Page 10

The plan, though, included no provision for pouting. He’d have to fall back on the rake’s rule book. A promise was the conventional return on a pout, was it not?

“We’ll pick a cove,” he said. “There are dozens along the Lizard. One will serve as a site for a magnificent picnic.”

At that, she smiled, a funny, lopsided smile that bent her nose to the left. A quirk of her features? Or had the strawberries particularly irritated the membranes of the sinuses?

“I didn’t bring any novels.” She sighed, then brightened. “But I have all my favorite issues of The Queen!”

His own smile faltered. But why shouldn’t Mrs. Pendrake enjoy, in her leisure, the banalities of Society gossip, celebrity profiles, and fashion plates? Or dedicate hours to curling her hair and pinning bows all over her décolletage? True, he’d been taken aback when he’d first seen her waiting for him at the station. In fact, he’d even glanced up and down the platform to ensure there wasn’t some other more sensible-looking woman standing alone by her luggage. If it weren’t for the puffy eyelids and the rashes on her cheeks, Mrs. Pendrake wouldn’t have seemed out of place at a garden party in Mayfair. Blond ringlets, pink silk—she resembled one of the Society butterflies with whom he’d been wont to entangle himself, back in the dark days before he’d come to his senses. In point of fact, she resembled Elizabeth. He hoped his mother wouldn’t make too much of that unfortunate coincidence.

Her fingers rose again to her face, hovering, before she caught one hand with the other and forced them both down.

“Drat it,” she muttered.

“Itching, is it? Hold on.” He rummaged through his several coat pockets. Field notebook, pencil, tags and elastics, string, fishing twine, matches, seed and spore bottles, compass, knife, scissors, trowel. Glass clinked against glass, and metal clanked against metal. He’d worked out a credible filing system at Varnham and implemented it in both the London and the Truro offices, streamlining operations. And he could be meticulous when it came to selecting, collecting, and packing specimens. Also, pressing and drying them, taking notes. But organization had never been his strong suit. He rarely left one of his nurseries without an assistant running after him with his hat or the pruning shears.

“Aha,” he said, fingers closing on a wide, shallow glass jar. That was the one. He passed it to her.

“Ointment,” he explained. “I always keep a jar of it with me.” Somewhere. “Helps when I nick myself or get into some nettles.”

“Or give yourself boils.” She frowned as she unscrewed the lid and sniffed. “What is it?”

He sat his elbow against the door, shifted his weight to the right. Difficult to face her in the tiny cab without crowding her with his body. Physical contact—not part of the plan. Passion was better as the graft than the stock.

“Aloe vera, beeswax, and olive oil.” He’d tinkered with ratios and ingredients for years before he arrived at that simple formula. During their ill-fated courtship, he’d once mortified Elizabeth by offering a jar to Lady Phillifent. A servant setting down the bread sauce had knocked a candle and splashed her hand painfully with wax. Lady Phillifent, declining the salve, had inquired about the properties of aloe vera, and he’d doubled his offense by responding in earnest. Beginning with the plant’s description by Carl Linnaeus.

His lips bent at the memory. For all her ribbons, Mrs. Pendrake was a woman of substance. A woman who had bucked convention to travel the world. A woman who appreciated the consistency of the Linnaean system. He did her a disservice. Not all intellectual women wore pince-nez. For the love of God, he’d read her manuscript! She was nothing like Elizabeth.

She tugged off her gloves and dipped a fingertip into the jar. Ungloved, her fingers were slim and tapered. His eye snagged on her rings. Gold, with diamonds and sapphires. Clearly, Mr. Pendrake had been wealthier, and flashier, than the average plant collector.

He averted his gaze as she rubbed the ointment into her skin.

“Thank you,” she said. “Mr. . . .” He looked back at her. She arched her eyebrows, performing the pause. “Don’t you think . . .”

“Yes.” He rushed to answer. “Yes, of course. Call me Neal.”

“Wonderful.” She handed him the jar, and for a moment his palm tingled, cool glass and warm fingers.

“You do the same,” she said.

He grinned at that.

“Very well,” he said. “Neal.”

“Call me by my first name, if you please.” She tossed her head, extending her long throat, lifting her chin. He felt his forehead knotting once again, this time with the intensity of his befuddlement.

She had the coiffure, couture, and even the mannerisms of a London butterfly. But . . . perhaps she did not have the mannerisms of a London butterfly. Perhaps he was only ascribing her such mannerisms due to her beauty. She was a beauty. Why not admit it? A rash didn’t disguise the obvious. Mrs. Pendrake, due to heritable variety within the species, happened to be possessed of a swan-like neck and a saucy, pointed little chin—what really could she do about it? She had to move her head sometimes. It wasn’t fair to categorize the movement as a tossing of the head. Mrs. Pendrake didn’t toss her head the way Elizabeth tossed her head.

She’d begun to rub her thumb along her cheekbone.

“Aloe vera,” she murmured.

He handed the jar back to her.

“Keep it,” he said. “I recommend putting it on again before you go to sleep. We’ve begun selling it, actually. At the nurseries, and mail order, out of the London office. It softens the skin in addition to soothing minor injuries.” Gardeners were buying it, and amateur botanists, but his managing director in London had also reported wider sales as word of mouth spread. “I’ve half a mind to advertise it as a cosmetic. Make Varnham a household name.”

He’d been thinking aloud. His sisters often told him doing so was a negative trait. Many males were predisposed to it. Thinking aloud. Also, overexplaining. Whistling.

She was looking at him thoughtfully.