A Most Sinful Proposal – Sara Bennett

Abbey Thorne Manor,
Surrey, England.

The first Lord Valentine Kent knew he had guests was when his butler, Morris, told him so. Not that Valentine even knew Morris was hovering behind him until the butler loudly cleared his throat, a signal that he had been waiting for some time to be noticed. Valentine frowned, the magnifying glass in one hand, the specimen of rosa foetida on the table in front of him. The single yellow flower had arrived this morning from one of his contacts, carefully packed, but the sea journey had caused some damage—saltwater stained a corner of the box and the inside was damp. He’d recognized the flower immediately and with the familiar pang of disappointment.

There was a second parcel, as yet unopened, from a name he didn’t recognize. Valentine did not find this unusual. He received letters and parcels from all over the country containing specimens or descriptions of specimens for him to name. He was one of the leading experts on roses. But his true passion was one particular rose, a rose which was first brought to England seven hundred years ago. It was his quest, his holy grail, his lifelong ambition, and he had an uneasy feeling that it was becoming an obsession.

Morris cleared his throat even more loudly. Obviously the man wasn’t about to go away. With a sigh of frustration, Valentine turned to face him. “What is it, Morris? I warn you, it had better be a matter of life or death.”

“I apologize, my lord,” Morris droned, his bloodhound face drawn down into apologetic lines. “I am always loath to interrupt you when you are busy, my lord. But there is a young lady here to see Mr. George—”

“Then, Morris, I suggest you fetch Mr. George.”

“Believe me, my lord, I have tried,” Morris replied with feeling. “Unfortunately Mr. George can’t be found, and yesterday he was most specific that when this particular young lady arrived she must be treated with courtesy.”

Valentine sighed again. Damn George! Why wasn’t he here? The last thing Valentine wanted to do was make polite with a stranger. No doubt she was one of George’s silly little flirts, all hair and no brain. George had inflicted someone similar on him once before and he’d made his younger brother swear he would never again invite anyone to Abbey Thorne Manor without first informing Valentine and allowing him enough time to escape to his rooms, or, if necessary, to leave the house altogether.

“Who is this young lady who must be treated with courtesy?” he said gruffly, rising to his feet and shrugging his dark blue jacket back on over his white linen shirt, allowing it to settle comfortably across broad shoulders.

Morris gave him a glassy look.

Valentine was used to his butler’s silent disapproval when it came to his preference for comfort over fashion. The jacket was an old favorite and a little shabby, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, and he’d neglected to put on a neckcloth this morning. Well, he told himself irritably, it was just too bad. George’s flirt could take him as he was or not at all.