Garden of Temptation Read online

  Garden of Temptation

  Daphne Bloom

  Red Empress Publishing

  www.RedEmpressPublishing.com

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  Copyright © Daphne Bloom

  DaphneBloom.com

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  Cover by Josephine Blake

  www.CoversAndCupcakes.com

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recoding, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Also by Daphne Bloom

  Garden of Love Series

  Garden of Hope

  Garden of Dreams

  Garden of Temptation

  Garden of Joy

  Garden of Delight

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading!

  Garden of Joy

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Violet

  I pick up the hem of my gown as I climb the stairs to Birchwood Manor, the home of my great aunt. Before I even reach the top, the door opens and the matronly woman herself steps out, clad in her typical dark garb, her face grave.

  “Well, I’m back,” I say with more despondency than I meant to.

  “Hmm. Well, nothing to be done about it, I suppose,” she says. “Give us a kiss.”

  We kiss on the cheeks and then she leads the way back into the house and the drawing-room. I let out a sigh as I untie my hat, tossing it aside. I wish I could go upstairs and take off my corset. It has been such a long journey from London, I’m exhausted. But I know my aunt wishes to talk. I sit on a chair and settle for removing one of my shoes and rubbing my foot. Amazing how sitting in a carriage for days can still result in terribly sore feet.

  “So, what happened?” Aunt Charlotte asks as she sits in a chair opposite me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.”

  “Come then,” she says, annoyed. “Are you really telling me you didn’t have a single suitor?”

  “A couple of gents showed interest,” I say. “But nothing serious. I was never alone for a dance or dinner conversation. But anything more than that…” I shake my head as I replace my shoe on my foot. “I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

  “You being American is what’s wrong,” Aunt Charlotte says.

  “Father and Mother were certain that I would have no problems finding a husband with a title considering my dowry.”

  “That was wishful thinking on their part,” she says. “And I told them as much at the beginning. And now look at you. Three Seasons, three years wasted without a proposal. You’ll be an old maid before you get a title, that’s for certain.”

  “I thank you for the encouragement,” I say. “It has happened before, though. There are plenty of young lords whose estates could use an extra influx of cash. Rose Montgomery, Sarah Bolger. They both managed to marry into the nobility and elevate their families.”

  “Rose Montgomery and Henry Ascot met while he was in America on other business,” my aunt reminds me. “It was a love match. His family would never have approved otherwise. And as for Sarah Bolger… Do your parents really think that she is the best example to follow?”

  Poor Sarah. She married a fortune-hunter for a title, but her happiness lasted not a year before her husband took a mistress.

  “But there have been others,” I say.

  My aunt waves me off. “Two or three, I suppose. Very, very few considering how many peers there are from Wales to Scotland. Not to mention Ireland. Though why a young woman would ever want to marry an Irishman is beyond me.”

  “My parents did concede on that front,” I say. “They said I could accept an Irish title if that were all I could manage. But even the Irish lords showed no serious interest. Is there really not a single fortune-hunter in the whole of England who would settle for an American wife?”

  “Not without attempting to court every Englishwoman of quality he can find first. It’s as I said, by the time you’ve been here long enough for anyone to give you any serious consideration, you’ll be too old.”

  “Three and twenty is hardly elderly,” I say.

  “You’ll be four and twenty next season,” she says. “If your parents were really set on this they should have sent you when you were sixteen or seventeen. Given people time to get to know you before you even came of age.”

  “We can’t change that now,” I say. “Still, a woman’s dowry usually trumps her age, does it not?” She has to give me some credit on that score. Even older widows stand a fair chance of remarrying if their first husband left them a large enough estate.

  “Marrying a title-hunter has as little appeal to men as marrying a fortune-hunter does to women,” she says. “It’s distasteful and not spoken of in polite company.”

  “Then how does it happen?” I ask. “Because I know it does.”

  She hesitates. “Are you sure you want to attempt that route, my dear? Wouldn’t you rather catch a young man’s eye on your own?”

  “Of course I would!” I say. “What do you think I’ve been doing? I don’t want my marriage to be a business arrangement. But what else can I do? As soon as I open my mouth and men hear my accent, they immediately write me off as a prospect.”

  “Because we want to marry our own,” she says. “That’s just how it is. Wouldn’t you rather marry an American?”

  “Certainly,” I say. “I had no shortage of suitors back home. And my sister will be fortunate in that regard. With me a proper lady here in England, they will gladly marry Elizabeth to an important politician or businessman on that side of the pond.”

  “But they won’t want to waste your potential on you becoming an old maid and never marrying,” Aunt Charlotte says. “Write to them. Tell them that you still have not secured a proposal and that you have no prospects. Perhaps they will call you home and marry you off there.”

  I blow out my cheeks and lean back in the chair. “I’ve thought that at the end of every Season,” I say. “That surely they will put this failed endeavor to rest and let me return home with at least some dignity. It hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Try, try again,” she says.

  “And if they don’t?” I ask. “What then? Will you help me secure a fortune-hunter? Do you know any?”

  She sighs and uses her cane to help her stand. “I suppose I can try. I won’t make any promises, though.”

  “Thank you,” I say with not as much relief as I had hoped. The thought of marrying a fortune-hunter is more than distasteful. It’s actually frightening. What if I end up in a loveless marriage like Sarah Bolger? Or worse, with a man who is cruel or squanders my dowry as he did his own fortune. I’ve mentioned all these concerns to my parents, but they insist I keep trying.

  “I’m going to lie down,” Aunt Charlotte says. “Are you going to rest before supper?”

  “I was going to,” I say. “But after sitting in that carriage for the last three days I am feeling a bit cloistered. I’ll take a walk, I
suppose.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out,” she says.

  I stand and stretch and go out a side door to the large grassy lawn east of the house. I then turn south, toward the garden. It’s a lovely space, all color and sweet smells. It is always a splendid place to walk when I need to order my thoughts.

  When Father first told me that I was being sent to England to find a husband with a title, I suppose the idea was a bit exciting. I’d never left America before. I’d met several Englishmen, all businessmen, though, who came to work out arrangements with my father. They were always quite charming, of course. I’d thought it would be perfectly romantic if one of them swept me off my feet and took me to London to live. But Father had other plans for me.

  “The real money,” he said, “the real power is among the nobles.”

  But English nobility is almost a world unto itself. All connections, marriages, business dealings, political changes, all of it seems to occur within the confines of English peerage. And since Father wasn’t born into the nobility, his only chance of breaking through was with a marriage. But since he was married to my mother, the task fell to their eldest child. To me.

  I didn’t love the idea of marrying someone just for a title. Someone who would probably only be marrying for my money. But I was optimistic enough to think that I’d be able to have it all. Find a man who needed only a bit of cash but really married me because he loved me. So, I came to England fully intending to fulfill my parents’ orders and find romance at the same time.

  But so far, I’d found neither.

  My foot kicks a trowel carelessly left on the garden path. Strange. Mr. Ash is usually rather particular about his tools. It must have slipped out of his tool basket. I pick it up, dirty as it is. I’ll give it to one of the footmen to take to the garden shed.

  I’ve walked a fair distance from the house and notice that this part of the garden is not as well-maintained as it should be. The bushes are growing rather wild and ivy is starting to creep across the path. I wonder if my aunt is aware of the neglect. Probably not. She doesn’t usually walk this far from the house. Still, it’s not right that Mr. Ash should let things get overgrown. He is the gardener, after all. He is getting rather old, though. Perhaps he simply can’t keep up the way he used to. I wonder if he should retire. Do servants retire? Does the estate provide for elderly servants in perpetuity? I don’t really know. If I am to become a lady, though, the head of my own household, I suppose this is something I should learn. I’ll have to ask my aunt about it.

  Oh, Aunt Charlotte. Dear Aunt Charlotte. Aunt Charlotte is actually a cousin of my mother’s mother, I believe. I’m not exactly sure how we are related, to be honest. Widowed rather young with only two daughters, her husband’s title was given to someone else but the estate he had left to her. Now she has a huge house and acres and acres of land where she lives mostly by herself. Her daughters visit once or twice a year, but their dowries allowed them to marry well, so they have their own large houses to run and children to raise. I’m not sure what will happen to Birchwood when Aunt Charlotte passes, though it is rather morbid to dwell on such thoughts. She is elderly but still of sound mind and in good health. She’ll probably outlive us all, to be truthful.

  I start to feel a bit warm and realize that I am without my hat. It won’t do if I allow the sun to taint my pale skin. I turn around to go back the way I came and realize that I don’t exactly know the way I came. I was so lost in thought as I went this way and that, it will be a devil to find my way out again.

  I sigh in annoyance but decide to make the best of things by picking a few flowers to make a new arrangement for my room. There’s nothing like waking to the smell of fresh flowers. I don’t know what any of them are called, I only pick what I like, using the edge of the trowel to cut through some of the tougher stems. Apparently, flower arranging is something that most English ladies are taught from a young age. Seems rather frivolous. In America, they didn’t teach flower arranging at school, only practical subjects like math and penmanship and—

  I stop when I hear a noise. I’m not sure what kind of noise as I wasn’t paying attention, but now I straighten and open my ears.

  I hear it again, like a groan.

  “Hello?” I say. “Is someone out here?”

  “Ohh…” the voice groans again. It sounds like someone in pain. I turn down the path in the direction I think the sound is coming from.

  “Hello? Are you there?” I call out.

  “He…help me…” the voice wheezes.

  I turn a corner and gasp when I see the old gardener lying on the ground. He groans and pants, clutching his heart.

  “Oh, Mr. Ash!” I go to him and kneel by his side, dropping the trowel and flowers. I take his hand. “What’s wrong? What should I do?”

  “Doctor…doc…” He lets out a sigh and loses consciousness.

  “Of course!” I say, jumping to my feet and running down the lane. I should have known! He’s obviously hurt. Or had an apoplexy. “Help!” I scream when I can’t immediately find my way out. Thankfully, a frantic footman appears and runs toward me.

  “My lady?” The servants always call me “lady” even though I’m not one. I stopped correcting them long ago.

  I point back down the row. “Mr. Ash. He’s hurt!”

  The footman goes in the way I indicated just as a maid joins us.

  “My lady?” she asks.

  “We must send for the doctor!” I say. I have no idea how long the poor man laid there before I found him. I only hope it’s not too late to help him.

  Chapter Two

  Edison

  As I walk up the dirt road toward my family’s home, I take my time. I love my family, of course. That is the whole reason I am here. But I know that as soon as I get where I’m going, my life will no longer be my own.

  I ran away at sixteen, nearly ten years ago. I’d felt the force of my father’s fist for the last time. It gutted me to leave my younger siblings behind, but I don’t believe I had a choice. I believe the man would have killed me. Or I him.

  It was hard, living on my own. I bounced from here to there, from job to job. Finally, I found a job trimming hedges for a large estate. It didn’t pay well, but it included meals and a roof over my head. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the work. There was a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day, seeing a perfectly straight and clean row of hedges. I started to get a bit creative, cutting shrubs and bushes into interesting shapes. The lady of the manor was pleased with my work, and over time, I learned much more than trimming hedges. The head gardener for the estate needed more help, so he taught me everything he knew.

  It was a surprisingly easy and comfortable life. Not that I didn’t work hard, but I enjoyed it, and that made all the difference. And, of course, there was far less work during the winter months. During those times, I did maintenance and repairs around the estate. A regular jack-of-all-trades, I suppose I was. But I always looked forward to spring and the chance to get back to the work I really loved.

  But, all things must come to an end, I suppose. Over the years, I’d kept in sporadic touch with my younger siblings through letters once or twice a year. One of my sisters was able to escape the family when she found a job as a housemaid in the next county. Another brother… Well, he left home and that was the last any of us ever heard from him. I don’t blame him, I just hope he’s well. But then I finally received the news I was truly waiting for.

  Father was dead.

  He hadn’t exactly drunk himself into an early grave, but he picked a fight with the wrong man while intoxicated and took a blow to the head and was gone. Fitting, I suppose, considering how many blows he’d inflicted on his family over the years. I had long grown out of my anger and bitterness. I had a good life and was glad for it. There was only a sense of relief that came over me. Relief that my family, my mother and siblings who still lived at home, would be free of his terror. I hadn’t expected the man’s death to completely change
my life.

  Father had been, at least, a hard worker, and he was able to pay the rent and provide food for his brood. Anything left over, though, went straight into a bottle, so they never had any savings. With him gone, my mother despaired about how to care for herself and the family. Apparently, during one of their rows, Father pushed Mother into a table, damaging her hip, and she’d never fully recovered. She walks with a limp, on days she can walk at all, so working a proper job is out of the question for her. There are still four children at home, two boys and two girls, two of which I’ve never met as they were born after I left.

  I could have just sent money back, I suppose. I have managed to save a wee bit over the years, and I had a fair salary. But Mother needs more help than that. She needs someone to help with the children and take care of the house. So, here I am, walking down a road I never thought I’d see again to take care of a family I hardly know. At least my previous employer was sad to lose me and wrote me an excellent reference. There are several estates around Birch Hollow, the village where my family lives, so hopefully I can find respectable employment nearby.

  It was my choice to return, I know that. But any plans I had for my life have been completely dashed. I’d hoped to stay at that estate for the rest of my life, or only leave if I found a more senior gardening position at another estate. I hadn’t saved money only for myself, but in the hopes of marrying. There were several pretty young ladies in the village and a couple of maids in the house who were all acceptable probabilities. I might be a flirt, but I wasn’t a rake, so I kept a respectable distance from ladies until I could afford to take care of one. To buy a small village house where we could live. A home, a wife, children, all things I saw in my future in the next few years as my position and wages increased. But now…