Still, might she not enjoy the flowers while they lasted? Like as not, Gabriel had had no hand in their purchase, but had given the task to some servant. And as the petals faded and fell, they would serve as a reminder of the fleeting nature of men’s affections.
At the washstand, she filled a tumbler with water; the flowers’ thick green leaves would disguise its chipped edge. Seating herself at the worktable that filled one wall of her narrow room, she began painstakingly to unpick the exquisite poppy-colored ribbon and arrange the stems in the makeshift vase.
* * * *
Gabriel’s knock on the door to Trenton House was opened by the butler.
“You are expected, my lord.”
By whom? Gabriel had not known himself that he would call until the hubbub of sorting and packing had driven him from his rooms, and his restless feet had carried him into Mayfair. And he did not delude himself into thinking that Felicity was any more eager for his visit than he was to make it.
Disapproval radiated from the butler as he bowed Gabriel inside and led him stiffly up the stairs to the doorway of an unfamiliar room. Before Gabriel could decide whether the servant’s demeanor simply inhered to his species or was directed toward him specifically, the man bowed once more. “Wait here, my lord. I shall inform her ladyship you have arrived.”
He opened the door to reveal a sitting room. Lady Merrick’s, he guessed, by the plump chairs and primrose draperies. More knickknacks than books lined the shelves on either side of an empty marble fireplace. And before the window stood a delicately carved lady’s writing desk with a matching chair, whose occupant did not raise her head from her work.
“Oh, Miss Burke,” the butler said. “I did not know you were here. Lord Ashborough has come to call.”
If the butler’s voice, or the sound of Gabriel’s name, produced any reaction, she did not show it. No start of recognition. No turn of her head, even, until she had put the point to whatever she was writing and laid her pen aside. When she rose, she stayed standing before the escritoire, her back to it, her ink-stained hands folded demurely in front of her. “Then you must tell Lady Merrick he has arrived, Wafford,” she prompted.
With another stiff bow in Gabriel’s direction, the butler left.
For a moment, Gabriel stood in the doorway and simply soaked in the sight of her, a chiaroscuro of bright and dark, her head tilted slightly to the side, the light from the window behind limning her body and shooting through wisps of her black hair like stars in the night sky. Then he stepped closer, skirting a table with curving legs whose marquetry top was almost entirely obscured by an enormous bouquet of rather ordinary-looking spring flowers arranged incongruously in a crystal vase.
Another three steps and he could see that her spectacles had slid down to perch at the end of her nose. A smudge of ink along her cheekbone, near her ear, suggested that impatient fingers had brushed away an errant lock of hair, perhaps more than once. Scattered across the desktop behind her lay a half dozen sheets of closely printed paper, with lines scored through and words crammed in between to replace them. At this distance, he could not read what she had written, but she caught the direction of his gaze and shifted nonetheless, blocking his view.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, returning his eyes to her face.
Camellia dipped her head to acknowledge his apology but did not demure as ladies often did. Obviously, she had been hard at work, and she resented his interruption. She made no move to sit down again nor offered him a chair. She did not curtsy. He did not bow.
Hang good manners. He wanted to kiss her, and not just on the hand.
And he was used to getting what he wanted.
While he struggled to bring his basest impulses under control, she spoke. “I must thank you for the flowers.” The cadence of her voice curled through him like soft music. “Your servant must have been put to some trouble to find camellias in London, in May.”
“I’ve sent my man to do many things for me, and he rarely disappoints.” He allowed himself one step closer, close enough that he might easily reach out and take her hand in his, though he did not. “But when the task concerns pleasing a woman, I do it myself.”
Understanding chased through her eyes, followed closely by pleasure. Yes, it pleased her that he had chosen the flowers—and her own pleasure seemed to catch her unawares. Oh, she was better than most at hiding her telltales. He would not want to sit down at the card table across from such a one. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for them both, he was equally adept at reading the signs.
“And they did, did they not?” he murmured. “Please you, I mean.”
Unlocking her intertwined fingers, she reached up to adjust her spectacles. “I was surprised by them.”
She might bear the name of a flower with smooth, glossy leaves and sweet-smelling petals, but then children were generally christened before their personalities were either known or developed. Gabriel had the distinct impression her father might better have chosen to name her after some plant with thorns.
Something rumbled in his chest. A laugh of amusement or a growl of frustration? Before he could decide which, and whether to let it escape, she added a prim concession.
“Though I suppose it would be fair to say I was pleasantly surprised.”
A small triumph, but still it left him almost giddy. She was not indifferent to him. He dipped his head, partly in a bow of acknowledgment, and partly to hide what he feared might be a foolish grin. “Then I shall consider myself amply rewarded for the trouble of finding camellias in London, in May.”
When he raised
