Page 34 of The Marquess and the Maiden

That evening she sat at her dressing table while Lottie stood behind doing the painstaking task of removing all the pins holding her hair up.

“The bouquet is beautiful,” Lottie said.

Harriet glanced at the vase of flowers on her dressing table. It was beautiful—a lovely collection of greenery, purple, red, and white flowers. Far too many times today she’d had to clamp down on her silly heart fluttering with every one of his blatant efforts.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” she said. “It’s customary to give a bouquet, the polite thing to do when paying a call.”

Lottie unwound Harriet’s curls from their pinned positions. “True. The selections he made, they tell a story.”

Harriet frowned at Lottie’s reflection in the mirror, then glanced back at the flowers. “I’m certain that is completely accidental.”

Lottie released Harriet’s hair and stepped closer to the vase. She fingered one of the leaves. She pinched it off, then rubbed it between her fingers and brought it to her nose. “Lemon verbena, if I’m not mistaken, means ‘you have bewitched me.’”

Harriet’s stomach fell to her toes. “I cannot imagine that Lord Davenport spent any time deciphering the mysterious language of flowers.”

Lottie reached for the large red daisy at the center of the bouquet. “Red daisies… ‘Beauty is unknown to the possessor.’”

“Or they are simply nice red flowers,” Harriet countered.

“Purple columbines mean he is resolved to win. These”—she touched the large white and purple iris—“the lady’s slipper stands for impatience.” Lottie offered Harriet a tentative smile. “These prickly things here, burdock burrs, quite rare to find them perfectly when they’re blooming, show his persistence.”

Harriet looked at the bouquet, and the colors blurred. “German irises represent ardor.” She swallowed.

Lottie nodded. “Yes, and red irises are said to mean, ‘I burn.’” She reached to touch the stark white flowers. “Cape jasmine,” she said. “Ecstasy.”

Heat flooded Harriet’s face, then liquefied and slid through her body. She immediately recognized the sensation as desire and was thankful she was already sitting down. Good heavens, the man had no shame.

Even Lottie’s cheeks had pinkened, but Harriet knew it was the girl’s righteous sense of embarrassment, not the baser urge Harriet herself felt. If he had meant what the flowers suggested, he was making his sexual desire for her known in a very open manner.

He had brought this into her home. Her mother had handled the flowers; had she recognized each bloom and meaning? “It must all be coincidental. He likely had the flower girl pick them out.”

Lottie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Several of them are rare and rather expensive, not the sort you’d find on the street trollies.”

“Perhaps his mother then. She could have easily selected these colors to match one another,” Harriet said.

“Harriet, I’m not certain why you are so hell-bent on proving his intentions are less than honest or honorable.” Lottie took a shaky breath. “Granted, his methods are rather brazen; he is obviously taken with you. You should consider yourself fortunate.” She moved back behind Harriet and deftly maneuvered her blond curls into a long, heavy plait. “His mother would not have selected those two red flowers in the center. They’re far too licentious. He chose each of these blooms to send you a message. You have to decide what you’re going to do with it.”

…

The following morning Harriet had risen and gotten dressed with every intention of going to the Garner townhome to practice her defensive skills. She’d send a note along to Agnes inviting her to join. The Ladies of Virtue might be on hold but she wasn’t going to allow herself to get complacent. A scratch came to her bedchamber door.

“Harriet, your mum has requested you in the front parlor,” the maid at the door said.

Harriet nodded and followed her down the stairs. She’d been shaky since she’d awoken that morning after a feverish night of heated, passionate dreams. Having that bouquet of flowers across from her bed spoke of all the wicked things Oliver claimed he wanted to do to her. She’d realized with alarming clarity that she wanted those things, from him. But conceding to his proposal would shatter any hope she had of marrying for love.

She wasn’t ready to walk away from that dream. She’d held it close for so long, it was as much a part of her as her body.

Her mother stood when she entered, a broad smile covering her face. “Harriet, Lord Davenport has sent you some gifts.”

“Good heavens, not more seductive flowers, I hope,” she said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” her mother asked.

“Nothing.” She walked forward, then took stock of the enormous basket sitting atop the occasional table. “Is that it?” she asked, unable to keep the horror from her voice.

“It is.”

She grabbed the first item on the top of the basket, a collection of lovely hair ribbons. “This is quite nice,” she said. She found a couple of books next, one of Shakespeare’s sonnets and another collection of poems from Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron. Placing the books on the table, she dug further, uncovering a rather hideous brooch. She winced and handed it to her mother. “It’s awfully garish.”

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