“He is impossible!” Daphne declared, watching as two men maneuvered an enormous bouquet of flowers through the door, an arrangement in all the colors of the rainbow that filled the drawing room at once with the fragrance of its many flowers.
Lady Fitzhugh had a corner of the room cleared away to accommodate the thing, for it was at least three feet across, four feet high, and could not possibly fit in their tiny vestibule. Once this was accomplished, the two men who had delivered it departed, Elizabeth and Anne examined its flowers with exclamations of delight, and Daphne turned to Lady Fitzhugh in exasperation. “What am I to do?” she cried. “He will not take no.”
“You are refusing him?” Anne cried. “Oh, Daphne, how can you be so heartless as that?”
The accusation stung, and Elizabeth must have seen it. “She should not have to marry him if she does not love him!”
“Do you not love him?” Anne asked, incredulous. “But why not?”
“Anne, that is enough,” Lady Fitzhugh said. “It is not our business to inquire about Daphne’s feelings. Now, girls, I believe we must depart for Lady Atherton’s. It is nearly three o’clock. Let us allow Daphne some peace. Heaven knows, she is in need of it.”
She gave Lady Fitzhugh a grateful look as the other woman ushered the girls out of the room, leaving Daphne alone with her latest present. She studied it for a long time.
Despite the dozens of flowers and plants in front of her that told of his passion, his attention to his duty, and his desire to protect and honor her, Daphne could not help but notice that there was no symbol anywhere in this enormous display that conveyed a declaration of love.
It hardly mattered. Anthony himself had deemed his feelings for her a temporary affliction, and even if a rose or a carnation or a spray of forget-me-nots had been tucked somewhere amid this vast quantity of flowers, it would not have convinced her he felt anything permanent for her. There was no flower, no gift, no words that could ever convince one’s heart of anything.
Anthony knew there was no way to court Daphne without generating gossip. What he was not prepared for was his own anger every time he saw another snide comment about her in the society papers, an anger that burned all the stronger since he had once been as blind as that himself. During the week that followed their waltz together at the Haydon Rooms, he did not call on her at Russell Square, hoping that would cause the gossip to die down.
Instead of Russell Square, he spent a great deal of time at his club. One night a week after the evening at the Haydon Rooms, he came into Brooks to find Dylan there, halfway through a bottle of brandy.
Anthony accepted Dylan’s invitation to join him and sat down. He leaned back in his chair, noting the other man’s drawn face and bloodshot eyes. “Every time I see you like this, I am grateful I do not have the artistic temperament,” he commented.
“I do not have it either, it seems,” Dylan said wearily. “I cannot seem to write two notes together, so I am occupying myself with a binge of alcoholic excess.” He gestured to the bottle on the table. “Would you care to join me? From what I hear, you could use a drink yourself.”
Anthony admitted nothing. Instead, he signaled for a glass. When it came, he poured a brandy for himself, ignoring his friend’s amused stare.
“I hear the London florists are quite busy.”
Anthony took a sip of brandy in silence.
“Perhaps I shall begin sending flowers to young ladies. That would be something new for me. How do you use flowers to ask a woman to share your bed?”
Anthony smothered a laugh. “You have already bedded so many, how do you keep count?”
“Not true,” Dylan corrected. “I haven’t bedded yours, much as I would enjoy doing so.”
Anthony stiffened, his hand tightening around his glass. He said nothing.
Dylan leaned back in his chair and his brows rose with that mocking amusement. “The society papers call her plain, you know. They say her skin is a bit too tanned for fashion, her cheeks are too round, and her hair is an unremarkable brown. You would compare the color to honey, no doubt.”
Anthony was in no frame of mind for Dylan’s mockery. “Are you trying to provoke me?”
“I confess I am. I would like to see the ducal hauteur come down for once. D’you know, in all the years I have known you, I have never once seen you lose your temper? Not once. But let us leave your character for another day, and talk of the charms of Miss Wade.” He took a swallow of brandy. “They say her vision is very poor, for she wears her spectacles nearly all the time. All the women of London are baffled by how such a dowdy thing has claimed your heart, but I—and I think there are plenty of other men who would agree with me on this—see something quite appealing there.”
Anthony picked up the copy of The Times that lay on the table and folded it back to the political pages.
“She has a luscious figure,” Dylan went on. “I saw that straightaway, for I always notice the most important things first. Now, the papers may have a point about her face, for it is a bit too round to be truly pretty, but sweet enough to look at for all that. It is not a face to give much away, is it? I watched as you danced with her, and I might have thought she didn’t care tuppence for you. And as for her eyes, God, what a color!”
Anthony slapped the paper back on the table. “Do not push me, Moore, for I am not in the mood for your satiric comments tonight.”
“You in the agonies of unrequited love is a satire. In fact, watching this romance from a distance as it unfolds has become my most entertaining amusement. Lime trees, Tremore? No one to touch you for folly. Miss Wade does not seem to share your passion. How do you feel? Frustrated? Wounded? Outraged that the gods have thwarted you?”
A muscle ticked in Anthony’s jaw. “Go to the devil.”
“I already have, my friend.” Dylan refilled his glass and lifted it. “Here’s to hell,” he said, and knocked back the brandy. “Now that both of us are there.”
He shoved back his chair and rose as if to depart, but before he did so, he leaned toward Anthony, resting his palms on the table. “I believe I shall compose a piece in Miss Wade’s honor,” he said in a low voice. “ ‘Daphne of the Violet Eyes,’ or something like that. Who knows? I might succeed with a sonata where your flowers have failed.”
