Chapter 1

Chapter One

Abbey Thorne Manor,

Surrey, England

T he first Lord Valentine Kent knew he had guests was when his butler, Morris, told him so. Not that Valentine even knew Morris was hovering behind him until the butler loudly cleared his throat, a signal that he had been waiting for some time to be noticed. Valentine frowned, the magnifying glass in one hand, the specimen of rosa foetida on the table in front of him. The single yellow flower had arrived this morning from one of his contacts, carefully packed, but the sea journey had caused some damage—salt water stained a corner of the box and the inside was damp. He'd recognized the flower immediately and with the familiar pang of disappointment.

There was a second parcel, as yet unopened, from a name he didn't recognize. Valentine did not find this unusual. He received letters and parcels from all over the country containing specimens or descriptions of specimens for him to name. He was one of the leading experts on roses. But his true passion was one particular rose, a rose which was first brought to England seven hundred years ago. It was his quest, his Holy Grail, his lifelong ambition, and he had an uneasy feeling that it was becoming an obsession.

Morris cleared his throat even more loudly. Obviously the man wasn't about to go away. With a sigh of frustration, Valentine turned to face him. "What is it, Morris? I warn you, it had better be a matter of life or death."

"I apologize, my lord," Morris droned, his blood-hound face drawn down into apologetic lines. "I am always loath to interrupt you when you are busy, my lord. But there is a young lady here to see Mr. George—"

"Then, Morris, I suggest you fetch Mr. George."

"Believe me, my lord, I have tried," Morris replied with feeling. "Unfortunately Mr. George can't be found, and yesterday he was most specific that when this particular young lady arrived she must be treated with courtesy."

Valentine sighed again. Damn George! Why wasn't he here? The last thing Valentine wanted to do was make polite with a stranger. No doubt she was one of George's silly little flirts, all hair and no brain. George had inflicted someone similar on him once before and he'd made his younger brother swear he would never again invite anyone to Abbey Thorne Manor without first informing Valentine and allowing him enough time to escape to his rooms, or, if necessary, to leave the house altogether.

"Who is this young lady who must be treated with courtesy?" he said gruffly, rising to his feet and shrugging his dark blue jacket back on over his white linen shirt, allowing it to settle comfortably across broad shoulders.

Morris gave him a glassy look.

Valentine was used to his butler's silent disapproval when it came to his preference for comfort over fashion. The jacket was an old favorite and a little shabby, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, and he'd neglected to put on a neck cloth this morning. Well, he told himself irritably, it was just too bad. George's flirt could take him as he was or not at all.

"Her name, Morris."

"Eh, Miss Marissa Rotherhild, my lord," Morris said, dragging his eyes away from his master's ragbag appearance. "She's in the yellow parlor—"

"Rotherhild, Rotherhild . . . Why do I feel as if I know that name?"

Frowning, Valentine set off at a brisk stride, down the stairs and along the gallery, in the direction of the inappropriately named yellow parlor.

His thoughts turned back to George. The boy needed a firm hand and a tight leash and Valentine, his elder brother and in many respects a stand-in for their father, had always done his best. But now that George was of age and had come into his own money he did very much as he liked. If the boy would take an interest in something other than horses and gambling and women, Valentine would breathe a sigh of relief, but so far George showed no signs of doing so.

Not that there was any malice in him. Good-tempered, smiling and handsome, George was in no way a bad person. He was, if anything, too good-natured and easygoing. Valentine, who'd grown up during the war with Napoleon, couldn't remember ever being as young as George sometimes seemed to be. Of course George thought he was far too stuffy and serious. Valentine always disputed it but now he wondered if there was some truth to George's accusation. With a frown he tried to recall the last time he'd laughed for the simple joy of living, and found he could not.

Morris darted ahead of him, slightly out of breath, to open the parlor door. Valentine hardly broke stride as he entered the rather chilly room where George's young lady was waiting. His eyes narrowed as he realized, with annoyance, that there were actually two women. One elderly and rather regal, with graying dark hair and a pair of black eyes with a surprisingly unladylike expression in them as she surveyed him. And the other . . .

The other was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

For a moment he stood and stared, at a complete loss for words. His shocked and startled gaze noted her thick, curling dark hair, fastened up in some deceptively plain style beneath a jaunty little bonnet, her skin—smooth and pale as cream—with a tempting smidgeon showing where her dress buttoned below her throat. She lifted her head to stare back at him, her large brown eyes framed by sweeping lashes, and her lips opened slightly, like unfurling rose petals.

"Miss Rotherhild, my lord," Morris murmured at his side, as the silence stretched on.

Valentine realized he was being rude, and worse than that, his thoughts had turned poetical. The last time they did that . . . Well, he'd sworn never to allow it to happen again.

"Miss Rotherhild," he said, sounding gruff. There was a pulse beating in his head, and a warmth spread over his body, making him aware of every inch of flesh and blood and muscle. Of being male and very much alive.

"Lord Kent." Miss Marissa Rotherhild was watching him with a serious gaze and she came forward, holding her gloved hand toward him.

Valentine stared at the hand until he felt a slight bump against his back—Morris of course—and hastily took her fingers in his and raised them automatically to his lips. Her glove, and the flesh beneath, smelled of violets and woman.

"George . . . eh, that is, your brother invited me to your house party this weekend, my lord."

Through the fog in his brain Valentine made sense of her words. "House party?" He belatedly dropped her hand and spun around to fix his butler with a piercing look. "Morris, what is this about a house party?"

Morris paled. "My lord, I swear I know nothing of any house party! I would not dare allow such a thing to occur without your permission."

Marissa Rotherhild glanced at her elderly companion with some anxiety.

"Where is George?" Valentine went on in a grim voice. "Find him, Morris."

Morris managed a shaky bow before trotting hastily away on his mission.

When Valentine turned back to face the room, he found two pairs of dark eyes watching him with an intensity that was unnerving. "I'm sure we can sort out this misunderstanding as soon as George can be found, Miss Rotherhild and . . . eh . . . ?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Marissa said, "I beg your pardon, my lord. I haven't introduced my grandmother, Lady Bethany."

Valentine found himself under scrutiny from the lady with the lined face that had once been as beautiful as her granddaughter's. "How do you do, Lord Kent? You have a fine old house. People with houses like yours should open them up. If you're not having a weekend party then you should be."

"I prefer my solitude, Lady Bethany."

Marissa surveyed him seriously from beneath her little hat. "I hope you won't be too cross with George, Lord Kent. It must be a misunderstanding. I'm sure he would never do anything to upset you on purpose."

"George is a thoughtless young pup," he retorted sharply.

She blinked. "Oh no, you're wrong about your brother. He's . . . he's quite wonderful."

She blushed deeply as she realized what she'd said, and her elderly companion hid her mouth with a gloved hand, as if she might be laughing.

Valentine had never been jealous of George, he had no reason to be, but now there was a strange tightening in his chest. Marissa Rotherhild was too good for his thoughtless brother. Suddenly, Valentine found himself considering ways to steal her all for himself.

* * *

Lord Kent was not at all like George, Marissa thought in bewilderment. George was always fashionably dressed, neatly turned out to the last button, and here was Lord Kent looking as if he'd been sleeping in his clothing. He hadn't shaved, either. Marissa could plainly see the prickly stubble on his jaw, the same honey color as his hair, which was also rather long and untidy. Her fingers itched to comb it back from his brow and, surprised by the strength of that urge, she folded them into tight fists, just in case she actually acted upon it.

"George has clearly made a good impression on you, Miss Rotherhild," he was saying, with a note in his voice that made her think he might be making fun of her.

"I'm sure George makes a good impression on everybody he meets, Lord Kent," she replied rather coolly.

"My daughter and son-in-law are under the impression George is an enthusiastic botanist," her grandmother spoke behind her. "He is invited to all their meetings and has been attending regularly."

Lord Kent's eyes widened. They were very blue, Marissa thought. Piercingly so. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing eyes quite that spectacular shade of blue. Someone had once described the Aegean Sea to her, and she thought that perhaps Lord Kent's eyes were that exact color.

"George interested in plants?" he cried. "Good Lord, whatever next?"

"Do you mean the boy isn't an enthusiast?" Lady Bethany said with a touch of satisfaction. "I thought as much." She sank down into a brocade-covered chair, evidently tired of waiting to be asked by Lord Kent who seemed to have forgotten his manners.

"George never said he was an enthusiast, Grandmamma," Marissa said, casting her elderly relation a quelling glance.

"Well he certainly gave a good impression of one," her relation retorted, completely unquelled.

"Professor Rotherhild was even considering taking him on a trip to see the lichen in Yell." She shuddered. "That's in Shetland, Lord Kent, and a more windswept and godforsaken place you would be hard-pressed to find."

Lord Kent, who had been listening to their exchange in silence, suddenly spoke. "Rotherhild! I knew I had heard the name before. Of course. Professor Rotherhild is one of Britain's foremost experts on lichens and mosses."

"My father," Marissa said quietly. "My mother prefers insect-consuming plants. She has several in the conservatory and feeds them with—"

"Please, Marissa, I beg you, don't remind me." Again her grandmother shuddered. "My daughter does not take after me, Kent. I cannot think where she got her love of such unpleasantness."

Lord Kent's lips twitched and he looked down into Marissa's face with those eyes. "And what is your specialty, Miss Rotherhild?" he asked her in a deep voice.

"I have no specialty, Lord Kent."

"Well, that is a pity."

"I find that being in the presence of my parents has dulled my own enthusiasm for botany. George says . . ." But she remembered in time that what George had said wasn't very complimentary to his brother, and changed the sentence to, "George says not everyone feels the same way about plants."

"Does he indeed?" Lord Kent fixed her with his piercing gaze, as if he knew she wasn't telling the entire truth.

He was correct. The truth was the first time she'd met George he'd said that growing up with Professor Rotherhild, in her case, and his brother, in his, had instilled in them a fierce determination to keep as far away as possible from anything even vaguely resembling a plant.

"Your brother?" she'd asked George, surprised and pleased that they had something in common.

"He's an obsessive rose collector, Miss Rotherhild."

"At least roses are attractive to the eye, and the nose."

"Oh, but the thorns!"

They'd laughed, and Marissa had felt as if she'd finally found someone who understood her predicament. And, indeed, as they conversed she learned that he had grown up in similar circumstances, suffering through dinners where heated discussions took place over obscure plants and hardly being noticed at all while her parents read aloud from the latest paper on their favorite subjects. Her grandmother sympathized but she didn't really understand. For her, other people's foibles were amusing, grist to the mill of her caustic tongue, but Marissa was unable to laugh at her parents' peculiarities. She felt ignored and isolated, even though she knew they did not mean to be cruel. Now George had made her feel she wasn't entirely alone.

Indeed, it was as if she'd found a soul mate.

That was why it had been so important for her to come to Abbey Thorne Manor for the weekend party. George was the man she wanted to marry, she was absolutely certain of it, and when he'd extended the invitation she'd been determined to use the weekend to convince him that she was the perfect woman for him.

And now he wasn't here to greet her and from the way Lord Kent was acting it was possible there may not be a weekend house party taking place after all.

George had mistaken the date or, worse, forgotten her. She was reminded, painfully, of the day her parents forgot to arrange her tenth birthday party, so engrossed were they in their latest find, and she had to explain to several disappointed friends that there would be no food and no cake and no games. The echo of her humiliation was still fresh as she'd faced the pity and scorn in their eyes.

Lord Kent sighed. Marissa glanced up, startled, wondering if he'd read her feelings in her face. He was staring at her with something like sympathy, but to her relief he did not ask her what the matter was.

"Do sit down, Miss Rotherhild. If anyone can find George then it is Morris—he knows all my brother's hiding places. We will soon unravel this mystery."

Marissa perched on the edge of a chair beside her grandmother and clutched her reticule in her gloved fingers. Lady Bethany reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.

"Never mind, my dear. At least we have had a jaunt into the country, and just think, if we'd been at home in London we may have been forced to travel deep into Scotland to help collect your father's lichens and mosses. I doubt I could survive another visit to Yell."

That was true, Marissa thought, but it still didn't help to make her feel any less disappointed about George.

And how was she going to tell the Husband Hunters Club that she'd failed to capture her chosen husband before she'd even begun?

"Ah, Morris. Any news?"

Marissa looked up, hope shining in her eyes. But Morris's mouth was down turned and he shook his head with a gloomy air. "I'm very much afraid Mr. George is nowhere to be found, my lord."

"You've looked everywhere?"

"I have."

"Should you . . . should you begin a search for him beyond the estate?" Marissa asked, stumbling over her words, as it suddenly occurred to her that George may be in trouble. Yes, that must be it! She should have known it. George was missing. He would never abandon her like this unless there was something wrong.

Morris and Lord Kent exchanged a glance.

"I very much doubt a search will be necessary," Lord Kent said, his tone thoughtful, "but we shall see what the day brings. Now, Morris, can you arrange for some rooms to be prepared for Miss Rotherhild and Lady Bethany? And inform Mrs. Beaumaris we will have extras for luncheon. There is no reason for them to travel all the way back to London just because my feckless brother isn't here to greet them. They have come for a weekend party and we shall have a weekend party."

Morris looked as if he'd been skewered but swiftly rose to the occasion. "I . . . certainly, my lord."

Lord Kent nodded, and then gave a brief bow to the women. "If you will excuse me, ladies, I have some business to complete. We will meet again at luncheon."

The door closed behind him and the two women were alone.

"Should we stay, Grandmamma?" Marissa asked tentatively. "Perhaps we should make our excuses and leave. If we take our time returning to London my parents will have left by the time we arrive."

But Lady Bethany was adamant. "No, Marissa, we are not leaving. I want to stay. I declare I haven't been so amused by a situation for years. Our host is a one of a kind."

"Well, Lord Kent did seem very . . ."

"Underdressed, dishabille? Indeed he did. Not your usual English gentleman to be sure, but very manly, my dear. He quite melted my insides, and I haven't felt like that since . . . well, such fond memories are not for your innocent ears."

Another of her grandmother's wicked recollections, Marissa thought wryly. Was Lord Kent manly? Certainly there was something about him that was very earthy. The unbuttoned shirt and the triangle of masculine throat she couldn't help but notice, as well as his unshaven jaw and ill-fitting jacket. She had a strong desire to brush him down and straighten him up.

"So, it is agreed. We will be staying?" Lady Bethany said with an arched eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye that hinted she knew exactly what Marissa was thinking.

"Yes," Marissa replied primly, "I do believe we will."