Read Online The Gardener by Catherine McGreevy - Free Book Online Page A

first painting off the wall and nearly staggered under the weight. The ornate, gilded frame was surprisingly heavy. So that was why Miss Marlowe had not called a housemaid, he thought. Of course that did not answer the question of why the trivial task could not have waited until daylight.
    As he carried the painting to the other side, he grew uncomfortably aware of Miss Marlowe's close-set eyes watching his every move. When the two pieces of art were hung again, he could hardly tell the difference. It was of no significance to him how she chose to arrange her room, however. He waited impatiently to be dismissed.
    “Perfect! That's much more to my satisfaction,” Miss Marlowe said without looking at the paintings, and with one swift movement she rose and approached him, putting a hand on his forearm. He almost jumped. Her cold touch felt like that of a reptile.               “You do know that I'm to marry soon, do you not?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.
    He hid his surprise at the change of topic. "Yes, Miss Marlowe. Of course."
    "Lord Corbus is rich and powerful. When he goes into politics, protecting the rights of sugar plantation owners to transport slaves, he will undoubtedly rise to national importance.”
    Her sickly perfume surrounded him like a net. Her lips parted and her strange, dark-rimmed eyes glittered. With a sinking heart, he hoped he was wrong about the meaning of her hand's pressure on his arm. In any other woman, he would have recognized the signs, but he could not bring himself to believe this was happening. Not from her .
    “Yes, Miss Marlowe.” To his own ears, his voice sounded strangled. It took all his effort not to throw off her clutching fingers.
    She moved closer until her satin dressing gown brushed his calves. “But you know all that, don't you? Mother tells me that the servants know everything before we do.”
    He remained silent.
    She laughed, as if sensing his discomfort. “Don't worry. You have a right to be in my chamber. After all, I called you here, didn't I?”
    “Yes, Miss.” Now that the first shock was over, he relaxed slightly. Despite her rank, Maeve Marlowe was no different than any other woman, he realized. How many times had he seen that look in their eyes? Such attention was harmless, flattering, even enjoyable, if one wanted to play the game.
    Then reality came crashing down. No. Not harmless. Not in this case.
    She appeared unaware of the stiffening muscles under his sleeve. “Perhaps you suspected why I called you here tonight.” She looked up at him through her thin, pale lashes in what she must have thought was a seductive look. “Surely I do not have to spell it out.”
    “Yes, Miss. The paintings.” Despite her unexpectedly strong grip, he knew could easily pull away, be through the door in an instant. But a lifetime of knowing his place stood in his way: a servant must not leave without being dismissed. Defying a command from a superior went against everything that had been ingrained in him since birth, even if he hadn't run the risk of being sacked if he refused to obey. Moreover, in these hard times he would never find employment without a reference. He might literally starve, as so many did outside those towering hedges.
    She ignored his response. “My fiancé is fifty years old.” She moved closer. He could feel her hot breath on his chest. “In the prime of life, my father assures me. He says I am fortunate.”
    “Yes, Miss.” It growing difficult to breathe, and it took all his effort not to take a step back. He glanced longingly at the door that led to freedom.
    “Well, I'm not fortunate!” Suddenly her cheeks flushed, and her voice hardened. “I had no choice in the matter. No choice whatsoever. Why, I have no more freedom to decide my own future than a … than an African slave!”
    Her hand clenched, and to his surprise, he felt pity for her. It was common for a lady of her class to have a marriage arranged without