Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

to Discover the Source of the Nile. The veiled nurse had had a preference for agony columns, he remembered.

      ‘This is a rather unusual choice of reading material. There are shelves of novels in my sisters’ parlour next to the conservatory, you know.’

      ‘I love novels, sometimes I think they are the anchors of my sanity. But I love tales by people who have seen the world and been stretched to their limits. I hadn’t even realised how much time had gone by.’

      Her face had descended into a serious look, but then another smile dispelled it almost immediately. It was like light reflecting off conflicting currents in a lake, confusing hints of forces at work beneath the surface, shifting as soon as the eyes settled on them. Once again his concentration shattered, but the certainty that had struck him when she had first spoken was fading. Her voice was already her own and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if it resembled that young woman of six years ago or whether it had been a trick of his own memory. Perhaps he should just ask her...what? Were you the girl who saved my life? Remember? I’m the idiot who made a fool of himself and asked you to run off with me?

      ‘That has effectively stifled all conversational gambits, hasn’t it?’ she said into the silence, the amused self-mockery in her deep voice rousing him from another round of uncharacteristic stupor. He shook his head, trying to keep to the surface of the conversation. It should have been easy, but he felt himself struggling to find the anchor of polite patter that was second nature to him and usually took up no more than a tenth of his mental effort while the rest of his mind was engaged on more momentous matters.

      ‘Does the Princess share your interest in tales of adventure?’

      ‘No, she is much saner than I. We are currently reading Mrs Carmichael’s Hidden Heart. But you wouldn’t like her.’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked. But his hope that the conviction in her statement might indicate an admission of familiarity faded with her next words.

      ‘Most men despise novels, don’t they?’

      ‘Just as most women love them? Isn’t that simplistic? I have very little time for fiction, unfortunately, but with two sisters I have been exposed to more novels than I can remember and I certainly don’t despise them. Hers haven’t come my way, though. Are they any good?’

      ‘I like them; they are almost as good as my dreams.’ Her words ended on a little surprised sound as if she had remembered something or merely realised that she was being a tad too honest. She stood up abruptly and handed him the book.

      ‘Thank you for the use of the library and your book.’

      He stood up as well, taking the book automatically. Between his bulk and the chair he knew he was impeding her exit, but he wasn’t quite ready to conclude this conversation.

      ‘Formally it is my father’s library. Why are you convinced it is not his book as well?’

      She had to look up at him, her head tilted back, accentuating a very stubborn chin. Then she smiled again.

      ‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

      This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

      Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

      He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

      Damn Oswald.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Mint and valerian.’ Lady Albinia smiled, patting the empty spot on the sofa as Christina entered the drawing room in the wake of the King and Princess. Christina sat down with relief, happy to escape another direct encounter with Lord Stanton as he came forward to greet the King. It took her a moment to register Lady Albinia’s strange comment.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Earlier today you asked if I happen to grow horsetail and hyssop, but then we were distracted by his Majesty’s interest in impatiens and periwinkles for the castle gardens. If you need horsetail for stomach ailments, mint and valerian might do, as well. I am not familiar with hyssop’s qualities.’

      Christina smiled.

      ‘Thank you, both will do very well. It is actually for a tisane I sometimes prepare for the King when he has trouble sleeping. I saw you have cowslip and chamomile and woodruff which are wonderful. On Illiakos I grow bird’s foot and pennyroyal, as well.’

      ‘My mints are mostly down by the lake,’ Lady Albinia replied, leaning forward as if to guard a secret. ‘They are thirsty things, the dears. My pennyroyal never took, but I shall bring you some spearmint if you like. Very soothing.’

      Lady Albinia’s faded face was lit from within and Christina almost regretted the topic had ever been broached. Herbs had been her father’s passion and she continued to tend the herb gardens he had planted, but for her they were instrumental, not the passionate occupation they appeared to be for Lady Albinia. By her vague expression Christina guessed the current Marquess’s sister was very used to spending hours propping up walls whenever events at the Hall required her attendance in the absence of Lady Wentworth herself. In thirty or forty years Christina might become much the same at the Castle. Once Ari married perhaps her herb garden would be all that was left to comfort her on Illiakos. The thought terrified her, but she stifled it.

      ‘That would be very kind, Lady Albinia.’

      ‘It would be my pleasure. So few people appreciate herbs. Flowers are always popular, but most people find herbs rather dull,’ she said wistfully and Christina smiled.

      ‘Herbs are often more potent beneath the surface, but even the most beautiful flowers can have hidden depths, like foxgloves, for example. I believe we should judge each plant on its own merits.’ She cringed a little at her pedantic response, but Lady Albinia’s smile warmed.

      ‘I cannot decide which you are.’

      ‘Which what?’

      ‘A flower or an herb. Usually I can tell right away. You have elements of both. I shall reserve judgement.’

      She sounded so serious, Christina restrained her urge to laugh and looked around the room, forcing her gaze to skim past Lord Stanton as swiftly as possible. Even a brief glance told her he was magnificent in evening wear, the contrast of black and white accentuating the austere perfection of his features. But it also confirmed that although she had been too shocked by his sudden appearance that afternoon to assess their encounter calmly, she had been right about one thing—he had changed. Or perhaps she had. If she didn’t know better she might have assumed this was that man’s older brother. Incredibly like him in looks, more virile, but less swashbuckling. Just...different. The alternating sardonic charm, flirtatiousness and irritability were gone, replaced by watchful politeness. For a moment in the library he had even appeared a little confused. He had probably been thinking about something else and her presence had been unwelcome, but his manners had prevailed.

      He