His expression brightened. He held up his hands again. “Don’t you know, I got it on the first try this morning. That’s the way of it, when you’re fumble fingered. Sometimes things work, and sometimes they do not. I believe I was simply too nervous to tie it yesterday, what with meeting your esteemed father.”
Bridget nodded, unsure what to make of Mister White. The poor man obviously needed to be taken in hand. She didn’t wonder that there wasn’t a Missus White. Not with how silly the man was. Perhaps now that he’d inherited, someone would find him, for women were reputed to put up with much for the honor of being a landed man’s wife.
He turned back toward the rose bush. One long-fingered hand reached out.
“I take it the time has come for our trip to Abhainn Nis?” Bridget said, to forestall him.
He dropped his arm and refocused on her. He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “Yes, immediately. Right away. As soon as I see your jasmine.”
Bridget shook her head. “How do you know I have jasmine?”
“Yesterday, you had jasmine just here.” Warm fingers brushed a scattering of loose strands back and tucked them behind her ear.
Heat spiraled outward from his touch. His fingers grazed her neck as he lowered his hand. Bridget drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide. She should slap him, or possibly scream.
She opened her mouth. “Oh.”
Confused, she spun on her heels. A riot of emotions thrummed through her as she hurried toward the jasmine at the back of the orangery. She should be angry. Insulted. He’d touched her.
She suppressed a shiver of delight. That simply wouldn’t do. She was not delighted by this bumbling idiot who’d thrust himself into their lives on claims of friendship with Lord Winston.
Bridget came to a halt before the rows of jasmine, her thoughts similarly brought up short. That was right. He claimed friendship with Lord Winston. Somehow, between Mister White’s strong hands and blundering foolishness, she’d all but forgotten her initial suspicion. Lord Winston was the man who sent Ollie names, and those names hadn’t been right for months. Might Mister White know something about that? Perhaps that was his real reason for being in her home, to learn why Ollie’s missions were failing.
Mister White stopped beside her, so near, her shoulder nearly touched his coat sleeve. She wasn’t to know he knew anything, she reminded herself. Confronting him would only lead to denial. He might even tell her father she suspected something, and she would be barred from reading Ollie’s letters. She would simply have to bide her time.
“It prospers under your care, I see,” he said. “Did you do this all on your own?” His gesture encompassed the many-windowed room.
She looked down at the jasmine. The plants grew dense and lush, thickly clad in star-like blooms. “My mother started this orangery, before I was born. I simply maintain what she created, as best I can.”
She closed her eyes and drank in the scents. Sultry, elusive jasmine. Tangy citrus. The brighter notes of geraniums. She fancied she could even smell the dusky smoothness of the roses in the corner opposite, and sort out traces of various other blooms.
She opened her eyes with a sigh. “I’ll miss this place.”
“Miss it?” he repeated, a sharp edge to his tone. “You’re leaving?”
She smiled, but knew the gesture for the wistful parody it was. “Not yet, but someday my brother will return from the continent and marry, and I shall no longer be needed here.”
“Where will you go?”
She shrugged. “I truly don’t know.”
“There are roses at my…at the manor house. On the country estate I inherited.” He turned from the jasmine to look down at her. “But no orangery. Not yet.”
“I thought you hadn’t been there, to your new estate.” She kept her tone light, but was eager for his reply. Had she caught a disparity? Was this proof he wasn’t who he seemed?
“Not in years.” Longing underscored his reply. “I did spend time there growing up. I’m not so distant a relation as all that.”
She faced him, almost startled by how close he stood. “Then you can’t know the roses are still there.”
“True.” His gaze traversed her features. “I must simply live in hope.” Not taking his gaze from hers, he plucked a sprig of jasmine. He brought the blooms to his face and inhaled deeply, then, with sure fingers, he tucked it behind her ear.
Bridget stared at him, too surprised to move. The backs of his fingers lightly pressed her cheek. He gazed down at her with storm-filled eyes. She fought the urge to lean into that touch, to reach for more.
Her breath came shallow and quick. Every inch of skin tingled at his nearness. Was he going to kiss her, this mysterious Mister White? When he wasn’t playing the fool, and if she looked past his spectacles, he was searingly handsome.
He turned sharply away. “How’s this, I nearly forgot about fishing,” he said in a light tone.
She gave a jerky nod. As had she. “I’ll send for the carriage.”
