Page 67 of The Botanist’s Improper Bride

“Please rest assured that I have every intention of marrying her,” Trevor continued, one of his hands fluttering near his hip before stilling.

Seraphina raised her eyes, relieved to find that her father was now glaring at Trevor rather than her. Trevor held his gaze, and it might have been the longest she’d ever seen him maintain eye contact with another person. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his breath quickened, but he didn’t look away until her father did. Then he exhaled a rush of air and squirmed a little.

“Whether or not you’re soon to be married, it’s time for you to leave,” her father said, gesturing for Trevor to step away from Seraphina.

“I will marry her,” Trevor repeated, his voice steely.

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Dalton strode over and ushered him away irritably. “Please be on your way. There are matters I need to discuss with my daughter.”

To her surprise, Trevor looked over his shoulder at her as her father tried to get rid of him. “Would you like me to stay?”

Her insides warmed and she flashed him a quick smile. “No, but thank you for offering.”

It meant a lot that he’d stand against her father to support her. She was learning that Trevor had all sorts of unexpected depths.

Once he was gone, her father rounded on her. “I don’t know what you’re about, but something improper is going on, and I won’t have it.”

“It isn’t so improper,” she muttered, looking down. “Not if he marries me.”

“If,” he said pointedly. “Are you trying to drive away another suitor?”

Her eyes widened and flew up to his. “No! What do you mean? I⁠—”

“I know you did something to send Beardsly running.”

Scowling, she folded her arms across her chest. “He was the one who jilted me. How could I possibly be at fault?”

“I don’t know, but I had my suspicions at the time, and I’m growing more certain of them each day. He was enamored with you before the betrothal but grew gradually more distant, and I’ve been racking my mind, but the only explanation I can think of is that you did or said something to put him off. Are you hoping that allowing Lord Fitzgerald to take liberties where I might stumble upon you will lead to a duel, and that you’ll escape marriage a second time?”

“I want to marry Trevor!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. “I like him.”

Mr. Dalton’s lip curled. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

“He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to marry. I’m telling the truth.” She didn’t know what else she could say to make him believe it. She supposed it wouldn’t matter for long. Once they were married, he would see that she’d been honest.

“Go to your room.”

She stared at him, askance. Had he really just tried to send her to her chamber like she was a little girl?

When his eyes landed on her, they were conflicted. She got the impression that he didn’t like to be at odds like this but didn’t see any other way forward. She wanted to argue until he listened, but if she pushed, he’d just ignore her, so, reluctantly, she did as he’d asked and returned to her room. Not because he’d ordered her to, but because doing so made the most sense.

Life was going to be so much better once she was married to Trevor. She wouldn’t have to tread so carefully or waste so much time pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have to hide her experiments or sneak around like a thief in her own home.

She couldn’t wait.

She just hoped that Mr. Emerson wouldn’t manage to sabotage their plans. Together, she and Trevor would be able to outsmart him.

They had to, right?

Pacing the length of the room, she quickly realized that she wouldn’t be able to sit down and read or gaze calmly out the window. Instead, she headed for her makeshift laboratory. She donned an apron, pulled on leather gloves to protect her hands, and retrieved the dried willow bark she stored in a cupboard in the corner.

From another cabinet, she withdrew a marble mortar and pestle—she’d learned quickly that porcelain was too fragile to break up the tough bark—and dropped some of the bark into the mortar. She leaned into the grinding process, using her weight to help, her shoulder and upper arm muscles burning as she worked at the fibrous bark until the remaining particles were small enough to use in the extraction process.

By the time she finished, her body was warm, and a light sheen of sweat covered her forehead and upper lip. Setting aside the powdered bark, she started three flasks heating and added a different solvent to each. She split the bark between the three flasks and tweaked the temperature until each flask was simmering evenly.

There was a small double-hung sash window, and she opened the top and bottom just enough to allow the air to flow, cold air coming in the bottom and the warmer air bearing solvent fumes leaving through the top.

It would take a few hours for the solvents to fully evaporate, leaving the pulp and crude extract behind, so she found a piece of paper, retrieved her quill and ink, and jotted down everything that still hadn’t been organized for the wedding. Most of the arrangements had been made, but she wanted to marry Trevor as soon as possible—before Mr. Emerson made good on his threats.