another love match in the family, but I cannot accept anything less than her as my wife.”
“You make a mockery of the Arrington line.” Grandmère issued a harrumph, thumping her cane on the floor to emphasize her ire.
He may have spent the last fortnight nursing his wounded pride and telling himself he was better off without throwing his heart to the wolves once more, but now that Hyacinth was carrying his child, everything had changed. The fear of losing her and their babe forever was strong enough to push him past the point of comfort.
“She is carrying the future of the Arrington line, Grandmère,” he said boldly. “Mayhap you will appreciate the necessity of wedding Lady Southwick with all haste now?”
The duchess thumped the floor with her cane once more. “Are you certain she is not deceiving you, Sidmouth? She would not be the first cunning baggage to ensnare a future duke in such fashion.”
If his grandmother only knew…
“Utterly,” he said simply. “There is no question of her honor, and I will thank you to refrain from referring to the future Lady Sidmouth as a cunning baggage.”
Grandmère sighed wearily, her lip curling as if she had caught scent of something foul. “Very well, Sidmouth. Because I wish to see you wed before you bring any more scandals crashing down upon us, I will accept your marriage to Lady Southwick. But you must cease this dallying, sir. If you want to marry her, see that it is done. Arrington’s ill health cannot support a lengthy betrothal, and neither can we afford to have your heir born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Naturally, I would love nothing more,” he said wryly.
If only it were as easy as the snap of his fingers.
“I despair.” She threw up her hands in a surprisingly inelegant gesture. “If you are going to secure a bride, you must properly woo her, Thomas.”
Woo her.
Yes.
He was rather ashamed to admit it, but mayhap Grandmère was right. “I had not thought to try that vein just yet. I am newly returned from offering my proposal.”
And he had rather made a muck of it, had he not?
“Woo her and win her, Sidmouth,” Grandmère added. “I shall not accept failure.”
“Indeed.” Some ideas of how he might do so sprang to mind. “In this instance, Grandmère, failure is not an option.”
“You are the future Duke of Arrington,” his grandmother corrected sternly. “Failure is never an option.”
The first delivery took Hyacinth by complete surprise.
Dozens of herbs of all varieties and sizes, potted and flourishing and in need of an orangery or a garden. Verbena and lavender and chamomile. Lamb’s ear and rosemary and comfrey and lemon balm. She was especially pleased for the lemon balm, which she belatedly recalled could be steeped into a tea to ease the nausea gripping her in the mornings and early afternoons, and sometimes most of the day, too.
By the time the second grouping of herbs arrived, she was still struggling to decide where she could place the first. This time, parsley, pennyroyal, hyssop, rue, dill, and mugwort.
They had been delivered directly to the front door of the townhome, leaving Hyacinth presiding over an entry hall laden with greenery.
“Where will your ladyship prefer the plants to be taken?” Pennington asked formally, as if it were a common occurrence for a conservatory’s worth of herbs to be delivered in the midst of the evening.
She cast an eye over the sea of plants—a horticultural dream. “I am not certain what would be best, Pennington. The gardens, do you suppose?”
The butler inclined his head. “I will have some of the footmen remove them to the gardens directly. There was a note accompanying the second delivery, my lady.”
Belatedly, she took note of the silver salver in his hand, a lone missive lying atop it. Hyacinth reached for the letter, instantly recognizing the familiar, bold penmanship.
“Thank you, Pennington,” she murmured, the note seeming to burn her hand the instant she had possession of it.
Distracted, she wandered toward the library, Lady following at her hems. The instant she was alone, she opened the note and read it.
My darling Hyacinth,
You told me once that your only happiness was in tending your herb gardens, and yet, I have noted nothing in the gardens of your townhome aside from pug catching, monstrously overgrown rosebushes.
At that, she pressed her fingertips to her lips, stifling an awed laugh before continuing reading.
I scoured London looking for some herbs to begin your garden. Do not fret—I did not blackmail any of