Page 211 of Dukes for Dessert

Perplexed, Gabriel scratched his head.

Most of the garden was naught more than rambling vines, overgrown and fragile in appearance... as though no hand had bothered to tend them in years. His father would weep blood tears to see these roses looking so sad. Somehow, Margaret seemed not to realize—much the way she seemed not to recognize him. Still, humoring her, he looked about and grimaced in disgust.

“This garden is my pride and joy,” she assured him. “Look. Over there,” she said pointing to the hardiest rose of all, and then shading her eyes. “This is an interesting specimen. It is Rosa Gallica Officinalis.”

The Apothecary Rose. Gabriel knew it only too well. The damned bush had only a single puny flower and very little foliage. It was one of the hardiest roses on God’s Earth, ancient as the devil, and, somehow, Margaret had managed to strangle the old bugger.

“Interesting story it bears,” Margaret said, snipping the only bloom and lifting it to her nose to sniff. “Reputedly, it was brought to France from Damascus by a weary crusader for his long-neglected lover. “’Tis used medicinally,” she told him. “Skin affections, in cordials. They used to give it to my mother before she died to relieve her throat inflammations. Alas, she died when I was young, so I barely remember. You could use a bit on your hands. If you crush the petals and rub them after washing, they’ll purify your skin. Also, I use it as an infusion for tea—quite a lovely taste.”

“Really,” Gabriel said, distracted by her mouth. Damn the Rose petal tea! He could scarce seem to forget the way her lips had tasted last night. It was all he could do to carry her to her bed, and then walk away. He’d craved more than anything to lie down beside her and hadn’t dared. The simple fact that she had given him the room beside her, both relieved and aggrieved him at once. If last night was any indication, he would sleep with an unattended erection for the rest of his days—particularly since she didn’t seem to be taking his hint. Aside from looking at him as though he were mad, she hadn’t an inkling what he was trying to say.

“And that one,” she said obliviously, pointing to a singularly unattractive bush. “It is Rosa Mundi. Legend has it that she was named for King Henry the Second’s mistress, the Fair Rosamund Clifford.” Her gaze returned to him, and her cheeks began to bloom a far healthier color than the rose. “I’m afraid I cannot seem to make it produce much—but then, again, neither did Rosamund, I suppose.”

He smiled wanly. Much was an incredible understatement. More like not at all. He could scarce believe his eyes.

“And then, of course, there is this one,” she said, indicating an ambling vine that seemed to have the meandering will of a garden snake and the viciousness of a viper. Somehow, during the short time he had been standing there, listening to her carry on about flora, it had managed to wrap itself about his shorn pant leg, and when he tried to shake it off, it sank its thorny teeth into his flesh. “Bloody damn!” he exclaimed.

“Here, let me get that for you,” she said, and before he could think to stop her, she was kneeling at his feet.

Gabriel stood stock still, trying not to allow his mind to wander. Against his better intentions, visions of her loving him from her knees assailed him, heating his blood and making him shudder anew with desire. He stared down at the pate of her head and lapped at lips gone suddenly dry.

“This one is a favorite,” she confessed sheepishly, leaving off with his pant leg and attending the wayward rose in her hand. She lifted the frail limb and clipped it. “It is La Seduisante. Also known as lncamata, La Virginale, Cuisse de Nymphe, or—”

“The Great Maiden’s Blush,” Gabriel supplied.

Her head popped up, and she tilted him a glance. “Oh? You know roses?” she asked, peering up at him, sounding surprised, although something about her demeanor made him think otherwise.

“Not much,” Gabriel admitted. “I know a little. I know this one.”

She turned her attention to the rose again. “I’m not certain what’s wrong with it,” she confessed. “No matter what I do, it does not wish to bloom. I thought perhaps a little pruning would do it good.” She snipped a poorly looking blossom and studied it closer, furrowing her lovely brow.

Gabriel thought perhaps it needed to be put out of its misery, yanked up by its roots and tossed into the dung heap.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, smiling down at her. His gaze focused on the pruning shears. “So… you’ve been tending this garden all by yourself?” he asked, with no small measure of surprise.

She sighed. “Alas. I’m afraid I have. I cannot seem to find anyone able to tend it well enough.”

His brows collided. God only knew, she hardly could find anyone who could tend it worse. But he refrained from saying so and came to his haunches beside her as she examined the rambling rose.

“This garden is special,” she said, and plucked the rose’s petals one by one, discarding the petals on the lawn at his feet…

A fluttering like doves wings launched in Gabriel’s belly as a memory surfaced... of the two of them seated before this very bush, plucking petals from its blossoms. His heart kicked against his ribs. “Why special?”

She seemed to lose herself in reverie for an instant, and he wondered... hoped... she might be remembering…

“She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me, loathes me not...”

“That’s not the way it goes!”

“Love is stupid, so are roses. She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me, loathes me not...”

“I do not loathe you, Gabriel.” she’d said, frowning, as he’d tossed his plucked petals into her lap. “I simply do not relish slimy toads on my head.”

“Sorry,” he’d said easily enough. “I’ll won’t do it again, Maggie.”

“Good.” she’d said. “Because if you do...” She’d held her skirt between her hands, lifting the hem so slightly, so that all the petals gathered into a small pile in the center. “I shall have to put snakes down your pants.” And she’d leapt up, snapping her skirts as she’d surged to her feet, tossing the fragrant petals straight into his face. He’d spat one out of his mouth as she ran away, giving Gabriel his first tantalizing peek of lean stockinged legs... perfect ankles that vanished within the blink of an eye, leaving him to stare in open-mouthed wonder over his first glimpse at the glorious differences between boys and girls.

She’d already put a snake into his trousers. Didn’t she know? It sprang to life as he watched her go.