“Hmm.”
“Orkhis,” Thea repeated, since apparently this was going to be a one-sided conversation. “It sounds like a hideous spider, with hairy black legs and gleaming red eyes. Or—or some slimy sea creature that rides up on the waves and makes glub-glub sounds. Or—or—or—”
“Testicles.”
“I…beg your pardon?”
“Orkhis is the Greek word for testicles,” he said. “The species of plant was so named because the roots of an orchid look like a man’s testicles.”
“Um.”
“Shall I stop educating you now, Miss Knight? Or would you like me to explain testicles too?”
Thea knew she should be scandalized—Arabella would give him a glare so withering his hair would fall out—but her mind was already occupied with assessing her relevant knowledge.
There were animals, of course, which were not known for their modesty, and the secret etchings she found in Mrs. Burton’s library had filled in a lot of gaps in her education, and Billy Nash, the butcher’s son, had shown her his testicles when they were both ten, because he had them, and he was proud of them, and Billy really, really liked to share.
So while Thea was certainly no expert, her education in testicles was sufficient for her to conclude that, whatever else might be said of them, they were not, well, pretty.
“Allow me to confirm that I have understood correctly,” she said, her puzzlement overriding her nerves. “Here is this gorgeous, magnificent flower, and some man—who for unknown reasons is put in charge of naming it—he looks at this gorgeous, magnificent flower and he says, ‘By George, that looks like my bollocks.’ And then he says, ‘You know what the world needs now? The world needs more things named after my bollocks.’ So he names this gorgeous, magnificent flower after his bollocks, and all the other men look at it and say, ‘How excellent, it is named after our bollocks.’”
His expression was unreadable as he studied her. She would not be surprised if he stalked off in disgust at her unladylike speech.
“I must admit,” he finally said, “that us men are immensely fond of our bollocks.”
Something like amusement crept into those tired eyes, perhaps a hint of playfulness. Thea did not know what to make of his look, so she wandered away, ending up in front of the orchid again. It really was gorgeous and magnificent, although not at all soothing like an English wildflower. She reached out and—
“Don’t touch it! How many times must I tell you?”
Once again, she snatched back her hand. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Again.”
“What happens if I touch it?” she asked, winding her fingers together. “Will I get poison all over my hand? Will monsters come and take my soul? Will anyone die?”
He pushed off the wall and came back to the flowers, stopping by her side, stirring the air around her. With one broad, strong hand, he caressed the space around the delicate blooms.
For once, the flower could not hold Thea’s attention. Her eyes trailed up his arm to his face, his profile suddenly as touchable as the flower: the individual curls of his dark hair, the contrasting textures of his skin and scars, the defined shape of his firm lips, the angle of his jaw. She should not stand so near to this surly, disagreeable man. She did not move away.
His eyes remained on the flower. “I told you, orchids are delicate. This one is not as well as it looks. It has been carted across the world, and then nearly murdered by an arrogant, ignorant Englishman, arrogant and ignorant being the worst possible combination in a human. It needs special care and attention, not the poking fingers of a lady with the curiosity of a cat and the concentration span of a puppy dog.”
“Oh.”
His words were grumpy, but his tone was gentle. As though he cared. How intriguing that he cared about a flower, this big, gruff man, who must have gone to wild places and seen wondrous things and done terrible deeds, because one did not get mauled by giant jungle cats by sitting nicely in one’s club in St. James.
His unexpected tenderness toward the flower made the last of her nervousness disappear.
“You have not said why you sought me here,” Thea said. “Or how you know anything of me.”
“Lord Ventnor told me you would be here.”
“The plants…”
“A mere excuse.”
He straightened, but did not explain. He simply studied her thoughtfully, intently, tapping his mouth with his fist.
“For what?” she prompted, her nervousness blooming anew. “One cannot say something like that and not explain it. It’s insufferable.”
Then he shrugged and let his fist fall. “Might as well do it now, I suppose,” he muttered.