“No,” Emma said quickly. “It’s not that.”
“What is it, then? I’m sorry if I seem obtuse, but—”
“I’m not qualified to do the kind of work you have in mind,” Emma explained. “I’m not a professional gardener.”
“I see.” The duke nodded thoughtfully, then rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb. “Good heavens, Emma, how you unnerved me,” he said gently. “For one earth-shattering moment, I thought the Pyms had made a mistake. My dear ...” Susannah began a lecture on the evils of meat-eating, but the duke focused solely on Emma, leaning toward her, speaking softly, his warm brown eyes alight with understanding. “Kate tells me you work with computers, and I must believe her, but that, I think, is merely what you do for pay. Gardening, though—digging and planting, hoeing and weeding, watching the seasons change and feeling vnu’re a part of the cycle—that’s something altogether different, is it not?”
Emma nodded slowly, and the duke nodded with her.
“The thing that we love most is the thing that we do best,” he murmured. “And you, my dear, love nothing quite so well as a garden. The Pyms discovered that, surely, and I saw it in your face this afternoon, just as clearly as I see it now. You could no more turn your back on the chapel garden than I could walk away from Penford Hall. Give me your hands.”
Emma’s hands seemed to float across the snowy linen to rest in the duke’s outstretched palms. He gazed down at them in silence, then raised his eyes to Emma’s once again.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “Callused, strong, and exquisitely capable. All the qualifications I require. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that these two hands”—he enclosed Emma’s in his own—“will bring the chapel garden back to life.”
“Wow,” said Syd, through a mouthful of lamb. “You gotta real way with words, Duke.”
“Treacle,” sneered Susannah, tossing back her glass of wine.
The duke took no notice of them, and Emma was aware of no one but the duke. Warmed by his touch, mesmerized by the light in his brown eyes, she felt her self-doubt melt away. At that moment, she would have followed Grayson to the ends of the earth.
“Well,” she began, a bit breathlessly, “if you’re sure ...”
“I’m sure,” said the duke, raising her hands to his lips, then releasing them with a radiant smile.
With a fluttering heart, Emma folded her hands in her lap. She felt as though she’d been seduced in public, but, oddly enough, she didn’t seem to care. Plans began to take shape in her mind, and they kept her in a pleasantly preoccupied haze until the warm cappuccino soufflé was served, when the words “Lex Rex” pulled her sharply back to earth.
“Never replaced the yacht, have you, Grayson?” Susannah was saying. “Surprising, really, now that you can so easily afford one.” Draining yet another glass of wine, she swayed toward Emma. “Wasn’t always such a show-place, Penford Hall. Bit of a shambles when my mother and I came calling.”
“The hall has seen its share of troubled times,” Grayson acknowledged.
“Not anymore,” said Susannah, waving her wineglass at the chandelier. “So why haven’t you replaced the yacht? You were so fond of sailing, so good at it, too. Not like poor old Lex.”
Syd looked up from his plate. “Give it a rest, huh, Suzie?”
“It’s all right, Syd,” said the duke. “It’s true that I was once very fond of sailing. But I somehow lost my taste for it after Lex and the others died.”
“Spoilt the day for you, did it?” Susannah drawled. “Spend a night or two crying in your pillow for poor old Lex?”
“Really, Susannah,” said Kate, her eyes flashing.
“Lex’s death spoilt quite a few days for me, actually,” the duke replied tightly. “It may interest you to know, dear cousin, that drowning isn’t the easy death it’s made out to be. It is, in fact, nightmarish. Try, if you can, to imagine someone you care for sinking beneath the waves, helpless, struggling, gasping for breath—”
Derek stood abruptly. His face was pale and a fine line of perspiration beaded his brow. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, staring down at the table. “Seems a bit close in here. Think I’ll head upstairs.”
Emma had no idea what had provoked Derek’s reaction, but the pain in his eyes lanced through her like a knife. Almost without thinking, she, too, rose to her feet, then stood in awkward silence, not knowing what to say, embarrassed to have drawn attention to herself yet again.
Once more, the duke rescued her. Tossing his linen napkin on the table, he pushed back his own chair and stood. “I’ve just had the most splendid idea,” he announced. His voice was light, but the look he gave Susannah was nothing short of murderous. “It’s Emma’s first night at Penford Hall. Why not have a little celebration? Crowley, Dom Pérignon to the music room, if you please, and open the piano. Nothing like a spot of Mozart and a tot of bubbly to brighten a rainy night.” Without missing a beat, he added, “You’ll join us, of course, Derek.”
Derek slowly raised his head to look, slightly puzzled, at Emma. He lowered his eyes, then shrugged. “Perhaps one glass,” he agreed.
8
One glass of champagne led to another, and when Emma awoke shortly after dawn the next day, she still felt a bit tipsy.
The evening had turned out well enough, in the end. The duke had proved to be a gifted pianist, and Susannah, deprived of the spotlight, had retired early, taking Syd and a good deal of tension with her. In her absence, the duke had played with renewed vigor, interspersing the promised Mozart with jaunty selections from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Still, Derek had never really shaken off the morose mood that had seized him at supper. He’d sipped his champagne and listened attentively to the music, but he’d said very little and smiled even less.
What had set him off, Emma wondered. Had he, too, known Lex Rex? Had the discussion of the rock singer’s death reopened an old wound? Perhaps Kate had warned her off of the topic in order to avoid just such a scene. Clearly, the duke placed a high premium on his guests’ well-being. Why, last night he’d made Emma feel ...
... like a moonstruck teenager, she thought wryly, just as Derek had done in the chapel garden. This would never do. She had a job of work ahead of her at Penford Hall, and lying in bed, blushing like a schoolgirl, wouldn’t get it done.
Throwing off the covers, Emma reached for her glasses, then pulled on the blue robe and made her way out onto the balcony. The rain had fallen steadily throughout the night, but the storm had finally blown itself out, leaving a handful of fleecy clouds in its wake. Shreds of gray mist drifted across the great lawn and swirled among the castle ruins, like graceful ghosts from one of Grandmother’s moonlit parties. The mist would be gone by midmorning, Emma thought. It promised to be a beautiful day.
After a quick bath, Emma dressed in a denim skirt, a short-sleeved cotton blouse, and her trusty walking shoes. She’d have to stock up on work clothes, but this morning she wanted nothing more than to have the chapel garden all to herself for an hour or two. Emma pulled her long hair into a pony tail, then boldly decided to find a back door to Penford Hall on her own.
Twenty minutes later, she was forced to admit defeat. It was galling, but she would have to retrace her steps and wait impatiently in her room until Mattie or Crowley or some other native guide materialized. She turned to go back the way she’d come, then jumped as a woman’s voice exploded in her ear. “What the HELL do you think you’re doing here!”