A Growing Passion by Emma Wildes Page B

one overblown velvety blossom, the deep crimson like a familiar friend. “Queen Anne,” she murmured, “you and your fragrance linger longer than the others, don’t you, darling?”
    As she continued to wander, she assessed with a connoisseur’s eye the lack of general imagination in the layout of the garden itself. Even in the thin light of a wispy moon, she could see that the gardener had placed the yews that defined the space in such a way that they must surely block the light, and the late blooming bushes were in the back, instead of the front where they would allow––
    The sound of voices, one low and modulated, one high and insistent, suddenly made her aware that there were other people in the garden, just ahead. She could see them just a few paces away, but since they seemed to be in the midst of an argument, they hadn’t noticed her approach. Not certain what to do, she halted, realizing she had blundered into some sort of lover’s tryst, for the woman had her arms twined around the man’s neck and was saying in a wheedling tone, “Come on, darling. The coach house is empty and we have at least a few minutes before anyone will notice we are gone.”
    Lord , Victoria thought irritably. How to retreat gracefully from this was a mystery, as they were standing just a few feet away. Moving a scant bit, she turned around, hoping to tiptoe away unobserved, but suddenly freezing when she heard his reply. “No thank you, though the generous offer is much appreciated.”
    The deep voice was familiar, startlingly so.
    Stephen?
    Unable to help it, she pivoted back and stood there like a statue and watched. Stephen—it was indeed him, for as he moved to remove the woman’s arms from around his neck, he stepped into a shaft of filtered moonlight and she clearly saw his face—added, “Not that I didn’t enjoy your bountiful charms, my dear, but you are now married.”
    What was worse, the woman was clearly none other than their hostess, the new wife of the Earl of Haldon, her pretty face drawn into a scowl, the decadent cut of her gown showing off a great deal of white, creamy skin.
    Dumbfounded, Victoria simply couldn’t believe her eyes. Stephen Forsythe? The man she’d known since childhood, the quiet, serious scholar who had as much a passion for botany as she did herself, perhaps more?
    And Lady Haldon? Who, according to Aunt Clara, was little more than a high-born slut.
    “Please.” The earl’s wife didn’t seem willing to give up easily, rubbing her hand in a familiar gesture up his shirt front. “My marriage needn’t be a deterrent. We both know how these things work. Your misplaced sense of honor is inconvenient. I need you now. Besides,” she added in a purr, “my new husband doesn’t have your magnificent stamina, darling.”
    “Good God, Isabelle, you do have the capacity to be blunt.”
    “I have the capacity for a lot of things, remember?”
    “Indeed I do. Your sexual neediness is etched forever in my memory,” Stephen said, smiling wryly, stepping back away from the lady’s questing hand, “but my honor is simply that. My honor. I won’t cuckold your husband, my dear. He’s a friend. Let’s forget you ever asked, shall we?”
    Petite and dark, her shining hair drawn up in an elegant chignon, Lady Haldon lifted her chin. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she asked in a lethally silky voice. “That bluestocking bitch with the red hair.”
    “Victoria?”
    At the sound of her own name mentioned in this bizarre exchange, Victoria stiffened, realizing that she should have gone ahead and retreated long ago as was her first impulse, or else made her presence known. But now it was entirely too late. She wouldn’t have been able to move anyway, even if her life depended upon it.
    “It’s not natural the way she digs in the dirt, like a common servant.” The countess sniffed. “And she discusses it too, not even ashamed to be so—”
    “Intelligent?” Stephen supplied in a voice that