding you. But do you understand me, Marissa? If you did then you’d know I could never allow you to run off and join the demimonde.”

“
Allow me?
You don’t own me,” she said in a low, trembling voice. “We are not married, Valentine.”

“Not yet!” he roared.

She blinked. She was finding it difficult to understand what was going on in his head, but one thing was for certain, it wasn’t what she’d thought was going on. Did he want to marry her after all? And was that because he genuinely wanted to spend his life with her, or because he wanted to protect her like the proper gentleman he was?

She tried to clear her head. If the latter was his reason then it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t ever going to be enough. And she’d rather leave right now and go and live her life in Yell, collecting specimens for her father, than marry a man who asked her out of obligation. Wasn’t that why the Husband Hunters Club was formed in the first place? As a protest against such recipes for misery?

It was Valentine who broke the silence.

“Marissa,” he said, and his chest rose and fell heavily, his expression taut and tense, as if he was laboring under an enormous strain. “I have spent years on the quest of the Crusader’s Rose and that’s all that’s mattered to me. Now a beautiful, desirable woman has suddenly arrived in my life. Forgive me if I’m less than coherent.”

She watched him warily, not sure whether he was telling her something she wanted to hear.

“Valentine,” she began, feeling her way as cautiously as a cat across a floor of tacks. “When I was attending Miss Debenham’s Finishing School some friends and I formed a special, eh, club. You could say it was rather like your quest to find the rose, only our quest was to find something, eh, different. When I came to Abbey Thorne Manor my own quest was uppermost in my mind.”

He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Marissa, I don’t believe you want to be a Bohemian like your grandmother.”

“I’m trying to explain,” she said, attempting to remain calm when she felt like screaming. “Perhaps if you listened for a change you would understand.”

They glared at each other, and then Marissa felt the tension ease, and with it came an urge to laugh. At the same moment Valentine’s mouth twitched and he gave a chuckle.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation after we’ve been to Canthorpe,” he suggested. “When we can give it our full attention.”

“Yes, perhaps we should,” she agreed, softly.

“We are clearly at cross purposes, minx.”

“Yes.” She sighed.

They had been climbing a gently sloping hill and now they reached the top. The scene spread out before them was quite breathtakingly delightful, with the cottages of the village gathered neatly about a spired church, and the green fields surrounding them.

“How lovely,” Marissa declared. “It looks perfect.”

“It would be perfect if I found the rose,” he said.

He turned to her, and his eyes lingered on hers, a spark deep within them. Just by looking at her he made her feel flushed and alive, and very much aware of herself as a woman.

“Marissa.” Reaching out he took her gloved hand, his fingers enfolding hers. Despite their misunderstandings, she felt as if they were in complete harmony. Just for a moment. Perfect companions.

A moment later the feeling was gone, and Valentine was urging his mount into a gallop as he rode down the slope toward the fulfillment of his dream.

There was nothing Marissa could do but follow him.

C
anthorpe, the home of the Longhurst family, was beyond the church and hidden within a grove of splendid old trees. Even to Marissa’s untrained eyes the sprawling manor was a mingling of varying styles and time periods, evolving and growing over the years as it passed from generation to generation. It appeared to be well cared for, the paintwork was fresh and there were no missing bricks or broken tiles. A formal garden ran along the terrace in front of the house, with bushes clipped into topiary balls and spiraling twists.

There was no sign of any roses.

“There is a more promising garden at the rear of the house,” Valentine assured Marissa when she mentioned her concerns. “Morris knows of Canthorpe. He told me Lady Longhurst is renowned for her floral arrangements using roses, picked directly from her own rose garden.”

“What would we do without Morris?” Marissa said with a smile.

They were led into a sitting room which Marissa personally thought far too full of bows and ruchings
and clashing floral designs, while the maid who’d admitted them to the house went off to ask if Her Ladyship was receiving visitors.

They waited in a silence broken only by Valentine’s restless tapping on the mantelpiece as he stood by the hearth. After several moments the door opened and Lady Longhurst made her entrance, pausing a moment on the threshold, as if she were accustomed to being admired.

It was understandable.

She was one of the most beautiful women Marissa had ever seen. Almost as beautiful as her best friend and fellow member of the Husband Hunters Club, Olivia Monteith. With her blond hair softly dressed, ringlets falling to her nape from a clasp on her crown, and her elegant but understated blue dress with white lace trimmings, Lady Longhurst could have been posing for a portrait called The Wealthy Country Lady at Home.

“Lord Kent?” the fair vision spoke in a well-modulated voice. She moved with single-minded purpose toward Valentine, ignoring Marissa.

He took the hand she held out to him, bowing elegantly over it. “Lady Longhurst, how do you do?”

As she gazed up at him with pale blue eyes, Marissa was surprised to see that Lady Longhurst, standing now in the cruel light from the windows, was a great deal older than she’d first appeared. The fine lines about her eyes and the faint sagging of the skin about her throat and jaw were a clear sign she’d never see forty again.

“How strange we are neighbors and yet we’ve
never met?” Lady Longhurst said with a quizzical little smile.

“I am not a great one for socializing,” Valentine replied.

“That’s a great pity. We will have to do something about that, my lord.”

When their gazing into each other’s eyes seemed to have gone on for far too long, Marissa stepped forward and held out her own hand. “Lady Longhurst? I am Miss Rotherhild. How do you do?”

Lady Longhurst’s eyebrows lifted in surprise—to introduce oneself was a social faux pas. She took Marissa’s hand with care, as if it might bite, her sly sideways glance at Valentine seeming to invite him to join her in appalled amusement.

Marissa also gave Valentine a glance but hers was far from ambiguous. “Perhaps you should tell Lady Longhurst what we’re doing here, Lord Kent?” she suggested meaningfully.

“Yes. Of course. Hum, Lady Longhurst, we are here to find a rose,” he began.

“A rose?” She clapped her hands together like a child. “But I am famous for my roses!”

“Then you will understand,” he said, and proceeded to explain the story of the Crusader’s Rose.

After a few sentences, Lady Longhurst gestured for them to be seated, and arranged herself gracefully on a sofa. She was watching him intently as he spoke; indeed, thought Marissa, hanging on his every word. And while this was obviously flattering, and most men would be flattered, Valentine seemed far more intent on his story than his audience.

When he finished, Lady Longhurst sighed and placed a hand on her breast, blinking her pale eyes as if the emotion was too great for her. “I am quite overwhelmed,” she gushed. “And you believe the rose is here? At Canthorpe? In
my
garden, Lord Kent?”

“I very much hope so, Lady Longhurst.”

“Then you must look at once,” she declared, rising lightly to her feet. “And I will come with you.”

Pleased at her enthusiastic response, Valentine jumped up after her, and disappeared through the sitting room door. Marissa sighed and also followed, only to run into him as he hastily returned to the sitting room. The pleasant shock of his big body against hers shook her momentarily, and then he clasped her elbows, steadying her, as he stepped back.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I’m like a boy today, thinking only of my quest and—”

Before Marissa could answer him, Lady Longhurst was calling out, “Lord Kent? The roses are this way!”

Valentine spun around and went striding in her direction, but this time he remembered to keep a firm grip on Marissa’s arm.

“We can reach the rose garden through the conservatory,” Lady Longhurst said when they reached her, and led them into a well-lit saloon with glass doors, which she proceeded to open.

The warm, heady scent of earth and vegetation was suddenly very strong, as if they’d stepped into an Amazonian jungle. Marissa couldn’t help but
stare at some of the stranger plants, with their twisting root tendrils and huge flat leaves and faintly alarming flowers. Her parents would be entranced in such a place—they would probably refuse to leave—but Valentine barely gave the contents of the conservatory a glance. His mind was on the roses—
his
rose—and when Marissa was prone to linger, his hand tightened on her arm and he hurried her out through some more doors and into the garden proper.

“This is more like it,” he growled, as he gazed over a sea of lush, well-tended bushes.

To Marissa’s startled eyes there were roses of every imaginable color, as well as every size and habit. They climbed, they drooped, they sprawled in huge bushes, or were upright and neatly trimmed. Instinctively she bent to press her face to a pink cup of soft petals with yellow stamens, breathing deeply of the heady perfume.

“Oh, how lovely,” she whispered. “What is this one called?”

“One of the
Albas
. ‘Celestial,’ I believe.” Valentine dismissed it with a single glance.

He began to make his way down the rows of plants, searching, occasionally pausing but never for long. Marissa watched him, torn between wanting him to find his rose and selfishly wanting him not to find it just yet. But she never really believed he wouldn’t find it, with so many roses to choose from, because surely it must be here, somewhere? It
must
be here, she told herself.

Lady Longhurst was trotting along after him.
Marissa could see her mouth opening and shutting as she chatted away, her breathless voice too low to carry. It was possible Valentine was ignoring her, but Marissa was of the opinion he was so involved in his search he simply didn’t notice. Perhaps Lady Longhurst was of the same opinion, and not being a woman who was used to being ignored, she chose to do something about it. The next time Valentine paused to inspect one of the bushes, she tucked her hand into his arm, giving him a smile when he started with surprise. When he moved on, she continued to cling to him, refusing to take second place to her roses.

After a few steps Valentine turned his head, searching around, and it occurred to Marissa that he was looking for her. His gaze, across several rows of plants, was so beseeching she almost laughed aloud. Valentine, her Valentine, was not interested in the flattering attentions of the beautiful Lady Longhurst. He was only interested in finding his rose.

And her.

Valentine could feel Her Ladyship’s soft breast brushing against his biceps. At first he thought it must be accidental, but when he looked down her pale eyes were staring up at him and he was startled to find them full of the sort of invitation he had no intention of accepting.

For the first time it occurred to him that Lady Longhurst was far more interested in him than the roses. He looked up, searching for Marissa, and saw her standing alone on the far side of the garden, watching him. She was surrounded by roses of
every color, adrift in their perfume, and he wanted…he wanted…

Valentine felt his body tense with need as he imagined taking her in his arms and rolling her naked in a bed of rose petals. He wanted her with a desperation that was making him irritable and ill. Feverishly he reminded himself that if the rose was here, now, then his quest would be over. He’d be a hero, a celebrity, and it would be the perfect moment to claim her as he longed to.

And Marissa would be dazzled by his fame, too dazzled to see him as he really was. Staid, boring, and a beast.

He glanced at Lady Longhurst, still attached like a leech to his side, wishing he could shake her free. She must have thought the glance, and his introspection, was all for her, because she gave him a meaningful little smile, her eyelashes fluttering.

“Lord Kent, I am a little light-headed,” she murmured, leaning on him heavily. “I wonder if you might escort me back to the house?”

There was a seat some steps away, set in a bower dripping with white roses. Valentine led her in its direction, gently but firmly peeling her fingers from his arm, and sitting her down.

“Rest a moment, Lady Longhurst. I must continue my search.” He stepped away from her, smiling to take the sting out of his rejection.

Her mouth hung open in shocked surprise. Quickly she snapped it closed, turning her face from him. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “Search for your rose. I will try not to faint until you are done.”

Valentine felt a pang of guilt, but a moment later
it was gone, when Lady Longhurst shot a vicious glance across the garden at Marissa, who was working her way along the row of roses, stopping to smell each and every one.

He set off again. He tried not to grow disillusioned and disappointed, but as the number of roses to be searched grew smaller and smaller, it was difficult to keep his hopes up. The garden, though beautiful, did not hold what he was looking for. Eventually he reached the last row and the last rose, and stood a moment, asking himself if he’d missed something, if he’d inadvertently bypassed the Crusader’s Rose.

But he knew he hadn’t.

His hands tightened into fists at his side. “Are these the only roses you have, Lady Longhurst?” he called to her, the desperation plain in his voice.

Lady Longhurst shrugged, not trying to hide her irritation. “There are some wilder species in the woods,” she admitted, pointing toward a wooden gate that led into a wilderness section of the garden.

It seemed unlikely
his
rose would be there but he couldn’t leave without making certain. Just in case.

A small, warm and familiar hand slipped into his and squeezed. Marissa’s calm and sensible voice said, “Let’s look then. We can’t give up yet.”

Valentine nodded jerkily, swallowing down his sense of failure.

“Come with me.” Lady Longhurst was on her feet again, looking anything but faint, a flush in her cheeks and a sting in her smile.

For the next hour they tramped through woodlands and peered into grottos and arbors, where
statues of scantily clothed nymphs and horse-legged satyrs lurked in the shadows. Although Valentine tried to keep his hopes up, he’d already accepted the Crusader’s Rose wasn’t at Canthorpe and his sense of failure weighed him down.

Somehow Lady Longhurst had hold of his arm again, and Marissa trailed dejectedly behind them as they made their way back through the rustic wooden gate.

“You could always stay a little longer,” Her Ladyship said in a voice meant just for him. “There may be places I have forgotten and will only remember later, when you are gone. Lord Longhurst is in London, and I am sadly lonely, so you will not be intruding.” The last sentence was spoken with a trace of desperation.

“I am not sure—”

“Miss Rotherhild, too, of course,” she added hastily, with a wave of her hand to include Marissa. “I’m sure I can find something for her to do while we are busy.”

Her Ladyship was propositioning him. He couldn’t pretend otherwise, although good manners insisted he try. The strange thing was, his discomfort was laced with a growing sense of masculine pride. First Marissa and now Lady Longhurst wanted him. Was Vanessa wrong about his physical attractiveness?

He smiled.

Lady Longhurst, taking this as encouragement, clutched on to him, her voice rising in pitch. “My gardener is a modern man. I fear he does not appreciate the older style of rose. He has replaced a
great many of the original plants with more modern varieties.”

“That is a great pity,” Valentine said, his smile gone.

“Oh, don’t give up. There may still be hope,” she went on. “What about this rose, Lord Kent?”

“No.” Valentine dismissed her offering with a brief glance.

“Or this one?”

“Unfortunately, no, Lady Longhurst. You don’t seem to understand that the rose I am seeking is unique. I cannot substitute it with another at a—a whim. It is like…like the woman one loves—no other will do.”

She blinked, as if tears were in her eyes, but he noted they were perfectly clear. Suddenly he was tired of her games and her “modern” garden. He wanted to leave. He wanted to ride home with Marissa by his side. He wanted to…to…

Valentine almost groaned aloud. He’d been longing to claim Marissa, like Richard de Fevre coming home from the Crusades claimed his wife, like Lancelot claimed Guinevere. Triumphantly push himself deep inside her and gaze into her eyes as he made her his for now and forever. But he hadn’t found the rose. He wasn’t famous or a catch, the sort of man a beautiful woman might regard with pride.

He was the same Valentine Kent he’d always been, and the knowledge was turning his temper ragged.

“The rose I’m seeking is not here, Lady Longhurst,” he said stiffly.

“Oh.” She shrugged and smiled. “Why not stay anyway?”

“I don’t think so. But I do thank you for your generosity in allowing us to see your garden.”