Page 6 of Bad Luck Bride

Pam heaved a sigh. “Yes, unfortunately. You and I can’t go to lunch alone, even if we are engaged.”

“That would be unthinkable,” he said with a pretense of gravity. “Capital offense.”

“It is for my mother,” Pam said, making a face. “But our luncheon reservation isn’t until half past twelve,” she added, brightening, “so Mama won’t be down for at least half an hour.”

“Well, then…” He paused, smiling a little, his gaze honing in on her small, rosebud mouth. “Dare I hope you sought me out for a little passionate necking in an empty corridor somewhere before Lady Walston joins us?”

Pamela blushed, looking the picture of maidenly modesty. “Devlin,” she said with reproof, “you mustn’t say such things.”

“Darling, you love it when I say such things.”

In the wake of that, Pamela proved herself no angel at all by slanting him a flirtatious look from beneath her lashes and saying, “Perhaps I do. But,” she added at once, shredding any hopes he might have been harboring of a deliciously illicit interlude, “that’s not why I came down early. I must see the florist. I have a few questions about the wedding flowers before I decide which ones I want.”

“You’re already choosing the flowers? But the wedding isn’t until June.”

“And that’s less than three months away, so I simply must make a decision now. Besides,” she went on before he could even get his mind to understand the need to choose one’s wedding flowers ten weeks in advance, “you need to pick a flower for yourself.”

He looked at her askance. “The groom has to have a bouquet, too?”

“Not for the wedding, silly. We’re going to lunch, remember? At Rules.” She tapped a fingertip against his lapel as he remained unenlightened. “And your buttonhole is empty.”

He looked down to find she was right. “So it is,” he conceded. “Too many years in the wilds, my dear.”

“You should hire a valet.”

He laughed. “My darling, whatever for? We’ll be returning to Egypt in just a few months.”

She frowned as if puzzled. “Longer than that. We’ll be in Italy for our honeymoon, you know. And a gentleman,” she added before he could point out that a two-week honeymoon made their return to Cairo exactly three months hence, “especially once he is married, should always have a proper valet. Even in Africa, the rules of proper dress must be observed. And you can’t argue that having a valet wouldn’t be quite a convenience here in London.”

Humoring her, he decided, was his best bet at this point, since he didn’t much care either way. “It would be handy,” he agreed. “Having been away so long, I sometimes forget the absurd requirements of fashion.”

“They aren’t absurd, Devlin. Not here, not when everything one does is seen and remarked upon.”

“Yes,” he said with feeling. “I’m well aware.”

Pam immediately looked stricken. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s quite all right,” he interrupted. “Please, darling, don’t apologize. I know I have to be on the straight and narrow these days, now that I’m about to be a married man. And I’m happy to toe the line, for your sake. So,” he added, offering his arm, “with my nefarious plan to spirit you away definitely off the table, shall we go see the florist together?”

Her stunning smile was his reward. “Excellent idea. I can help you choose a boutonniere.”

Out of nowhere, he felt a flash of irritation at the offer. Thatmade no sense, of course, since they were engaged. Pamela had every right to a bit of wifely supervision where her future husband was concerned. And no one could argue that she did not have excellent taste.

She slid her arm through his, and together they crossed the opulent lobby. As they entered the shop of the Savoy florist, the various scents of the flowers seemed overpowering, and the clouds of pink, yellow, and white blossoms all around them made Devlin wish, not for the first time, that he’d been able to talk Pam out of a wedding in England. After fourteen years away, being here made him feel smothered, trapped, and strangely off-balance.

“Why don’t you look at these stems while I see Monsieur Lavigne?” Pamela suggested.

She gestured to a wrought-iron rack nearby, where single stems of flowers reposed in galvanized pails of water, waiting to adorn the lapels of London’s dandies. He studied them, feigning vast interest as Pamela walked away toward the back of the shop, going up and down the rows. Bachelor’s buttons, rosebuds, gardenias. He stopped, and in his mind, an image of a white gardenia in a girl’s copper-colored hair flashed through his mind. He shoved it out again and moved on to the diminutive pink, white, and red carnations in the next row.

He selected a red carnation from the pail nearest him, but then he remembered vaguely that red carnations were only acceptable if your mother was alive. Or maybe that was white? Uncertain, he fingered the carnation, cursing himself for procrastinating about hiring a valet. But then, it had been easy to procrastinate during his two months at Stonygates when he’d had one of his father’s footmen to do for him. Now, however, with the season coming, and thewedding, he’d best get on with finding someone. Because Pam was right: in London, everything, even the wrong flower in a man’s buttonhole, was cause for comment. And he’d been cause for comment enough already in his life.

Best to err on the side of caution, he decided as he put the red carnation back and reached for a bright blue bachelor’s button instead.

He’d barely pulled it out of the bucket, however, before a feminine voice floated to his ears. It was not Pamela’s voice, but it was familiar—a voice from long ago, a voice that went with red hair and gardenias, a voice he knew as well as he knew his name, even though he hadn’t heard it, except in dreams, for nearly fourteen years.

Devlin froze, suddenly paralyzed.

“I want to have a look at the gardenias,” the voice said, coming to him over a trellis densely packed with vines of pink bougainvillea. “I might want one for my hat. Why don’t you go and have the doorman order us a cab? I’ll follow you in a minute.”

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