Page 9 of A Scandal In July
She lifted her skirts so she could move more quickly, and they hurried across the narrow patch of lawn and ducked behind a tall yew hedge.
“It’s this way, through the orchard.”
Lenore told herself she was breathless because of the pace, and not because she was suddenly alone with Rhys Davies.
A few laughs and shouts from the other couples could still be heard as they weaved between the apple trees, but they became fainter as their distance from the house increased.
“Let’s hope we’re the first to crack that particular clue,” Lenore said, silently impressed by the way Rhys matched her steps by shortening his naturally longer strides.
Sunlight glinted off the hundreds of glass panes that made up her father’s pride and joy; the glazed butterfly house he’d commissioned while they were in Brazil.
Rhys let out a whistle when he saw it. “Impressive.”
Lenore smiled. Her father, Rollo, was one of England’s foremost lepidopterists, and he’d dragged his long-suffering wife and children all around the world to study his belovedbutterflies. Lenore wouldn’t have changed a thing about her slightly unorthodox upbringing, but she was glad to be back in England now, after so many years abroad. It was lovely to have creature comforts like baths, cake shops and modistes so easily accessible.
She’d also been getting restless, keen to start pursuing her own passions, instead of taking part in someone else’s. And now she had her chance.
Rhys looked around in interest as they reached the glazed door. The structure was huge, with hundreds of panes of glass supported by an elegant framework of cast iron. The inner surfaces of the panes were foggy with condensation.
“Prepare yourself,” Lenore warned. “It’s going to be extremely hot and steamy in here thanks to all the tropical plants. In fact, you might want to remove your jacket.”
Rhys raised his brows and sent her a cheeky grin. “Trying to make me undress, Montgomery? How scandalous.”
Lenore fought a blush. “Not at all. I’m only thinking of your health. I’m used to the oppressive heat of the tropics, whereas you might find it overwhelming. I’m not likely to catch you if you suddenly faint on me.”
“We’d both end up on the floor in a tangle of limbs,” he agreed, and the twinkle in his eye proved how much he was enjoying the double-entendre. “Can’t have that.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and rested it on a nearby bush, and Lenore drank in the sight of him in shirt sleeves and cravat. In theton, a gentleman would never remove his jacket in the presence of a lady, and she sent up a silent thanks to her aunts for engineering this more relaxed atmosphere.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, and the blast of hot air was still a shock, even though she was expecting it.
“I have an interest in tropical plants,” she said over her shoulder. “I sent Uncle William a detailed lists of all the onesthat would be good to grow in here to help the butterflies flourish.”
She started along one of the brick paths, then turned to see Rhys’s reaction. Hundreds of brightly colored butterflies were flitting about, or sunning themselves on the foliage.
“Amazing!” Rhys said, his tone genuinely awed.
“Most naturalists and collectors simply pin dead specimens to a card.” Lenore wrinkled her nose at the thought. “But a dead butterfly doesn’t give a sense of the living beauty of the creature—the way they flutter and glide and flap. Father’s made it his mission to breed as many of these exotic species as he can, and to educate people about them. He disagrees with capturing them just to put them in a collection. And I agree. They should be allowed to live a full life.”
“These are all butterflies you brought back from Brazil?”
Lenore nodded. “And a few from Madagascar, too.”
“How did you get them back here? On a ship?”
“We brought almost five hundred caterpillars, from around fifty different species, and hundreds more caterpillar eggs. It’s quite skill to rear butterflies from eggs. Father’s writing a paper on it.”
Rhys tipped his head back to admire the ones flitting above their heads, and the sight of his strong throat and angled jaw made her feel even more light-headed. What would his cheek feel like under her fingers? Would the slight dark stubble she could see there be rough? Or smooth?
She cleared her throat and forced herself to concentrate on less incendiary topics.
“There are butterflies in the Amazon that camouflage themselves so well they look just like dead leaves. And others, like the huge Caligo butterflies, that have markings on their wings that look like the eyes of an owl.”
She pointed. “Do you see that bright yellow one? That’s the cloudless sulphur. Phoebis sennae. And that red one is called a postman.”
“What do they all eat?” Rhys asked.
“Nectar from flowers mainly, or the juice from rotting fruit. Each species has their own particular favorite. The Heliconius feed on passion flowers, which makes them mildly poisonous to predators. The bright coloring of their wings sends out a visual warning that they will be horrid to taste.”