Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

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 un-trained 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 grace-fully 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."

"But you will take some refreshments?"

She sounded a little desperate, as if she was afraid of being on her own, making it difficult to refuse. So they sat politely, making conversation, until eventually it was possible to escape.

"Oh, Lord Kent," Marissa said breathlessly as she rode at his side, the village and Canthorpe receding behind them. "Look at this rose, surely it will do?"

She sounded uncannily like Lady Longhurst.

He frowned down at her. "That is not kind."

"Perhaps you can stay and help me prepare for bed? I find myself all thumbs today," she added, with the nearest thing to a leer he'd ever seen on her face.

Despite his low spirits Valentine chuckled.

"What a dreadful woman." Marissa was herself again as she gave a shudder.

"I would have liked her a great deal more if I could have found my rose in her garden."

"I'm sorry you didn't find the rose," she said gently, "I really am, Valentine. But just imagine if you had found it at Canthorpe? You'd never be able to escape Her Ladyship's advances."

"I found it rather flattering," he retorted with a smug smile.

Marissa gave an unladylike snort.

"I'm not that sort of man."

Marissa stared at him as if she'd misheard. "The sort of man who what?"

Valentine shifted awkwardly in his saddle. "The sort of man women pursue."

"Do you really believe that?" She sounded bemused, her dark eyes searching his.

Valentine knew there was no escaping this conversation. The time had come. Reluctantly he drew his horse to a halt and turned to face her.