Page 19 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
He swallowed the desire to understand them. “I am tending to my broken pride.” He stepped aside and waved at the poor plot of land. “As you see, it is not doing well. I should put it out of its misery.”
She approached the flowers and knelt beside them on the balls of her feet, her knees hugging to her chest beneath her skirts. “Daisies?”
“Are they? Your uncle gave me some seeds. Told me to plant them. I guess it doesn’t matter what they are as long as I keep them alive.” He had been keeping a list of the flowers he’d attempted, unsuccessfully, to grow in his red notebook. He’d have to add daisies to it. They, like the others, did not improve a man’s soul through the very act of growing them. Or killing them. Didn’t matter. It didn’t work. He’d log it in the book.
She stood and faced him. “I think you’d do better with vegetables. Or perhaps herbs. Not flowers.”
He should not ask, but how could he not? “What makes you say that?”
She shrugged and disappeared down a row of crocuses. Her voice lifted to him over the petals and through the hot air. “You might feel more kinship with something more substantial, something that gives sustenance for the body and not just the soul.”
He followed her. “What makes you say that?” He’d turned parrot, repeating himself for lack of anything better to say.
Another shrug of a single shoulder, but this one rolled into her gait as she walked, rolling her hips as well. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s merely an observation. Likely wrong. But it makes sense that if you’re failing at one task, you should either calculate what is going wrong and try something else or… try something else entirely. Like vegetables.” She turned and smiled, and the damned hothouse exploded in light. Then she turned back and around and disappeared down another row, leaving him in darkness.
He followed her. “I’ll try it. The vegetables. Or herbs or whatever. Why are you here?”
She stopped and leaned down to a rosebush, closing her eyes and inhaling the pink flower’s scent. “Your last letter. And mine to you.” She opened her eyes and stood straight, then retraced her steps down the aisle of roses, swaying closer and closer to where his feet had become fixed to the floor.
“What of it?”
She stopped before him and clasped her wrist with the thumb and finger of her other hand. Her fingers twitched as she met his gaze. “I am sorry, Lord Albee. I should not have thought to use your pain for my own gain. Ha.” A soft, breathy sound he wanted to inhale. “Adventure. My excitement should not come at your expense. Or anyone else’s.” Her smile wobbled. “Youtaughtmesomething, Lord Albee. Can you forgive me?”
Forgive her?Forgiveher? He’d written those words to hurt, to warn her off, and now she wanted hisforgiveness? He’d thought to save her, and he’d still hurt her.
He laughed, loud enough to shake the rafters, hard enough to hurt his belly and steal his breath. He collapsed forward, his palms slapping into his bent knees as he racked with hysteria.
A soft touch on his shoulder, the smell of sugar and lemon, and every laugh dissolved instantaneously.
“Are you well?” she asked.
Still doubled over, he turned his head to the side and saw only her gown, her forearm, her wrist. Heaven help him, thatwrist. If he pulled the delicate glove down and pressed his fingers to the soft inner skin there, would he feel her pulse strong and steady or rapid and rising?
He stood up and stepped away from her. Not enough space, not enough distance. He turned and left the roses, found his flowers—daisies, she’d said—looked at them long and hard, dying. He could not sustain them, give them what they needed to thrive.
“I understand why you would not wish to forgive me.” Her voice from behind him again. “And I accept your decision. Am fully prepared for it. I am still sorry, and I hope you find what it is you need most. I’ll take my leave now.”
She was another flower he’d crushed without meaning to. Good thing her footsteps took her toward the door, further away from him. Her kind soul deserved better, deserved at least a reply.
He swung around. “I forgive you. There is, rather, nothing to forgive.”
She looked at him from over her shoulder. “Thank you. I do promise to be more careful with villains’ feelings in the future.” Her sincere smile melted toward playful, mischievous. This was a woman used to playing with children, used to the quick-as-lightning shift from sad to happy to tired to hungry.
But he was no child.
And he needed her to know that. “Did you really wish to know about my whores?”
She turned fully around, but her gaze could not meet his. “A bit. I cannot help but be curious.” Her smile faltered. “There I go again. I should not make your life a curiosity for my amusement.”
“Innocent,” he scoffed.
Her gaze slammed into his, those spring-green eyes sizzling with the heat of an afternoon sun. “Not as innocent as you think.” She took a hesitant step forward. “I came here with good intentions. And you treat me shabby.”
“I told you what to expect of me, love.”
Her eyes narrowed as she began to see the truth of him. “You did.” She looked away. Her hand lifted, flower-soft fingers skimming over fragrant petals. “I had hoped I could do some good with my apology. I see I was wrong.” She dropped her hand to her side. Would her skin smell of the bloom she’d just stroked?
He curled his toes in his boots, tried to dig himself into the earth. “Very. I do not deserve your apologies.”
