Page 7 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

L incoln knelt by the flowerbed, pretending to be absorbed in the plants as Vesta paced nearby.

His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed soil from a leaf, his mind still reeling from their collision the day before. The warmth of her, the subtle scent of lavender, the way her hands had instinctively gripped his forearms—it all lingered, making it impossible to focus on the task at hand.

"So, what do you think?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Lincoln knew it was a ridiculous question. What could any sensible person think about such an outrageous proposition? Her continued pacing, each step precise despite her obvious agitation, only emphasized the absurdity of their situation.

"I don't even know what to think," she replied, her voice carrying a trace of the breathlessness from their previous encounter.

Looking at her now—really looking at her—Lincoln was struck by how young she was, barely twenty summers if his guess were right. She moved with the nervous energy of youth, but there was something in her bearing, a kind of quiet dignity, that spoke of her genteel upbringing.

She ought to be making her debut, not discussing a marriage of convenience with a botanist preoccupied with dusty old experiments.

The thought niggled at the back of his head, accompanied by his grandfather's voice lecturing about suitable matches. Mr. Caldwell was obviously not good ton , but the village gossip had been clear about his second wife and her daughter being of the gently bred sort. Not that it mattered—not for this discussion, at any rate—but it would make the girl's way easier if she did enter the Westbrook family.

Lincoln shoved the disquieting thought behind himself, along with the unwelcome memory of how perfectly she'd fit against him during their very brief encounter. He was already starting to worry like a husband.

How absurd.

Equally absurd was how his scientific mind kept cataloging details about her: the precise shade of her hair in the morning light, the way her fingers twisted together when she paused in her pacing, the slight furrow between her brows as she thought.

He had turned to the plants soon after he had encountered Vesta in the garden, on his way to meeting once more with Mr. Caldwell. It was the only way he knew to quell his roiling thoughts and emotions. When she had nearly landed in his arms, Lincoln had never expected the well of warmth that engulfed him.

The sensation had been like discovering a new species—that moment of surprise and wonder, followed by an immediate desire to know more. He was trying to put the emotions aside and have a reasonable discussion with the woman, but his traitorous mind kept returning to that moment of connection.

"I don't even know you," she said as she paced away again, her skirts rustling against the gravel path. "Is this plant really that important to you that you would marry a stranger?"

"People of our society marry strangers every day," Lincoln said with a wry shake of his head, thinking of his cousin Charlotte's recent match to a baron she'd met exactly twice before their wedding.

"I'm certain there are several such marriages in my family tree." Though none, he suspected, had begun quite like this—with a merchant's bargain and a white foxglove between them.

"Well, it's not done anymore," she huffed as she continued to pace.

Lincoln watched her movements, noting how even in her agitation she carefully avoided stepping on any plants. Her awareness of the garden spoke of genuine care, not mere social accomplishment. He wished she would talk instead of pace, but he wasn't in a position to argue with how she was dealing with the matter.

"Besides my being a stranger," he ventured, fingers absently tracing the veins of a nearby leaf, "how do you feel about the subject? Is there someone else you intended to marry?"

The question burned more than it should have, given their practical arrangement.

"Who am I to marry?" she asked with a huff, but there was a brittleness beneath her apparent frustration. "My aunt—my father's sister—has invited me for the Season for the last two years, but my mother isn't in a position to pay the expenses, and her husband has yet to release my dowry. So, it's unlikely that I would be... marriable. My aunt doesn't want to sponsor me under those circumstances."

Lincoln nodded, even though she wasn't looking at him. The injustice of her situation struck him—a genteel young woman essentially imprisoned by her stepfather's parsimony. Much like he was imprisoned by his grandfather's ultimatum.

"Well," he began, feeling awkward, his usual scientific precision deserting him in the face of such personal matters, "I never intended to wed—not anytime soon in any case—and I'm not even certain if I'm in a position to support a wife. I'm fairly certain my grandfather would assist me, but only under the condition that I give up my science. So, I'm not sure if this arrangement is even possible for either of us."

"If you had to give up your science it wouldn't make any sense for you to take this deal, in any case."

The girl stepped closer, much to Lincoln's surprise. The morning sun caught her face, illuminating a spark of genuine curiosity that made his breath catch.

"Do you really think this silly plant is that important?" she asked, interest shining in her eyes despite her use of the word "silly."

"It's not silly," he pointed out, fighting the urge to reach for her hands and place them on the plant itself, to show her exactly what made it extraordinary. "There's a possibility that it contains a strong component that might help save lives."

The words came out more passionately than he'd intended, and he saw something shift in her expression—a recognition, perhaps, of the depth of his commitment to his work.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and for the first time since their awkward encounter, her full attention was focused on him rather than their predicament. Lincoln found himself both thrilled and unsettled by her interest.

Lincoln sighed, running another hand through his hair, forgetting the soil particles on it. A few specks fell onto his cravat—a common enough occurrence that his valet had long since given up scolding him.

"How much do you know about botany?" he asked. "Or about medicine, for that matter," he added, watching her face carefully for signs of feminine squeamishness about such subjects.

"Not nearly as much as you," she replied with refreshing honesty. Then she surprised him by adding with a laugh, "I know how to plant a garden and identify what’s in it. I know how to watch the seasons. Basically, I know how to farm. I don't know if that's the same as botany. Probably not."

Her slight blush suggested embarrassment at her limited knowledge, but her chin remained lifted, challenging him to dismiss her practical experience.

Lincoln laughed lightly, though the conversation was far from light. Her practical knowledge could actually prove invaluable—she already understood more than many of his scholarly colleagues about the actual growing of plants.

"Not exactly the same, no," he agreed, shifting to face her more directly. "But if you know how to plant and cultivate, then you know the beginnings."

He gestured to the garden beds around them. "Likely you know that certain plants do better planted side by side or do worse depending on what's nearby, and you might even know that you should be careful not to plant the same things in the same spot year after year."

Her eyes widened with genuine curiosity, and she took another step closer. Lincoln caught another hint of lavender, and his fingers twitched with the urge to reach for his notebook and record her reactions.

"Really? Why not? I think we've always planted things in the same spot every year. The fence is there for the things to climb on." She gestured toward the fence, frowning at it.

Lincoln laughed again, charmed by her earnestness. Here was no Society miss pretending interest to please him—her questions showed real thought.

"Yes, I can see how that might be convenient, but the soil only has so many nutrients. Different plants draw different substances from the earth. It's better for cultivation if you rotate where things grow."

"Is that what you study?" she asked, crouching down beside him to examine the soil more closely. The proximity sent his heart racing, but her next words proved she was genuinely focused on the science. "The substances in the soil?"

Lincoln sighed, pleased by her quick grasp yet uncertain how to explain his more esoteric pursuits. "No, actually... well, perhaps it was the beginning of my study, but I study deeper than that. I actually dissect the plants and discover what they might be able to do."

"The insides, like tea and such?" she asked, her fingers ghosting over a foxglove leaf with surprising gentleness.

Lincoln grinned, resisting the urge to cover her hand with his and show her exactly how to test a leaf's texture.

"Sort of," he agreed, not wanting to point out how elementary her understanding was. Her instincts were good—she'd immediately grasped the connection between plant properties and their uses. "I guess you could say that. The plant that I'm interested in could make a really powerful tea, in a manner of speaking."

"And you say it could save lives?" she said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that reminded him of why they were actually having this conversation. This wasn't just about scientific curiosity—their potential marriage hung on his research.

"Well," Lincoln said, struggling to maintain his scientific detachment, "I suspect it could. I cannot be certain until I run some tests and experiments."

"And are you willing to marry a stranger to find out?" she asked, finally looking directly at him. The morning sun caught flecks of gold in her eyes, and Lincoln found himself wondering if she'd inherited them from her father or mother. "What if it turns out you're wrong?"

Lincoln sighed.

"That's the question, isn't it? Now tell me, Vesta—" He paused, suddenly aware of the intimacy of using her given name. "Since we're discussing such personal subjects, we might as well use our Christian names," he added with an awkward laugh, trying to cover his momentary discomfort.

She nodded, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. The morning light caught a loose strand of her hair, and Lincoln forced himself to focus on the foxglove rather than the urge to brush it back.

"Tell me, Vesta, can you think of anything you would gain from a marriage with me?"

"Problems is what I can see," she said with a snort that was far from ladylike but somehow endearing. Then she sighed, regained her full height, and resumed her pacing, her skirts brushing against the fragrant herbs bordering the path.

"Mr. Caldwell thinks you can somehow connect his daughters with the aristocracy, and he thinks that I will be able to negotiate that for them. But they are much like him." Her voice carried years of resignation. "I don't see how we could do something like that. You don't have a title, so that tells me you're not that high ton ."

Lincoln nodded, admiring her clear-eyed assessment of the situation.

"No, you're right. I'm the younger son of a younger son, but my grandfather is the Marquess of Westbrook, so Mr. Caldwell isn't completely wrong." He found himself wanting to offer her more hope than he should. "I'm certain some of my aunts would be thrilled to have a project like that."

Vesta snorted again, but this time there was a hint of humor in it. "They have not met the Caldwell girls." The words spoke volumes about her life in this household.

Lincoln chuckled and nodded but didn't offer further reply. He watched as she gathered her thoughts, her fingers absently plucking at her skirts as she paced. There was something compelling about her honesty, her refusal to pretend their situation was anything other than what it was.

Finally, she returned to face him, standing closer than strictly proper.

"I would like to be secure," she began before rephrasing her statement, her voice growing stronger with each word.

"I would like to feel secure, and I would like to, perhaps, gain more education." Her eyes lit up as she continued, reminding Lincoln of how he felt when discovering a new species. "You seem highly educated. Would you let me study with you or study these plants with you?"

"Is it something that interests you?" Lincoln asked, suddenly brightening with excitement at the idea. He'd always thought an apprentice would be helpful, but the possibility of sharing his passion with someone who might truly understand. He caught himself leaning toward her, drawn by her enthusiasm.

A sharp voice cut through the morning air. "Vesta! Where are you? Nancy's torn her best morning dress, and your Mama needs her laudanum!"

Lincoln watched the light fade from Vesta's eyes, replaced by the careful mask he'd seen when they first met. But before she could turn away, he reached for her hand, his fingers closing gently around hers.

"Meet me here tomorrow morning," he said quickly. "Before breakfast. Bring paper and a pencil if you can find them."

Her fingers tightened briefly around his before she pulled away. "For what purpose?" she asked, but the spark had returned to her eyes.

"Your first lesson," he replied. "If we're to make this arrangement work, we might as well begin as we mean to go on—with honesty and scientific inquiry."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "I'll be here at dawn," she promised, then hurried away toward the house, leaving Lincoln alone with the white foxglove and the unsettling realization that this arrangement might prove far more dangerous to his heart than he'd anticipated.

He pulled out his notebook, trying to focus on the plant before him, but found himself sketching the curve of a smile instead. With an irritated huff, he crossed it out and began recording proper scientific observations.

He had a breakthrough to achieve and a fortune to secure. Romance had no place in his calculations.

The breeze carried the faint scent of lavender back to him, and Lincoln knew he was lying to himself.