Flowers?
Oh dear . . . She could sneeze and have a dozen handkerchiefs presented to her at once. Which one would she choose?
Then again, she could sneeze and have no handkerchiefs presented to her—which seemed far more likely.
Best not sneeze, she warned herself.
Distracted by the cheerful blossoms, she allowed herself to wonder if it was possible that one gentleman in this very room might present her with flowers. The notion sent a tiny jolt of alarm through her. She thought she’d prepared herself for callers. Apparently not. Neither, it seemed, had she prepared herself for receiving flowers.
Did one merely say thank you and blush demurely? Did one praise the blossoms for their beauty or instead extend compliments to the gentleman on his keen eye for color? Did one remark on the size of the bouquet and compare it to the others? No, surely not.
After all, her brother had once told her that men were rather sensitive about comparisons. At least, that was the reason he’d given her when she’d asked why there were so many men who disliked him. She’d often wondered what object they’d been comparing.
“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Lord Pembroke said, his nasal tone breaking Lilah away from her thoughts. He lifted a cluster of violets, a few of them wilting over his fingers. But that didn’t matter. Until this moment, Lilah had had no idea that she’d made an impression on him. Then he pushed the flowers out of her reach, grazing her shoulder, and concluded his greeting by saying, “Lady Granworth.”
Pembroke’s actions started a melee of sorts. The gentlemen were eager to raise their bouquets and offer their effusive compliments to Juliet. Considering her cousin was newly back in London and past the period of mourning, this was to be expected. Only . . . Lilah wished she had expected it. An abundance of callers but apparently none for her.
She tried to step out of the way. Then suddenly, a bunch of fragrant white hyacinths appeared before her face. She gasped with pleasure. Which gentleman’s hand held the precious gift? As they were all crowded into one space, she couldn’t tell. However, that didn’t matter. All that did were these pretty little blossoms. She reached up to take them. “Thank you so very much. I don’t really know what to say—”
Abruptly, the flowers were tugged out of her grasp. “My mistake, miss,” someone said and proceeded to nudge her out of the way.
Lilah stumbled back, the corner of a gilded milieu table striking the outer curve of her bottom. A hiss left her lips as she eased away. Not that anyone noticed.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” Aunt Zinnia scolded. The austerity in her tone commanded instant respect, and the men, in turn, resumed their seats. “Myrtle, please see that the flowers find vases,” she said to the maid who was hunched slightly forward and lingering near the door. And just when Lilah was beginning to wonder if her aunt had noticed that all of the bouquets were for Juliet, her aunt added, “And place them in the upstairs sitting room.”
A room none of them frequented due to its poor lighting and lingering mildew odor. It was as good as banishing the flowers. Since her aunt was not an affectionate person—similar to her sister, Lilah’s mother, in that regard—this likely was her way of offering support. Lilah’s heart warmed.
Crossing the room toward the settee, she intended to sit between her aunt and her cousin. She needed to nurse her sore bottom on a soft surface. Unfortunately, once Juliet sat on one of the settee’s cushions, Lord Pembroke quickly took the other. This left Lilah to take the only vacant seat remaining—the spindle chair near the door. Make that the hard spindle chair. She did her best not to wince when she sat down.
From that point on, both her cousin and aunt set about reintroducing Lilah to every man present. Lord Ellery was among them. He was the only one in the room who didn’t require a wealthy bride. And, as luck would have it, his country estate in Surrey bordered her family’s land.
After Jasper’s death, her father’s death, and the subsequent reading of the will, Lilah’s primary hope was not only to find a gentleman to marry, but to marry one who could help her improve the lives of the tenants residing on her family’s land. Viscount Ellery was the perfect candidate.
Now, if only she could get him to remember her for more than a single minute.
Juliet seemed to share the same thoughts, because she turned toward the viscount. “Did you know that Miss Appleton lives very near your country estate, Lord Ellery?”
When Juliet offered a smile, Lord Ellery’s eyes went round and vacant. “Miss Appleton?”
Juliet gestured toward Lilah, her brow slightly, albeit prettily, knitted. Lilah imagined that her cousin, up until now, hadn’t completely believed the claims of empty parlors and forgetful gentlemen. Blatant proof, however, was difficult to deny.
After another brief introduction, Aunt Zinnia and Juliet directed conversation in clever ways to ascertain each gentleman’s interest in marriage, learning their family pedigree, fortunes, and so forth.
Lilah had observed this type of inquisition before from many of the ton’s matrons in various ballroom settings and social gatherings. Yet Aunt Zinnia was one of the best. Once subjected to her subtle barrage of questions, a gentleman had no hope of withholding anything worth knowing. It was usually entertaining to watch.
This time, however, Lilah was feeling a bit overwhelmed and a bit wounded by the events of the past few minutes. Rising carefully, she excused herself from the room, stating a need to ensure there were enough tarts and biscuits to withstand the onslaught of callers. Even now, her words were accompanied by the pounding of the doorknocker. Soon, there would be more than twenty men crowded into the small parlor.
Lilah knew she wouldn’t be missed.
After informing a vase-toting Myrtle of the low supply of refreshments, Lilah walked straight down the hall to the garden door and slipped outside to her walled haven.
Once in her favorite spot beneath the arbor, she drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. The air was chilly, but there was no breeze to make her too cold without a shawl. Overhead, clematis and rose vines were still brown and dormant. On the ground beside the stone path at her feet, a myriad of crocuses bloomed gaily, while tulip shoots were coming into their full height, hinting at their splendor. And halfway up, between the white arbor post and the slatted wooden bench, a spider’s web fanned out, its occupant hidden from view.
She was just leaning closer to study it when she heard the door open and close with a quiet click. Assuming it was Myrtle on an errand for Aunt Zinnia, Lilah didn’t bother to turn. “You may tell my aunt that I will return shortly. I have need of a breath of air.”
“Do you breathe better when you’re bent at the waist?” a man’s deep voice asked.
Startled, Lilah jerked upright, whipping around to face the stranger.
Only he wasn’t quite a stranger. She’d seen him before. In fact, not more than an hour ago. And he looked just as out of place in this manicured garden as his Destrier had trotting along the London streets. She imagined, however, that man and beast would look perfectly at home galloping across an untamed moor or into battle. The man had a feral, warrior look about him. Especially with the golden, hot-ember color of his eyes beneath the arch of a tawny brow. And instead of walking with perfect pedestrian form, he prowled toward her—agile but controlled, as if always prepared for battle.
Beneath a gray tailored coat, his broad shoulders subtly rolled and shifted. The black buttons of his striped waistcoat were in a flat, straight line, suggesting a firmness, about which she likely shouldn’t ponder. The same way she should not admire the storm-cloud gray shade of his riding breeches and the way they encased his thighs, displaying every gradation of his impressive musculature.
When her gaze dipped, she also took note of the large bouquet of pink and white primroses he carried, hanging carelessly by his side. The flowers were enough to remind her of why she was out in the garden. A fresh wave of disappointment hit her.
“I believe,” she said, b
ut when her words came out in nothing more than a whisper, she cleared her throat and began again. “I believe you’ll find my cousin in the parlor.”
He stopped just beneath the arbor, not two steps from her. As they had earlier, his lips curled into a smirk at one corner of his mouth. This time, there was no mistaking the direction of his gaze. He was, most assuredly, looking at her. “When I asked where I would find Miss Lilah Appleton, a rather frantic maid pointed in this direction. Was she mistaken?”
Lilah’s breath caught in her throat. His voice was that of a warrior’s too—sure and commanding but with an underlying edge. Do not cross me, that tone warned as much as it promised. I will fight to the death for you. She could easily hear him saying those words on a battlefield . . . or in a ballroom. Of course, his attire would be different for each occasion . . .
She shook the errant thought out of her head. Bother. Her imagination was conjuring all sorts of nonsense. Only this time, it wasn’t about a catastrophe. She wondered what that meant, if anything. Distracted by the thought, it took a moment for Lilah’s tongue and lips to find their proper placement. “No.”
This man inquired after her . . . and by name? The notion was so outrageous that it refused to settle in her mind. Or in her stomach, it seemed, because it felt as if it were filled with the experimental effervescent wine that Vale and Ivy had served at their wedding, all light and full of bubbles.
The stranger flashed a smile of mostly even teeth, exposing a set of pointed canines at the top and bottom to complete his feral look. “I must admit you do look in need of a breath of air. If bending at the waist aids your intake, then by all means do not let my intrusion interfere.”
A sudden flood of heat burned her cheeks. Just this moment, she was thankful that she’d not given in to the urge to rub her sore bottom. Otherwise, he might have witnessed that too. “You should not mention such things.”
“Breathing?”
“No, the”—she made a subtle gesture in the general direction of her middle—“other.”
“Am I not to know that you have a waist? No, of course not.” He chuckled, mocking her with a shake of his head. “Oh, you highborn and your rules of conduct. Have you nothing better to do with your time?”
Lilah bristled. The euphoric bubbles inside her burst at once. “Pardon me, sir, but we are not acquainted. You know nothing of me, certainly not enough to warrant an insult.”
“Ah, yes, your kind prefers inane flattery and flowers,” he said, smugness etched in the set of his jaw. His gaze swept over her with apparent disregard. “That is why I’m here—with the flowers.”
“But not with flattery,” she scoffed.
“As you said, we are not acquainted.” He studied her, leaning in a fraction and creating an intimate space between them. “I could provide compliments enough to make your blush return. However, it has come to my understanding that I should hold my tongue and pretend that I did not notice the nuances of your figure in the same manner that you’d noticed mine when I was walking toward you.”
A breath of incredulity escaped her lungs. She wasn’t certain if she was embarrassed, astounded, or insulted. Likely, it was all three. “Who are you, sir? I demand to know.”
At last, he extended the flowers with one hand and doffed his hat with the other, revealing a mane of thick wheat-colored hair swept back from his forehead and ending just above his collar. “Jack Marlowe.”
Jack Marlowe? The name was familiar to her but only through rumor. Apparently, he was one of the richest men in England and a rogue to boot. But what had earned him an ever-present marker on the lips of the ton’s preeminent gossipmongers was the fact that he was the bastard son of the Earl of Dovermere.
His smirk returned. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Perhaps, though it does not explain why you are here.” Distracted, Lilah realized she hadn’t accepted the bouquet of pink and white primroses. She reached out but hesitated when she noted the size of his hand. His grip enveloped the entire bundle of stems. As large as his hands were, there would be no way to avoid touching him. The flesh was darker too, as if he spent little time, if any, wearing gloves. Not a gentleman’s hands. Most likely, they would be rough and calloused. At the thought, a peculiar sort of the thrill raced through her, quickening her pulse.
She took a half step toward him. Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze. This close, she noticed that the color of his irises were more the golden brown of freshly nipped sugar than that of a glowing ember. His eyes were warm and clear but with a surprisingly alluring sharpness that spoke of intelligence and confidence. As any warrior should, he had a scar—a tiny S-shape of silver flesh just above his cheekbone, close to his temple. A strange temptation to ask him about it nearly rolled off her tongue. But in that same moment, she realized she’d been standing close to him for far too long.
Bracing herself now, she settled both of her hands just beneath the blossoms, cradling them. As she suspected, his hand was warm, his knuckles rough. So then why did a jolt of surprise rush through her?
A quiver vibrated through her at the slight touch. It seemed to hum in her ears, as if she’d plucked the longest string on her harp and rested her cheek against the curved frame. She pressed harder against his hand to quell this unexpected feeling. Slowly, he withdrew. The heated length of his fingers grazed the undersides of her palms, sending those vibrations to the very center of her body.
She let out a staggered breath and took a step back.
He stared at her, his expression nonplussed as he flexed his hand at his side, as if the brief touch had bothered him as well.
“Have you nothing to say of the flowers?” he asked after a moment, reminding her of the blossoms in her arms. “Or do you receive them with such frequency that you simply tell your maid to tend them with a shooing flip of your fingers?”
Had she been clear-headed, she might have laughed. Instead, she absently looked down and stroked the pink fan of a petal, her mind still contemplating the lingering reaction she’d had to his touch. “They are beautiful. It is a shame that they will be dead in two days’ time, like all cut flowers.”
“Would you have preferred a potted flower?”
“I’m not quite certain. These are the first flowers of any kind that I’ve received.” When she realized what she’d just admitted, her sense returned with a snap. She looked at him, horrified that she’d revealed such a personal—not to mention embarrassing—detail.
When his gaze widened, she wondered if he would laugh at her again. Instead, he unfisted his hand and raked it through his hair before donning his hat. “Hmm . . . well, that adds to the mystery, doesn’t it?”
She was almost afraid to ask. “What mystery?”
“The reason the Duke of Vale rode to my house in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, handed me a card with your name and address, and asked me to send you flowers.”
Lilah recalled being at the duke’s party that night. Ivy had been heartbroken and worried for the duke’s safety. Fortunately, the following day had brought good tidings for both Ivy and Vale.
Looking down at the flowers cradled in her arms, Lilah calculated the time. “It is March. And you were given this task on Christmas Eve?”
When she remembered how lonely she had been without Ivy to talk to—but also abundantly happy for her friend—a handful of flowers might have been just the thing to cheer her. This man had been set with such a task, yet he’d chosen to wait for however long it suited him.
His self-important, tawny brows lifted. “That is the only thing you find noteworthy in all of what I said?”
“More than two months have passed. Surely a man of your . . . ” Her words trailed off, and she blushed because it was inappropriate to mention money in polite conversation.
“Riches? Wealth? Well-endowed . . . fortune?” he supplied, mockery saturating those smug syllables. “You have permission to use any of those. I harbor no rules against stating the obvious.”
/> In that moment, she decided she did not like Mr. Jack Marlowe. Not one bit. “An affluent man is bound to be in possession of a hot house, and therefore flowers at any time of the year. You could have honored your promise much sooner.”
When Miss Appleton’s wide brown eyes had first spotted the posies in his hand, she’d offered such a bland glance that Jack had assumed she didn’t care for flowers. He still wasn’t certain if he believed her confession about these being her first. What young woman of—well, judging by the enticing firmness of her figure, he’d suppose—one and twenty had never before received flowers?
While her nature was uncompromising—at least what he’d witnessed thus far—her lashes were as thick as bed curtains, softening even the harshest looks she fired at him. And even with that unflattering fringe of curls drooping over her forehead, she possessed a certain appeal. Her skin was creamy. Her posture, perfect. Her hands, elegant. Her mouth, however, was relatively unremarkable, seemingly without form or color . . . until she’d begun to scold him. Then her lips bloomed into a lush, inviting red. They were still in full color.
Were the men among the ton too blind to appreciate a subtle sort of beauty?
Then again, perhaps not all men were immune. After all, Vale had sent him on this errand. Perhaps he had noticed Miss Lilah Appleton. Which would explain why she had suddenly become interested in the flowers only after she’d learned of Vale’s involvement.
Jack studied her closely. Did she harbor a secret tendre for Vale? Was there an attachment between them?
For some reason, the notion sparked his ire. “How quickly you alter. One minute you do not even look twice at the flowers, and next, you are directing me where I might find them in the future. No doubt, you’ll be expecting a fresh bouquet each time we meet.”
“No, Mr. Marlowe.” She shook her head with superfluous enthusiasm. “We will not meet again. Your promise has been fulfilled, even though quite delayed.” Concluding her reprimand, she stepped forward and angled herself as if to pass by him.
The Debutante Is Mine Page 3
