‘I’ve told you to call me Bess.’
Perhaps water lilies for purity of heart, so that Lottie would know he would never waver. ‘Thank you,’ he replied distractedly.
‘Another bouquet for Miss Rossington?’ Miss Flemming asked.
Miss Rossington. Even her name made Evander’s chest go tight. ‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been sending them to the lady for two years now, my lord.’
A cluster of myrtle caught his attention. Once upon a time he’d been so bold as to add a few of those delicate white flowers to a bunch he’d intended to give Lottie. That first time he’d called on her, just after they’d first met.
‘Forgive my boldness, my lord, as I mean no disrespect, but perhaps the lady doesn’t return your regard.’ Miss Flemming stepped closer.
A purple flower caught his attention. Hyacinth. Sorrow. Forgiveness. There was a darkness in him that longed to send Lottie a vase filled with them, so that she might know the extent of the hurt he still suffered over losing her.
‘There are no doubt any number of women who find you extraordinarily attractive. Women who would welcome your esteem and who aren’t averse to a mere dalliance.’ Miss Flemming touched his gloved hand.
Evander was startled, and regarded her wide brown eyes as she gazed up at him expectantly.
‘Red roses, I think,’ he said. While not especially imaginative, how could a chap go wrong with flowers that spoke of passionate love?
Miss Flemming lowered her head. ‘We recently received some china roses. For eternal beauty and grace.’
Ah, now, there was a rare and enchanting flower—much like his recipient.
‘Yes, perfect.’ He glanced at his pocket watch, noting it was nearly three—almost time for his meeting with several investors regarding a silver mining operation, for which he was the prime contributor. Another venture that would guarantee an impressive return. ‘Preferably red.’
‘Of course.’ Miss Flemming looked up.
The smile on her face somewhat diminished for some reason, he thought, although he could not hazard a guess as to why.
‘And hyacinths.’
She faltered. ‘With red china roses? Perhaps white roses instead?’
Purity. Evander immediately shook his head. He would not remind Lottie of the absence of her innocence, of what he had cost her. ‘You will make it look pleasing. You always do.’
The smile was back on Miss Flemming’s face. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?’ She moved closer to him once more. ‘Anything at all?’
He frowned at her curious action. ‘The flowers will do well enough. Thank you, Miss Flemming.’ He would have just enough time to make it to the meeting. ‘Do forgive me, but I must go.’
Miss Flemming nodded. ‘I’ll see you next week, for another bouquet for Miss Rossington.’
And that was why he appreciated Miss Flemming. She could craft a fine bunch of flowers and she always anticipated what he would need.
The bouquets would not make things right with Lottie, he knew. He was not so daft as to anticipate such paltry things would win her heart. But they were a symbol—not only of his ever-present sentiments towards her, but of his loyalty to her. The flowers were delivered each week without fail—a reminder to her that he was not that foolish young man any more. That he was steadfast in his determination to win her back. That he would spend his entire life trying to make up for his egregious behaviour and find a way back into her heart.
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘Good day, Miss Flemming.’
With that, he left the shop and rushed towards his appointment.
In the years that had passed since he’d first arrived back in England, he’d sold the spices, fabrics and other treasures acquired on his travels for even more than anticipated.
It should have been enough.
Yet somehow no amount of fortune ever seemed as if it was. There was always another investment to be had, another pocket of wealth to unearth.
What’s more, he was damn good at it. It was something tangible. Something he could control. All his efforts yielded reward.
He climbed into his carriage and leaned his head back as it lurched onward. If only his efforts with Lottie would prove as successful.
* * *
Lottie made her way down to the drawing room to meet with her first and only male student: Viscount Rawley. Ironically, Lady Caroline, the object of his affection, was another student of hers. The young lady was a black-haired beauty whose dark eyes shone with infatuation every time she mentioned Lord Rawley.
It should have worked out impeccably, and yet attempting to put the two together was about as easy as blending oil and water.
The issue was due in large part to the Viscount’s misgivings—which Lottie knew would require the most work.
He lurched to his feet as soon as she entered the room. ‘Thank you for seeing me with such expediency, Miss Rossington.’
His normally immaculate attire appeared a bit dishevelled. His cravat somewhat crooked and his brown hair a mite ruffled.
To anyone else, these minor disruptions would be easily dismissed. But Lottie had come to know Lord Rawley well after the months she’d met with him. Those small changes indicated a catastrophe of monumental proportions.
‘Of course.’ She smiled affectionately, so he knew she was not mocking him. ‘Has something happened with Lady Caroline?’
‘Yes.’ Lord Rawley rubbed the back of his head, leaving a tuft of hair jutting out. ‘No. I confess, I am entirely unsure. But then, I do have a keen skill for bumbling everything.’
‘Truly, what is the worst that could happen?’ Lottie asked. ‘Especially when you know she wants you with her?’
He huffed a heavy sigh. ‘The usual things, I suppose. Unknowingly ingesting something that contains shrimp and being violently ill before her. Tripping down a set of stairs and accidentally pulling her down with me. Saying something ridiculous. It’s foolish, I know, but she’s always so very witty and pleasant. I’m such a dullard by comparison.’
‘You are certainly no dullard, and I imagine the occurrence of any of those events to be highly unlikely,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Lady Caroline is important to you, is she not?’
Lord Rawley regarded her with an open look of sheer desperation. ‘She is the most important thing in all my life.’
Lottie liked the Viscount very much. He didn’t regard her in a libidinous fashion, as did so many men of the ton. He respected her as much as he would the daughter of a duke. And he would do anything for the woman he loved.
Perhaps in that way he reminded her somewhat of Evander. His loyalty to the woman of his choice was unwavering, his purpose steadfast. Lottie’s heart flinched at the recollection of Evander. He had yet to return to London after his years in the country, where he tended to his ill mother.
Perhaps that was for the best. Seeing him never became easier.
‘I would suggest that if Lady Caroline is truly important, you treat her as such,’ Lottie said. ‘Make her know what she means to you. From what you’ve told me of her, I believe she will be overjoyed at your affection.’
Of course Lottie could not reveal that Lady Caroline too was one of her students. Identities must be kept confidential, no matter the circumstance.
Lord Rawley nodded to himself, lost in deep thought, as though already formulating a plan. And truly Lottie hoped he was. Poor Lady Caroline was besotted with the Viscount, and wanted nothing more than for Lord Rawley to open himself to her.
Speaking of the lovely Lady Caroline, her session with Lottie was next—but thankfully she would have a bit of time to herself before the lady was due to arrive.
It was in that respite that Lottie studied her drawing room, revelling in a spell of silence before she once more assumed her role as tutor to the ton. She ran her fingertips ov
er the strings of the harp sitting in the corner and a gradient melody rippled from the instrument. She didn’t play, but her mother had. It was for that reason Lottie had gone to the expense of purchasing the item and keeping it in her drawing room. Likewise, the diamond-patterned Brussels weave carpet had been bought with her father in mind. As though pieces of them still followed her, even in a world they wouldn’t approve of.
A knock came from the double doors and Lottie’s maid, Sarah, breezed in. Of all Lottie’s staff, Sarah was the most trusted. Not only did she see to the running of the house, but also to the hiring of staff—all of whom were selected with great care, as Lottie required the utmost discretion from her servants.
‘More flowers from the Earl of Westix,’ Sarah said in a bright chirp.
Lottie shot her an exasperated look. ‘I don’t want them.’
‘You never do, lovey.’ Sarah set them on the smooth marble surface of the side table, turning the bouquet this way and that as she assessed each angle with a careful eye.
‘Yet you always insist I keep them.’ Lottie grudgingly looked upon the flowers as the familiar constriction tightened in her chest.
They were lovely. They always were. But flowers could not mend old hurts. They could not bring back trust. Nor could they make a lady out of a courtesan.
‘That man loves you.’ Sarah handed her a small note. ‘Perhaps I harbour hopes you’ll find happiness with him again.’
Lottie scoffed, but still accepted the note. ‘Perhaps?’
Sarah shrugged with a cheeky grin and disappeared out through the doors, closing them behind her as she left.
Lottie fingered the small note as she studied the deep red and purple arrangement. The roses were extraordinary, with rippled petals, in a red as brilliant as a geranium. No doubt the card would explain it.
She lifted the small flap and found the same familiar neat script which always accompanied the flowers.
China roses for everlasting grace and beauty. Hyacinth for sorrow and forgiveness.
If only forgiveness could come so easily.
‘Excuse the intrusion,’ Sarah said.
Lottie startled, not having heard another knock or the doors opening again.
‘You have a guest.’
Sarah looked like a cat that had swallowed a canary. Which meant the guest was not Lady Caroline arriving early—a fact confirmed by a glance at the gilded bracket clock, which revealed there was still a half-hour before Lady Caroline’s appointment.
‘Your visitor is not Lady Caroline.’ Sarah raised her brows. ‘It’s Lord Westix.’
‘Tell him—’
‘He knows you’re at home.’ Sarah batted her long-lashed green eyes innocently at Lottie.
The older woman was impudent, but she knew Lottie would never put her out. Perhaps that was why she was so bold. Though if Lottie were being grudgingly honest, she knew it was because Sarah was her friend.
They had known each other for years, having met at the opera. Sarah was just ending her career as Lottie was beginning hers. Sarah had been in despair as to where life might cast her, with her youth having faded, and Lottie, who well understood what it felt like to be lost, took her on as a lady’s maid once she obtained her first protector. They had been together ever since, and Sarah had proved herself invaluable time and again.
‘So there’s no hope for it, then.’
Lottie’s pulse spiked, the way it always did when he came to call. Their conversations were always the same—him begging for another chance and her declining before asking him to leave.
She shot Sarah a peevish look. ‘Are you pleased?’
‘Delightfully so.’ Sarah didn’t bother to suppress her smile. ‘And, anyway, if you put him off, he’ll only come back in an hour.’
Lottie sighed.
‘You know I’m right.’
‘You’re very outspoken for a maid.’
‘You mean I’m the only one who will not mollycoddle you.’ Sarah nodded her head once, as if confirming the accuracy of her own statement. ‘I tell you what is what when you need to hear it. Like now.’
Lottie eyed her maid warily. ‘Out with it, then.’
Sarah inspected the new bouquet with exaggerated interest. ‘You get hothouse flowers once a week. I’ve never had them once in my whole life.’ She lifted her gaze to Lottie. ‘That man loves you the way every woman wishes she could be loved. Give him a chance.’
Lottie frowned. ‘You don’t understand.’
Sarah approached her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I took care of you, remember? I don’t understand like you do, but I know better than most.’ She lowered her hand and strode back to the doorway. ‘Some day he may stop sending flowers. Or worse...’
Lottie waited for her to finish the warning.
‘He may send them to someone else.’
Much as Lottie hated to admit it, the words made something in chest twist at the thought. Not that she would allow Sarah to know her words had affected her so deeply. The maid would truly be incorrigible if that happened.
Instead, Lottie feigned a lack of concern and waved to her maid. ‘Please have Andrews see him in.’
Chapter Ten
Lottie smoothed her hair down so many times she reminded herself of Lord Rawley. But even as she told herself to stop fidgeting, she swept her hand over her dark blue satin gown.
Confronting Evander never ceased to rattle her.
The door swung open and her heart caught in her throat as he strode in with his usual confidence. His broad shoulders were squared, his attire pristine, and he had a regal air only nobility could possess. Though he had written and sent flowers, she hadn’t seen him since the end of the season the year before last, when he’d told her he would be returning to the country with his mother.
His gaze locked on hers now, his jaw set with determination. This was the season when he’d reclaim her affection—or so he’d said in the letters he’d sent throughout his absence from London.
He stood before her for a moment, studying her with a reverence that took her breath. She remained frozen beneath those jade-green eyes, locked in the power of his observation.
‘Lottie.’ He said on an exhale, as if saying her name caused him to hurt.
And perhaps it did.
Hyacinths. Sorrow. Forgiveness. Pain.
‘Lord Westix,’ she replied.
He flinched, as though wounded. ‘Are we back to that?’
It was good to maintain the formality. For Lottie. She needed the reminder of their stations in life. He was an earl—one whose family counted on his good name. And she was a woman whose reputation would always remain tarnished. A woman whose trust had once been shattered into so many pieces that it could never again be fitted together.
He lowered himself onto the sofa and she took the chair opposite him, with the tea table between them. She needed him to feel the space between them—to realise they could never rekindle what they’d once shared. Her heart could not bear it.
But then, her heart could not bear this either—having him before her, but not having him with her. Seeing him and not being able to go to him.
He spun her emotions about until she didn’t know which side was which, and all she could remember in the end was a tangle of love and hurt and loss.
‘Did you get my letters?’ Evander asked.
‘I did.’ There had been one a week while he’d been in the country. As he’d promised.
‘Did you read them?’ He jostled his leg, bouncing his knee momentarily before he caught himself.
She had. Every one. Multiple times.
She knew of his mother’s slow recovery, and how she was well enough now for him to return to London. He’d told her of the garden he strode through, and how it reminded him so much of the walks they’d taken in Binsey all those years ago. And she
knew how much he regretted what he had done to her.
The door to the drawing room opened and Sarah brought in a tea tray.
‘Would you like some tea, Lord Westix?’ Lottie asked, hoping he would decline.
‘Please.’
She went about steeping the tea and pouring it into his cup, the stream wavering as her fingers shook with the nerves that never ceased to tremble in his presence. His focus went to her hands. He knew his effect on her.
‘If you have read my letters, then you know why I am set this year on making you my wife.’ He accepted the teacup from her and promptly took a sip.
She winced, hating it that his mother had been so very near her end. She knew it had frightened him—not only with the realisation that his time with her was not unlimited, but that all time was not so. It was a reminder to him of what he had lost with Lottie, and had sharpened his need to have it back.
‘You know why I cannot,’ she replied softly.
‘I’m the wealthiest man in London.’ He set his teacup down hard. ‘That was by design. So I could bloody well do what I want without caring about anyone else’s opinions.’
He had fallen back on the easier excuse rather than confront the real issue—the one that prodded at a deeper wound.
Trust.
Or rather its absence.
‘You’re well aware the ton doesn’t work that way.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘I don’t understand why you continue to persist with this.’
There was no need to elaborate on what she meant by ‘this’. It was his ardent pursuit of her, his insistence that they be together.
He edged forward in his seat, closer to her, bringing with him that achingly familiar sandalwood scent.
‘Because I love you.’
That man loves you the way every woman wishes she could be loved.
But that wasn’t the case.
She shook her head. ‘You love the memory of the woman I was six years ago. There’s nothing left of her in me any more.’ Grief tugged at her, and the loss of who she had been. ‘You can’t love me when you don’t even know me.’
How to Wed a Courtesan--An entertaining Regency romance Page 8
