He couldn’t wait to watch her eat more strawberries.
And now he wanted to kiss the strawberry juice off those tempting strawberry red lips.
He was pathetic.
She wandered over to his next planter box and bent to sniff the small flowers there, treating him to another view. He quickly averted his eyes.
“Oh! I’ve never smelled this scent before. It’s lovely.” With obvious delight, she ran her fingers over the delicate white petals. “What kind of flower is this?”
“Those are potato plants,” he told her, still trying to get the image of kissing her out of his mind. “The fact that they’re flowering means the potatoes are ready to be harvested.”
“Harvested?” She straightened—to his great relief—and cocked her pretty head to one side. “You don’t grow these for the flowers, then? What’s a potato?”
“It’s a tuber—a much-thickened underground part of the stem. It bears buds from which new plants grow, and it also serves as food for the plant. And it’s a good food for us.” He knelt down and dug around one, then pulled it out and rose with it. “You can eat it.”
It was brown, lumpy, and covered in dirt. She grimaced.
He found that grimace charming.
Which was not the same as delightful.
“It’s ugly,” she said.
“It’s delicious.”
“I’ve never heard of a potato before.”
“They aren’t common in England. They’re from the New World. My uncle sent me my first few plants, and they’re easy to grow, so now I have many. A whole field of them in growing season—it’s one of our crops. I planted these in here so we wouldn’t run out over the winter.”
“You really like to eat them, then.” She licked her lips, sending a stab of hot lust through him. “Are they eaten raw or cooked?”
“Not raw!” He laughed, which made him feel a little less hot. Or maybe it made him feel a little less lust. Whichever, he felt better. “They taste awful raw,” he added with more than a little relief. “Our cook prepares them many ways, but my favorite is a pudding with lots of butter and spices.”
“Can we have some tonight? I love trying new things.”
She suddenly struck him as the kind of girl who would try anything. The thought filled him with unwelcome excitement. The image of kissing her was gone—well, faded, anyway—but his heart was galloping regardless.
Bloody hell. What on earth was he going to do about this? It wasn’t right. He’d never felt so disloyal and despicable in his life.
“Of course we can have some tonight,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Let me dig up more, and I’ll take them to the kitchen.”
FOURTEEN
SEATED THREE HOURS later at the pretty hexagonal table in her bedchamber, Chrystabel cocked her head. “If you’re sure there’s no lavender, rosemary should do.”
A knock sounded only seconds before Matthew opened the door.
“Uh oh.” Arabel’s eyes widened as she handed over the vial of rosemary oil. “I warned you,” she whispered, “he’s going to be furious.”
But Chrystabel hadn’t been worried, and she wasn’t worried now. When Matthew approached, one look at his face told her he was not furious, although she suspected he’d pretend he was for a while.
She knew her brother.
“You said you were coming back,” he scolded, just as she’d expected. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was awfully cold, and I realized I had too much to do.” Wearing her best mask of blithe innocence, she unstoppered the vial and took a delicate sniff. “I had to finish decorating, and now I’m making perfume for gifts. And I still have to oversee Christmas Eve supper. Did you find a good tree to cut for the yule log?”
“Yes. That took us only a few minutes.”
Purposely delaying her reply, she made a note on a little card before dipping her dropper into the rosemary oil. She’d run out of lavender oil, but the rosemary would add a lovely lavender-like top note to the scent she was creating for Lady Trentingham. “If finding the log took only a few minutes, then why did you and Creath take so long to return?”
“Maybe because we were waiting for you?”
She peeked up at him through her lashes. “Or maybe not?”
Shying away from her knowing gaze, he skirted the table and wandered over to the curved oriel windows. Then he just stood there, looking down on the snow-blanketed Tudor gardens in silence.
She added two drops of the rosemary oil to her bottle and swirled it gently. “Spill it, Matthew.”
“I don’t know what happened.” He remained facing away, his warm breath fogging the glass as his words tumbled out in a rush. “We talked and talked. And walked and talked some more. It was cold, but I didn’t care, and she didn’t seem to, either. I think I could talk to Creath forever and never run out of things to say. I just met her yesterday, yet I feel I’ve known her for years.”
Chrystabel’s mouth hung open. Never in her life had she heard her brother speak this way about a woman—or speak about women at all. Not in front of his sisters, anyway. Though her heart soared, she made no response. Instead she sniffed her concoction, decided she was pleased, and corked it. One more gift crossed off her list.
Passing over another empty bottle, Arabel’s big brown eyes flashed with disbelief and excitement.
Chrystabel couldn’t suppress a grin. Thankfully, Matthew couldn’t see it.
She forced herself to focus on the bottle. “Creath is sweet, don’t you think?” she said conversationally, using a little silver funnel to add alcohol and water from two pewter flagons. “I think a floral scent will fit her. Orange blossoms, and maybe some vanilla. Lilac, I think…Arabel, do you see lilac oil?”
Arabel searched the rows of vials with their tiny, neatly lettered labels. After handing over the requested lilac, she looked to her brother’s turned back. “Did you kiss Creath?” she asked bluntly.
Matthew’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.
“Chrystabel said you would kiss her. She also said you two would fall
