A Growing Passion Read Online Free PDF Page B

spectacular Italian villa, but on the other hand, he certainly was a far better lover, and a much more complex man than the one she imagined only had a passion for his work. As she loved adventure, his different facets were more fascinating than she ever imagined.
    Who would think a staid botanist could be so interesting?
    Who would think that she might be, of all things, in love with Stephen ?
     
    “Are you awake?” He brushed the hair from Victoria’s face, regretfully aware the sun had already tinged the horizon with the faintest hint of light. She was beautiful always, but Stephen liked her most like this; tousled from his lovemaking, replete and exhausted enough she could do little more than flicker her eyelids and mumble his name.
    At least he’d finally lived up to his reputation, he thought with wry amusement, because he’d kept her up far too late.
    Regretfully he slipped out of her bed, donned his clothes swiftly, and headed for the damned window. He was not the type of man who found scaling walls a gallant, quixotic gesture. Instead he thought there was every chance he might slip and land on his arse in the garden below her window, bruising not just his posterior but also his male pride. But considering the reward of this visit, he was willing to chance it.
    He couldn’t say the fair maiden was won, but surely she was . . . persuaded.
     
    On her knees, mindless of the damp earth, Victoria frowned and ran her fingers over the knobby growth on the stem. It was black and almost furry in texture, and she was admittedly perplexed. “You say all the usual treatments don’t work, Gibbons?”
    The old man, who had served faithfully and loyally as the estate gardener for two decades, shook his head. “No, my lady, I’m afraid not. I’ve tried it all, even the clever spray you concocted that worked on the insect trouble we had last year. It began in late summer, has gotten progressively worse, and I have now begun to notice it on several of the other plants.”
    Gazing at the limp leaves and several rotted branches, Victoria was alarmed. “Not my roses, I hope.” Her rose garden was her pride and joy, the abundance and variety of the blooms a source of great fulfillment . Even in October they still flourished because of her careful care and attention, feeding, watering and pruning a science and yet also an art tailored to the needs of each specific plant.
    “Not yet. I check them daily. Perhaps Mr. Forsythe will know.”
    She rose and dusted off her skirts. “Yes, Stephen would be the person to ask.”
    “Let me know what he says, my lady. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to trimming the yews by the library.” Shuffling off, Gibbons left her standing there, gloomily looking at the sick bush, her mind elsewhere.
    Good heavens, just the mention of Stephen’s name made her heart beat faster. And, she had to admit, she missed him terribly. He’d had to go to London for a week to give a lecture on his fruit tree experiments, promising to call as soon as he returned.
    In that week she had come to the inevitable conclusion that she was in love with him. Oh, she’d loved him her whole life, but this was pure passionate love with all the longing, the yearning and the pleasure immortalized in song and literature.
    As she strolled along the tidy paths, she hardly noticed the brilliant blue of the fine late fall sky, the sweetness of the breeze, or even more remarkably, the vegetation around her.
    “Good afternoon.”
    Since her thoughts were so occupied with him, the familiar voice seemed natural. Glancing up, she saw Stephen standing a few feet away, his hair slightly windblown, his jacket over his arm in deference to the unusual warmth. He smiled at her and lifted a brow. “I walked over and decided to cut through the gardens. I can usually count on finding you here on a day like this. How are you, Tori?”
    “You’re back!” she cried, and before she could stop herself, she ran forward to fling herself