Page 68 of Guilty Pleasures

When he had called at the Fitzhugh house, there had been no doubt in his mind Daphne would answer him. A game of flower language—a language in which she had once expressed such delighted interest—would surely intrigue her, and he had not yet seen her back away from a challenge. She enjoyed a game as much as he.

The first day after his call in Russell Square, he had gone about his usual business, certain his reply would be waiting for him by the end of the day, but there was no word from her.

By the end of the second day, he had still not received an answer, and he became a bit worried that this time, she would not accept his challenge.

By nine o’clock on the evening of the third day, both his confidence and his worry had been replaced by a deeper, darker feeling of uncertainty. It was still a new emotion to him, and one of which he was not particularly fond.

Now, he paced back and forth in front of the fire, hoping that her answer was not to provide him with no answer at all, and he began to think out his next move. Somehow, he had to convince her that marrying him was the only acceptable course. He had hoped the idea of a game and his claim of victory would challenge her to respond, but if not, he would have to think up something else. He was certainly not going to give up.

The door to his study opened, and Anthony stopped pacing the floor as Quimby, his London butler, paused in the doorway.

“Dylan Moore is here, your grace,” Quimby informed him. The butler then stepped aside so that the composer might enter the room. Dylan was one of the few people who did not have to wait for ducal permission to pay a call. He was welcome anytime.

“Tremore, I must beg you to come out with me,” he said without preliminaries. “I have had enough of petulant divas for one day.”

“Problems with the new opera?” Anthony guessed, but his mind was elsewhere. He bitterly regretted his careless words to Viola all those months ago. He needed to convince Daphne that those remarks did not reflect the way he saw her now. Now, he saw that woman in the rain. He saw those gorgeous lavender eyes behind those gold-rimmed spectacles. He saw a round, adorably solemn face, a face that strove so hard to conceal from everyone what she truly felt, until it suddenly lit up with laughter or anger—though that anger was usually directed at him. He saw her in that godawful apron, looking at an erotic fresco and then at him in the most maddening, innocently seductive way.

“Not problems with the opera, dear fellow, but with the diva,” Dylan was correcting him. “Elena Triandos is an excellent soprano, but she is Greek, and Greek divas are particularly maddening. When I remember it was I who insisted upon having her in the leading role, I...”

Dylan’s voice faded into the distance as Anthony turned on his heel and paced back across the hearthrug, chewing on one thumbnail, thinking.

Daphne needed courting, and more than flowers seemed to be required. She had never been given an opportunity to enjoy the luxuries of life, and God knew she needed a few. The way her father had dragged her all around the East in the sands and dust, isolating her from any sort of good society, was appalling. Daphne deserved more pleasures than the few scented soaps, the box of chocolates, and one pink silk dress she had bought for herself. She deserved all the luxuries life had to offer, and he could provide them. By God, he would shower her with them. If only she would give him some sort of reply.

What if she sends me some polite, indifferent little note that refuses my suit? That might be worse than no reply at all.

He could feel doubt etching itself into his soul with every minute that passed without an answer from her. What if nothing he said or did was enough? He shook his head. No, he would not accept that. He would not believe it. He just had to hit upon the right thing to offer, the right words to say. He would not give up.

“What has you pacing back and forth with such feverish rapidity?” Dylan asked, watching him. “Political difficulties in the House of Lords? Problems with your museum? If so, they must be great indeed, for I have never seen you looking so worried as this.”

Anthony cast his friend an abstracted glance as he paced, but he did not reply. If only he could get her alone. That might do the trick. He had already made his own feelings clear during his visit with Durand, and though he suspected Daphne would be quite put out about it, he had been impelled to do it. He knew that if society did not see her as one of their own and accept her, she would be the victim of even more vicious slanders. He could not keep his courtship of her a secret, no matter how discreet the Fitzhugh family chose to be. Anthony could just imagine the society papers tearing her to shreds for being some opportunistic gold digger attempting to ensnare a duke. Since everyone would soon believe they were engaged, it might be possible to get her alone. If he could just kiss her, touch her, tell her how beautiful she really was, inside as well as out—

“Damn and blast, Tremore, if you take one more turn across that rug without telling me what the trouble is, I shall throttle you!”

Anthony did not have a chance to reply, for at that moment, Stephens, one of his footmen, appeared in the doorway carrying a wooden crate in his hands. “From DeCharteres, your grace,” the footman informed him. “Mr. Quimby knew you had been asking about any deliveries from there, so he told me to bring it up to you straightaway.”

A wave of relief washed over Anthony, a relief so strong and so profound, that he had to close his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath at his own regained hope. About damned time .

He opened his eyes and gestured the servant into the room. The footman placed the wooden crate upon his desk and departed as Anthony walked around the desk to have a look. It did not matter what she had sent him. The fact that she had sent him anything from the florist gave him hope.

“DeCharteres?” Dylan moved to stand opposite him at the desk, interested, but eyeing the crate with doubt. “Is London’s finest florist now delivering eggs to the nobility? Or is there perhaps some delicacy such as papaya plants for your famous conservatory hidden amid all this straw?”

Anthony was too preoccupied with pulling handfuls of that straw out of the crate to reply. He desperately wanted to see what she had sent. He lifted a potted plant from its tissue-paper wrappings, a pathetic-looking thing to be sure, its succulent leaves wrinkled and blackened. The plain clay pot in which it was contained was ice cold in his hands. Anthony burst out laughing.

His friend glanced at the plant and raised an eyebrow. “What the devil is it?”

“A gift from a young lady,” he answered, still chuckling. An ice plant . No note was included, but none was needed. Trust Daphne to come up with something succinct, clever, and straight to the point.

“It is dead.” Dylan pointed out the obvious as he touched one of its blackened leaves. “It is also frozen solid.” He gave Anthony a curious look. “This is a gift from a young lady, and you find it amusing?”

“I do indeed,” Anthony replied, grinning as he carried the plant across the room to the fireplace. He set the ugly, dead thing in a prominent place on the mantel. “More important than that, I find it encouraging.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, and added, “Since you are already dressed for an evening about town and begging me to distract you from maddening divas, you may come along with me.”

“Certainly, but where are we going?”

“The Haydon Assembly Rooms.”

It was Dylan’s turn to laugh. “You are joking. The Haydon Rooms are a bit mundane for you, do you not think? The room will be filled with respectable country girls come to town to snare the sons of squires. What sensible man wants to meet respectable marriage-minded girls?”

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