Drummond nodded. ‘A purpose. Aye, that is exactly what I need.’
‘Yet you have mixed feelings about the one which is on offer?’
‘It is not so much the position itself, it is...’ He thumped his thigh with his other hand. ‘One of the reasons I can’t bring myself to talk of it is because I know I’m being so contrary. I should be grateful that Wellington is willing to take a chance on me, that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are willing to open the right doors for me. It is more than I deserve, I know that.’ He stared down at his clenched fist, slowly, deliberately unfurling it, his mouth set, his eyes narrowed. ‘All the same, it sticks in my craw that I’m reduced to depending on others to do what I can’t do myself. But I have no other options, I’ve proved that beyond doubt.’ Drummond heaved a huge sigh, managed a very twisted smile. ‘It just feels so bloody unfair, but there it is. If I wish to end my seclusion, I must do so on their terms. And so here I am.’
‘Reluctantly willing,’ Joanna said, with a twisted smile of her own.
He laughed softly, getting to his feet and pulling her with him. ‘You’ve a way with words.’
‘I should hope so.’ She was still frowning. The wheels were turning furiously in that clever mind of hers. There were gaps, he supposed, in his explanation, and she’d find them quickly enough. He tried to smooth the furrow between his brows with his thumb.
She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. ‘Don’t worry, I can see you’ve had a surfeit of weighty talk for tonight. I only wish I could help.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing to be done, it is all being done for me, providing I behave like a good wee laddie. You must be thinking I’m a right misery guts.’
‘I’m thinking no such thing.’
‘What is it then, that’s going on behind those big brown eyes of yours? Though they’re not actually brown.’ He trailed his fingers down her cheek to tangle in her hair, caught up loosely at the nape of her neck. ‘They’ve a sort of golden light to them, did you know that?’
‘No.’
She was staring, as one mesmerised, into his eyes. Was he imagining the passion smouldering there? ‘And your hair,’ Drummond said, gently easing her closer, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I thought that was brown too, when I saw you first, hiding yourself away in the gloom, but brown is far too dull a colour to describe it. Chestnut maybe, or chocolate.’
Her laugh sounded breathy. ‘One cannot describe hair as chocolate.’
‘Yet it is permissible to describe lips as cherries?’
She shivered as he caressed the back of her neck with his thumb, and her shiver set his pulses racing. ‘Ridiculous,’ Joanna said, twining her arm around his neck, closing the gap between them, her skirts brushing his legs.
‘You’re right,’ Drummond said softly. ‘Not cherries, but rose petals.’ His lips touched hers. ‘Soft pink, warmed by the sun, with a promise...’ He groaned, pulling her tight up against him. ‘With a promise I cannot resist.’
This kiss was just as delightful as the first one, only more so, for their mouths moulded to each other without hesitation. Not a tasting kiss, but something more raw, more sensual. He closed his eyes, a frisson of desire shooting through him as the tip of his tongue touched hers, and angled his head to deepen the kiss. With a soft moan, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest, sending the blood rushing to his shaft.
When they broke apart they stared at each other, eyes clouded, cheeks flushed, lips parted, astonished by the passion which had swept them up. From the ballroom, he could hear the Duke ordering the servants to dim the lights. ‘Would you like to play with fire?’
‘I thought we just had.’
He laughed. ‘That is not what I meant. Come with me.’
Drummond opened the door, edging them both through the darkness to the crowd gathered by the flaming bowl of hot punch and raisins. He eased them to the front. ‘Do you trust me?’
Joanna eyed the flaming bowl. ‘Implicitly.’
‘Good.’ In the crush, no one noticed that he slid one hand around her waist, that she pressed herself back into his embrace, that he pressed his lips fleetingly to the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Now take off your glove, and do exactly as I say, and I’ll show you that it’s possible to play with fire, without getting your fingers burnt.’
Sunday, 27th December 1818
Boxing Day had offered no opportunities for Joanna to be alone with Drummond, giving her ample time to reflect upon their conversation from the previous night. What she struggled to understand was why a man who had served his country with distinction had to wait for three years before being offered an opportunity to do so again? A second chance offered by Wellington, he had said, implying that he had erred. Had he left the army under a cloud? From what little she knew of him, she found that hard to believe.
Though her head buzzed with questions, when the man in question finally did find her alone in the breakfast parlour the next morning, suggesting a walk through the succession houses, she knew they would remain unasked. Let the past be. Weren’t they both here to make a fresh start?
The Duchess’s famous orchid collection was housed in a wooden-framed glass structure, comprised of a central block three storeys high, flanked by a low wing on either side. As the door closed, a blast of hot humid air hit them, followed by the sweet, earthy smell of the carpet of moss which acted as groundcover for the rare and precious blooms, whose heady, perfumed scent hung in the air like incense in a cathedral.
Steam rose from the damped-down floor. Drummond unbuttoned his greatcoat and draped it over his arm. He wore a pair of tight-fitting buckskin breeches tucked into a pair of Hessian boots with brown tops which showed off his long muscular legs to perfection, Joanna thought. His navy-blue coat fitted tightly across the breadth of his shoulders and had, like all his coats, a military cut to it. His cravat was simply tied, his linen shirt dazzlingly white. Hatless, his hair began to curl in the steamy air. Her own would begin to frizz. Her fawn-striped woollen gown with long ruffled sleeves was one of her favourites, and least patched, but as she unfastened her cloak, when compared with Drummond’s immaculate attire, she felt decidedly dowdy.
‘I am thoroughly enjoying this break from routine,’ Joanna said, ‘but I must confess I am unused to being so idle.’
Drummond folded her cloak neatly and laid it on top of his greatcoat, on a gilt-painted wrought-iron bench. ‘Then salve your conscience by giving me a lesson in botany,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘Let us take a tour of our hostess’s spectacular collection.’ She tucked her hand into his arm and he pulled her closer, so that their hips touched, their legs brushed as they moved.
In the central atrium, a selection of palm trees, exotic ferns and succulents soared towards the glass ceiling like a miniature patch of jungle, and some of what appeared to be the more common orchid specimens were planted in waist-high containers around this magnificent centrepiece. The two wings faced east and west, the latter, according to a helpful plaque, housing the rarer specimens, and so Joanna and Drummond headed through those doors. The orchids were artfully planted in beds built to resemble a mountainside, with streams burbling between the rocks, a shoal of tiny fish swimming in a pool. The colours of the blooms were breathtaking: delicate blushing-powder-pink; impossibly fragile pale lemon; tiny icing-sugar-white clusters like constellations in the night sky; huge single blooms on mossy mounds, ranging from pale blue to speckled green and poisonous purple.
‘Latin name, origins, habitat, donor. The Duchess has been most meticulous,’ Joanna said, peering