Her Virtuous Viscount (Wicked Husbands Book 6) by Scarlett Scott

Author:Scarlett Scott [Scott, Scarlett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, romance, Historical
Publisher: Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Published: 2020-08-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Hyacinth was on her knees in her herb garden at Willdon Hall. The plants were her sole comfort, her only escape. Her gown was drab gray and serviceable. No crinolette was worn beneath it, enabling her to kneel in the dirt and tend to the plants. The act itself, like the garden, was forbidden.

Her secret with Will, the head gardener.

He had saved this space for her, against her husband’s edict. And she would be forever grateful. This time of quiet, this communing with nature, lent her peace. Until she had to return to the main house again. Until she saw Southwick again.

She knew each flourishing plant by name. Knew the healing properties of every one.

Rosemary. Lavender. Chamomile. Raspberry canes. Monarda. Feverfew. Lamb’s ear. Comfrey.

She plucked weeds by hand, fingertips kissing the dirt.

Southwick would never know. He could not see her here. Could never find her. He prohibited her from performing such a task. Southwick was cold and unforgiving, filled with anger that festered from the inside. The whispers from the servants suggested why, but she was too afraid to believe them.

Instead, Hyacinth preferred to lose herself in her gardens.

Rosemary. Lavender. Chamomile. Raspberry canes. Monarda. Feverfew. Lamb’s ear. Comfrey.

She chanted the names of each plant. Ran her fingers over their soft leaves. The bee balm smelled of catmint and oregano. Pungent and calming, the scent rising in the warm air.

Once, summer in the country had been beloved to her. It had been a time of warmth and sun and growing grass. Of leafy trees and rain puddles and fresh berries bursting with ripeness. Now, each season was no different than the last. Each one an endless refrain.

Oh, to be a plant. Unencumbered. Nothing to do with her day save raise her face to the sun and worship. No one to crush her. Nothing to fear.

Footsteps crunched behind her on the gravel walk.

Her heart pounded in her chest. All the saliva fled her mouth.

No, no, it could not be. She would not look. Surely it was not her husband chasing her here, to the far edges of the garden. Why, he was supposed to have gone. He would not return for another three days.

And she was free to tend her garden all day long as it pleased her.

Rosemary, lavender, chamomile, raspberry—

“What are you doing, my lady?”

The voice was stern. Disapproving. It raised the hackles on her neck. Intruded upon her idyll here in her garden, the only source of peace she had. How had he found her?

When had he returned?

On her knees, she braced herself, preparing for a stinging slap. She knew he would not hesitate to raise his hand to her. Southwick had already done so once, had he not, after her family had forced her return to Willdon Hall? And he had warned her. She had no more chances. Her next infraction would be dealt with far more sternly than the last.

Surely this was all but a dream. A nightmare from which she would wake. Southwick had traveled to purchase an Arabian mare to build his stables.

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