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“I first noticed it growing there, beneath the chancel window,” he said. “My father’s herbarium includes hundreds of dandelions, none with those shiny, flecked leaves.”
He lay the rejected leaf, hairy and plain green, atop the wall, as though in illustration. “I thought it might be a European species. But I’ve gone through the monograph of the genus.”
His brown eyes were bright with excitement, glowing in contrast with those raven’s wing lashes. “I sent the description and a specimen to Kew. It’s official. I’ve written up a paper. More of a note, really.”
He hesitated. “What I can’t figure out is how my father missed it. He didn’t miss anything.”
Lavinia could hear something like reverence in his voice. He revered his father. Revered both his parents, and his siblings. He brimmed over when he spoke of them. Neal Traymayne had never suffered a rude awakening. Did he live in willful ignorance, or had he experienced unfathomable good fortune?
“I’ve never named a native plant.” His smile widened. “I’ve introduced species to England, but it feels different, identifying something at home, more or less underfoot, but overlooked. Not properly seen.”
Mrs. Pendrake would have shared his excitement. “And what are you calling it?” She mustered a smile.
“Taraxacum hedrae.” He said it with such delight that, suddenly, despite the Latin, her smile became real.
“After my mother, Hedra,” he added, glancing back into the churchyard, lashes slanting. “Something to give her at midsummer.”
Her heart was beating queerly. A gift of dandelions. Utterly worthless. She’d only ever received costly tokens, from her papa, from George, from Cranbrook, ill-gotten or tied with invisible strings, binding her. How precious, the worthlessness of weeds, presented as a way of honoring this wild place, connecting his mother to these cliffs. Cliffs she might not see again.
Neal Traymayne knew how to love differently from anyone she’d ever known. His love wasn’t angry, or destroying, or rotten, or gilded. It was sunny as a dandelion. Proximity to such brightness could make stunted things grow. Was that the source of this feeling? Some crushed part of her, sealed off since George’s death, stirring, ready to unfurl.
The last man to kiss her had been Cranbrook. He’d polluted her mouth.
“What will we do with this one?” She held up her dandelion. “This non–Taraxacum hedrae.”
He raised his brows. “We could press it if you like.”
She shook her head, leaned closer to the stone wall. His eyes narrowed, gaze hot. Too hot for a man well and truly preoccupied with dandelions. Good.
“I’d rather blow on it and make a wish, like I did when I was girl. Before I became too practical.” She smiled. “Didn’t you ever make wishes on dandelions?”
“I’ve seen it done.” Now his look was sardonic. “It works better once they’ve gone to seed.”
“True.” Her eyes dropped to the yellow head, all the bright, fresh petals tightly lodged. “We’ll have to try together.” Her eyes fixed his. “Combine our efforts.”
He understood. How could he not? The dandelion bobbed between them. He rubbed his firm, stubbled chin, the smile on his lips amused. Surprised. Wary.
“Are you thinking of a wish?” The toes of her slippers climbed the stone. She couldn’t get any closer.
They looked at each other across the wall.
She wasn’t the blushing maid she’d been with George. No, she would never be that innocent again. With Neal, though, she didn’t have to be innocent. He hadn’t contracted for her virginity. On the contrary, he thought her a brilliant, liberated, adventuresome widow. A woman who broke every mold. Who did what she pleased.
She leaned forward. Lavinia flirted, but Mrs. Pendrake took charge.
“You’re not thinking of a wish,” she said. “You’re trying to decide whether or not to kiss me.” She put her hands on the flat, gritty stone, smearing the dandelion stem, hoisting herself higher. She spoke briskly. “In that case, let me put your mind at ease.”
As she lifted her mouth to his, he laughed, his breath warm against her lips. For a stomach-plunging moment, she thought he’d pull back, and she opened her eyes. His lashes swept down as he studied her face, shading his eyes, turning them black.
“But I was thinking of a wish,” he murmured, fingers brushing over her knuckles, touching the ravaged dandelion.
“No matter.” He rolled his shoulders, a movement that brought his body forward, closer to hers. Shaded by those heavy lashes, his eyes seemed to hold some secret. He raised his hand, traced a finger down her jaw, along her chin, up to her lips.
“It wasn’t unrelated,” he said, and slowly, he lowered his face. His lower lip came between hers, nudged them gently apart. Cranbrook had attacked her mouth, teeth mashing, tongue darting in and out. George had been more languid, plying her with champagne, his dizzying kisses tasting of smoke and whiskey. Neal wasn’t languid, not like George. His body was thicker and harder, contained more raw vitality. She shivered as his palm skated across her shoulder, calluses scraping lightly at her skin. She pressed forward, the stone cutting into her waist, and he pulled at her lip, suckling and plumping it, licking the delicate underside, his fingers wrapping the back of her neck.
A kiss to cleanse her of her husband. And of her doomed lover too.
He didn’t seem inclined to stop. It was to be kisses, then. Many of them, deep and lush. She opened her mouth, inviting him in. Why not? She was never going back to Cranbrook. She would sail to France in a pirate ship, and Neal Traymayne would turn the captain’s wheel.
