Page 25 of Dearest Beast
“Are you sure you’re a midwife?” he asked.
Rebecca’s face grew hot. How dare he challenge her professional expertise? “Beg pardon?”
“With that sort of fabulosity, one would think you were an actress,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Though I suppose for that profession, one would need to know how to please an audience.”
Truly, he was the worst of people.
“You call this welcoming guests?” she retorted.
“As I said before, you may do what you wish while you’re here,” he returned.
As if that were remotely true. Here or anywhere.
“Then I will bid you a good night.” She gave her best imitation of a curtsy before brushing past him to the hall.
“Good night, Miss Adler,” he called after her, his voice smug. “I hope you enjoyed dinner.” She raced up the staircase, the closest she had to an escape, the sound of his voice echoing in her head long after it was gone.
With the gentlest gloved hand, Roger reached out and removed the last spent bloom from his hothouse roses. A yellow German species that could be grown in the winter, as it didn’t require much sun. He’d been working with a new variety that was supposed to flower in a shade somewhere between pink and orange, but no luck as of yet.
Patience. He needed patience. His most necessary quality. His wealth, his face, his intelligence, all double-edged blades. His patience was what permitted him to succeed where others failed. And even though he’d practically lost it earlier with Miss Adler, he would not permit that to happen again.
Not during these six weeks. Not ever.
Patience.
He’d never truly understood the word until his brother David, of all people, introduced him to his first rose, the Slater’s Crimson, twenty-four years ago.
Louis’s behavior had escalated from fighting with family members to sneaking out with all sorts of hooligans to fight for money in a ring, to a near arrest. His family, fearing for both his life and the community, called in every gentile favor possible to have his brother admitted to an exclusive school for boys, sending Roger along for good measure. To assure he’d not fail them too. The plant and the advice on its care had been a parting gift of sorts.
Roger pulled another spent bud, recalling how he must have appeared exiting the carriage, clutching the thing. If he hadn’t already been marked for a hundred reasons beforehand, well… Shaking his head, he wandered to the corner to visit that same first plant, still alive, still his, still there. Reaching out, he stroked its leaves.
And yet, despite the mockery, or perhaps due to it, along with the other indignities he’d suffered from not merely his classmates but every single adult—tutors and servants alike—he’d become nearly obsessed with its care.
David had certainly made him work for his success. The Slater’s Crimson was no common English rose, a former wildflower. Such a gift would have meant immediate success, but no, for once he’d correctly understood his need for a challenge. And an ability to rise to the same.
One that could be just his and not fraught with the dangers of competing against his gentile peers—well, gentile classmates, as they’d never be his peers—nor Louis.
A private challenge, for him and him alone.
It hadn’t been easy.
The plant had been fickle and frustrating and nearly died several times. He’d read every treatise he could find—not only on that variety but also on the climate in the region of China to which it was native, as well as what else was grown there and the latest scientific theories on climate and wind. When he finally yielded that beautiful red bloom, the satisfaction was like nothing he’d ever felt. And nothing he’d felt since.
After that he’d become obsessed, cultivating every variety he could find.
Uncle Naphtali raised them,David had explained, reverence in his voice for their father’s brother, the strategist behind their family’s fortune.He said that you must treat those whose favor you seek likeroses. Study them and tailor your care to their particular needs and variety. Be patient and they will bloom for you. Never held much interest for me, but I felt they might be fitting for you.
If only it were still so simple.
But his past failures no longer mattered. Teres had offered him a miracle. Once he married the man’s daughter, he would be king.
Besides, his children needed a stepmother, and Leone Teres would be good for them. She’d never replace Lucy. No one could. Lucy had been a good mother, despite what Miss Adler had implied. However—
“This is impressive. Are they all yellow?” a voice behind him said, causing him to whirl around, nearly stabbing his unwanted guest with his shears.
Apparently, merely thinking her name could conjure the woman herself. Something he’d need to avoid in the future.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, laying the tool down on the table behind him and stepping back from her person. She was still dressed in the borrowed burgundy gown. The neckline fell far lower than any he’d seen on his relatives. Quite inappropriate.
