Passionate by Anthea Lawson

upon by you, brother dear.”
    Mr. Huntington smiled. “I would be pleased to go as your guest, and relieve Richard of his obligations.” His gaze found Lily.
    A curious tingle shot through her when she thought of whirling to the music with Mr. Huntington. She imagined he was an excellent dancer.
    “Lily,” Uncle Edward said. “Will you be finished with the illustrations by Saturday?”
    She took a moment to focus on his words. “Saturday?” Oh, yes, when father was sending the coach. “I have almost completed the paintings. A touch more work on the Anthurium , and I will be finished.”
    “Splendid! I’m sure you have done your usual superb job.”
    “I think you will be pleased.” She looked over to the piano.
    “Richard, now that I am almost done with the botanical work, I was hoping you would sit for me tomorrow. I saw a new style of portraiture at the Royal Academy that I would very much like to try.”
    “I think I promised Isabelle I’d escort her into the village.” He looked pleadingly at his sister. “Didn’t I?”
    Isabelle grinned. “Actually, he did. I have a stunning gown to wear for the ball and need one more fitting. I’m sorry, Lily.”
    “It’s for the best, I suppose.” Lily shook her head in mock disapproval. “Richard does find it a challenge to sit still. You can have him, Isabelle.” She looked pointedly at Mrs. Hodges. “There are other subjects to be had.”
    “Hmph,” Mrs. Hodges said. “The trials I endure. Very well, Miss Lily. If you insist, and your aunt doesn’t put me to packing steamer trunks.” She seemed gruffly pleased with the request.
    “After luncheon tomorrow, in the conservatory. I should be ready for you by then.”

Chapter 5
    Soft light filtered through the brass and cut-glass doors leading to the conservatory. James glimpsed palm fronds and the huge leaves of philodendron inside. When he swung the doors open he was enfolded by moist, scented heat. Vivid memories of his grandfather’s conservatory flooded through him—wet pavers, the potting bench, a huge watering can with flaking green paint.
    Since returning to England, James had often felt the wash of memory as he revisited places he had known as a child, but this was beyond anything he had experienced. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, flooded with light.
    Sir Edward had retired for his afternoon nap, leaving James with a message for Miss Strathmore. It would probably have been wiser to send a servant to deliver the message. The woman was altogether too tempting. It would be better if he kept his mind on his business—he couldn’t afford to offend his host by dallying with the man’s attractive niece. Not that she was a suitable candidate for dalliance in any case.
    Ahead, a brick walkway circled an enormous round planter. Ferns drooped and water cascaded over rocks into a shallow pool. Above him, a huge spiny tree soared two stories, brushing the glass roof and spreading its umbrels over the flowering plants below.
    Skirting the pool, James sighted a figure through the leaves. Miss Strathmore was working at her easel, her back to him. She wore a blue apron tied over her dress, emphasizing her waist and the sensuous curve of her hips. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow revealing slim, strong arms and capable hands.
    He leaned his shoulder against one of the great iron columns that supported the structure and watched her. She appeared completely at ease, humming a tune he did not recognize and working the canvas with quick, precise strokes of her brush. Every now and then she would stop to look at the potted flower sitting amid a jumble of art supplies on a tall table. Her humming would stop. Then she would dab her brush in color and begin painting and humming all over again. The warmth of the greenhouse had brought a glow to her skin, and a strand of hair had escaped the pins. Not a girl in a pretty gown, but a woman, authentic and as beautiful as any of the exotic blooms that surrounded