Page 26 of The Design of Dukes
“That is Lady Theodosia Barrington. She’s quite taken with Blythe. A sister of the Duke of Averell.”
Haven raised a brow. “He’s more than one?”
“Apparently,” David said absently, watching as a breeze ruffled through his rose bushes, looking for any sign of Andromeda. His patience was rewarded when a flash of mauve skirts fluttered into view.
“Excuse me, Haven. I’m going to take a turn about the gardens. Enjoy a cheroot.” If she was going to start tossing insults in his direction, David thought it best she do so away from curious eyes so as to avoid a scene.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Haven reached into his coat, pulling out a small flask, dribbling some of the contents into his teacup. “I don’t care for tea,” he said when David raised a brow. “I’ve asked for wine. Enjoy your stroll, Gran.”
David slipped off the terrace, feet crunching on the perfectly maintained gravel path. He paid his gardeners a sinful amount of money for the upkeep of the grounds. Horace hadn’t cared much for the gardens other than insisting the hedges be subjected to weekly trimmings. A small palette of tea roses, deemed acceptable, had once been the only splash of color in the dreary landscape of The Barrow.
When he’d returned to England from his time abroad, David had made sweeping changes to the grounds. Horace, confined to his sickbed, deemed David’s plans a waste of money. But by that time, his father was in no position to stop him.
David’s steps faltered on the path at the memory before resuming his pursuit of Andromeda.
It had taken him three tries to find a head gardener who understood his vision. Experimenting with different plants, some of David’s suggestions had been complete failures while others grew but did not thrive. While the weather here was milder than in other parts of England, some of the cuttings and flowering bushes could not tolerate the winters. At least outdoors. More than one fountain had been installed among the wild beds and small, charming alcoves created by stone and thick hedges. There were days when David would sit and listen to the sound of water flowing in his fountains, turn his face to the sun, and inhale the sweet smell of jasmine hovering in the air, all while pretending he wasn’t in England.
He stepped quietly once he grew closer to the roses, listening for the slightest sound.
A rustle of skirts came from the direction of the rose bushes, and David turned.
Andromeda was bent over a profusion of blooms, one hand gently pulling a bud toward her. The red gold in her otherwise dark hair sparked like bits of copper thread in the late afternoon sun. She was humming, though the tune was so soft, he couldn’t make it out.
He stayed silent, content to admire the curve of her hips and graceful line of her back, trying to recall why he found her so incredibly annoying and unsuitable. Because at that moment, with the bees buzzing and the sun glancing down the delicate skin of her neck, David found Andromeda anything but flawed.
She straightened abruptly, sensing his presence. Her spine and shoulders took on a tightness, steeling herself to face him. When she turned, there was resignation lurking in the magnificent blue of her eyes, along with trepidation. “Your Grace.” The mauve skirts puffed out gracefully around her as she curtsied.
Andromeda was not as well-endowed as Beatrice, or her sister, but the small glimpse of what he imagined were exquisitely rounded breasts caused his cock to throb painfully. He hated the loss of control Andromeda’s presence brought, the way his desire for her leached out of him whether he willed it or not.
“Lady Andromeda Barrington. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is it?”
Why must every word she uttered in his presence be fraught with challenge? He took her hand as she straightened.
“Welcome to The Barrow.”
9
Oh, bloody hell.
Maggie, Romy’s sister-in-law, claimed cursing, even if you didn’t do so out loud, was a great way to calm emotions which otherwise might grow out of hand. And Romy knew a great deal of vile words, thanks to her brothers. Leo, in particular, had a colorful vocabulary.
Granby was alone, sneaking up on her while she admired his gardens. She tilted her chin upward to meet his gaze, refusing to appear the least intimidated because he probably wanted her to be. A warm prickling sensation moved slowly up her arms and down across her chest, causing a soft flutter above her heart.
Romy tried to pull away, startled when his fingers curled more firmly around her own. She stared at their clasped hands, his so much larger, dwarfing hers.
She forced her gaze to the edge of his coat. The hem was perfect.
“Does everything meet withyourapproval, Lady Andromeda?” The low, caramel-tinged words wrapped softly around her.
She snatched her hand from his. “The gardens do. Meet with my approval, that is.” Her heart floundered about inside her ribs, beating out an uneven rhythm. “Your gardens are magnificent. I have a marked preference for roses.”
“Because of the thorns?”
Ebony waves blew against his cheek and fell over one eye. Granby possessed beautiful,wildhair. Too long and not carefully trimmed like his friend Blythe’s. The dark strands matched the rambling expanse of his gardens but little else about him. Admiring his hair led naturally to the curve of his cheek and rigid line of his jaw. There was an unearthly beauty about Granby, a rawness to his looks which was absent in most of the gentlemen she knew.
