Page 29 of Guilty Pleasures

“The language of flowers,” she murmured.

“You speak French?”

“Of course. In Morocco, most people do not understand English, so I learned French.”

“How many languages do you speak, Miss Wade?”

“Heavens, I don’t know. Let me see. French, Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, Farsi, and Arabic,” she listed, counting on her fingers. “So, in addition to English, that makes seven.”

“Extraordinary,” he said, looking at her in amazement. “I must confess, Latin and French were all I could manage, even with a slew of childhood tutors and a Cambridge education. Miss Wade, you have awed me.”

Daphne felt a momentary glow of pleasure at the compliment, but she quickly snuffed it out. “I do not know this language of flowers. Do flowers truly have their own language?”

“They do. It has been put into a book, Le Langage des Fleurs , by Madame Charlotte de la Tour. It is quite the fashion to convey one’s sentiments with flowers, and several other books have been written, expanding on her original text, enabling a bouquet to serve as an entire letter.”

“What a beautiful way to express one’s feelings. I should love to receive something like that.”

He bent down and pulled a spray of tiny pink blossoms from a potted plant at the foot of the trellis, then straightened and presented it to her. She took it, too surprised to do otherwise.

“It has a lovely scent,” she said, holding it to her nose. What is it?“

“Your namesake. Daphne odora .”

“What does it signify?” Looking up, she added, laughing, “Do not tell me something awful, for I should hate that.”

“Never fear, for it is quite the opposite.” He took the spray of flowers from her hand, and Daphne caught her breath as he reached behind her head and tucked the tiny bouquet into the bun at the nape of her neck. “It means, ‘I would not have you otherwise.’”

She released her breath in a rush and turned away. Desperate for something to say, she gestured to the trellis. “But passion flower means devotion, and that does not make sense to me. Should not a passion flower convey passion?”

“Ah, but the fruit is where the passion is, Miss Wade. Intoxicating and delicious. Like passion itself.”

A rush of intense warmth came over her, and she turned away before he could see that she was actually blushing. “One day I shall have to try them,” she said, and resumed walking.

He fell in step beside her. “They are not in season now, but if you stay, you can enjoy them for breakfast in a few months—”

“No, thank you.” She heard the breathlessness in her own voice, and tried to cover it by teasing. “Your grace, this will not do,” she told him with mock sternness. “I shall not be led astray by exotic breakfast bribes.”

“Then I shall keep my dates and figs to myself.”

“Yes, please, for I have had enough of those to last a lifetime. They tempt me not at all.”

“I wish I knew what would tempt you, Miss Wade.”

Daphne did not answer as they circled to the other side of the conservatory. Nothing he had could tempt her. Not now. Not ever.

Daphne drew in a sharp breath at that stern reminder to herself and caught a scent so delightful that she came to an abrupt halt and stared at the source, a tall, fat shrub with the most beautiful snow-white flowers she had ever seen. “Oh, my,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the velvety petal of one blossom as she inhaled that exquisite fragrance. “It is like heaven just to stand here.”

He looked at her, smiling. “You do like flowers, don’t you? Especially scented ones.”

She breathed in again. “What are these?”

“Gardenias.”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes. “I have never smelled anything so divine in my life.”

“Secret love.”

“What?” she squeaked, feeling as if she had just been hit with a spray of icy water. She opened her eyes, but she could not look at the man beside her. “I—” She cleared her throat, staring straight ahead. “I beg your pardon?”

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