When Valentine turned back to face the room, he found two pairs of dark eyes watching him with an intensity that was unnerving. “I’m sure we can sort out this misunderstanding as soon as George can be found, Miss Rotherhild and…eh…?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Marissa said, “I beg your pardon, my lord. I haven’t introduced my grandmother, Lady Bethany.”
Valentine found himself under scrutiny from the lady with the lined face that had once been as beautiful as her granddaughter’s. “How do you do, Lord Kent? You have a fine old house. People with houses like yours should open them up. If you’re not having a weekend party then you should be.”
“I prefer my solitude, Lady Bethany.”
Marissa surveyed him seriously from beneath her little hat. “I hope you won’t be too cross with George, Lord Kent. It must be a misunderstanding. I’m sure he would never do anything to upset you on purpose.”
“George is a thoughtless young pup,” he retorted sharply.
She blinked. “Oh no, you’re wrong about your brother. He’s…he’s quite wonderful.”
She blushed deeply as she realized what she’d said, and her elderly companion hid her mouth with a gloved hand, as if she might be laughing.
Valentine had never been jealous of George, he had no reason to be, but now there was a strange tightening in his chest. Marissa Rotherhild was too good for his thoughtless brother. Suddenly, Valentine found himself considering ways to steal her all for himself.
Lord Kent was not at all like George, Marissa thought in bewilderment. George was always fashionably dressed, neatly turned out to the last button, and here was Lord Kent looking as if he’d been sleeping in his clothing. He hadn’t shaved, either. Marissa could plainly see the prickly stubble on his jaw, the same honey color as his hair, which was also rather long and untidy. Her fingers itched to comb it back from his brow and, surprised by the strength of that urge, she folded them into tight fists, just in case she actually acted upon it.
“George has clearly made a good impression on you, Miss Rotherhild,” he was saying, with a note in his voice that made her think he might be making fun of her.
“I’m sure George makes a good impression on everybody he meets, Lord Kent,” she replied rather coolly.
“My daughter and son-in-law are under the impression George is an enthusiastic botanist,” her grandmother spoke behind her. “He is invited to all their meetings and has been attending regularly.”
Lord Kent’s eyes widened. They were very blue, Marissa thought. Piercingly so. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing eyes quite that spectacular shade of blue. Someone had once described the Aegean Sea to her, and she thought that perhaps Lord Kent’s eyes were that exact color.
“George interested in plants?” he cried. “Good Lord, whatever next?”
“Do you mean the boy isn’t an enthusiast?” Lady Bethany said with a touch of satisfaction. “I thought as much.” She sank down into a brocade covered chair, evidently tired of waiting to be asked by Lord Kent who seemed to have forgotten his manners.
“George never said he was an enthusiast, Grandmamma,” Marissa said, casting her elderly relation a quelling glance.
“Well he certainly gave a good impression of one,” her relation retorted, completely un-quelled. “Professor Rotherhild was even considering taking him on a trip to see the lichen in Yell.” She shuddered. “That’s in Shetland, Lord Kent, and a more windswept and godforsaken place you would be hard-pressed to find.”
Lord Kent, who had been listening to their exchange in silence, suddenly spoke. “Rotherhild! I knew I had heard the name before. Of course. Professor Rotherhild is one of Britain’s foremost experts on lichens and mosses.”
“My father,” Marissa said quietly. “My mother prefers insect-consuming plants. She has several in the conservatory and feeds them with—”
“Please, Marissa, I beg you, don’t remind me.” Again her grandmother shuddered. “My daughter does not take after me, Kent. I cannot think where she got her love of such unpleasantness.”
Lord Kent’s lips twitched and he looked down into Marissa’s face with those eyes. “And what is your specialty, Miss Rotherhild?” he asked her in a deep voice.
“I have no specialty, Lord Kent.”
“Well, that is a pity.”
“I find that being in the presence of my parents has dulled my own enthusiasm for botany. George says…” But she remembered in time that what George had said wasn’t very complimentary to his brother, and changed the sentence to, “George says not everyone feels the same way about plants.”
“Does he indeed?” Lord Kent fixed her with his piercing gaze, as if he knew she wasn’t telling the entire truth.
He was correct. The truth was the first time she’d met George he’d said that growing up with Professor Rotherhild, in her case, and his brother, in his, had instilled in them a fierce determination to keep as far away as possible from anything even vaguely resembling a plant.
“Your brother?” she’d asked George, surprised and pleased that they had something in common.
“He’s an obsessive rose collector, Miss Rotherhild.”
“At least roses are attractive to the eye, and the nose.”