The Language of Flowers

by Christy Carlyle

For the third time in as many minutes Violet Taylor reminded herself that she had not accepted the invitation to Milly Wilcox’s garden party in the hope of seeing him. She didn’t even know for certain he would attend. It was true that he was nearly a member of the Wilcox family due to his longtime friendship with Milly’s brother. But that made no odds. He was a taciturn man whose behavior was unpredictable on the best of days.

With no thought to his attendance, she had come because Milly invited her, and it was the perfect opportunity to renew their friendship. Though, as she thought on it more, they had never truly developed a deep and meaningful friendship. Their families moved in different circles. Indeed, the Wilcoxes were the kind of family her mother called “the right sort.” The Taylors, on the other hand, were a few crucial steps behind. But that had never bothered Violet. It kept the penurious men away and allowed her a modicum of freedom to do as she pleased. Unfortunately, it also kept the quite well to do men away, and even one who was simply the best friend of a wealthy Wilcox.

He would certainly not attend a garden party. They were too spritely and colorful for such a dour, mirthless man. Of course, he would not have to spend time admiring the Wilcox’s flowers on this afternoon as the April weather had turned rainy and cool. The drawing room curtains were open so that the handful of guests could admire the gardens, but the glass obscured their colors, running them together like watercolor paints under a too damp brush.

He liked the rain, but disliked gardens. He adored the Wilcoxes, but loathed social gatherings that involved more than a couple guests. No, he would most definitely not attend. Indeed, if he did plan to attend, he was now unfashionably late. But it would be just like him to behave abominably.

“He’s here!” A chill trickled down Violet’s back as if she’d been stripped bare in a cool breeze. Her fingers gripped the delicate handle of her teacup so fiercely that she reached out to put it down before crushing the painted porcelain into dust. Watching her hand as she set the cup down, trying to steady it, she noticed that the dainty thing was painted with purple flowers. Were they violets? Not with those ruffles. Purple carnations. How apropos. They stood for capriciousness, whimsy, unreliability. Just like the man who was going to walk through the Wilcox’s drawing room door any moment.

Milly had taken her hand and leaned in close to whisper. “This is precisely why I invited you, Violet.” 

“Yes,” Violet heard herself speak but did not know how she had formed the word. Her mind was busy, racing through every memory of him: every tender moment, every sweet word spoken, and every tear shed. Milly tugged at her hand, scattering memories. The poor girl was beside herself.

“Oh, Violet, I needed you here in case he came. I cannot believe he accepted my invitation. Violet, what should I say to him? I simply have no notion what to say.” In the face of Milly’s high-pitched giddiness, the haze of memory continued to fade and Violet considered the young woman’s words. She could not mean him. He was a frequent, almost constant guest of the Wilcoxes. His presence might set her world off kilter but it would not be cause for Milly’s rapture.

The Wilcox’s elderly butler appeared, silent as a wraith, at Milly’s side. “Miss Wilcox, Lord Greville has arrived.”

The man himself followed the announcement, striding into the room as if he meant to plant a flag and claim it for England. “Do forgive me, Miss Wilcox. I am unforgivably late.” The assembled guests could not take their eyes off of him and his presence was such that it encompassed the entire room. Thomas, Lord Greville, was not only the handsomest man in the county, but also one of the wealthiest. He would be forgiven anything. In two giant strides, he stood before Milly and gallantly took up her hand to brush a kiss along her knuckles. Violet felt the girl’s shiver through her glove, where Milly still clung to her.

As Greville turned away to greet the other guests, Milly found her voice and rasped out a plea. “Violet, please go and fetch Will. He and Edmund are in the billiards room. Do tell them they must put down their silly game and make Thomas...Lord Greville, that is, feel welcome.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to shiver. He was here. Edmund Carrick. The most appealing and maddening man of her acquaintance. The man who’d held her heart, her very future, in his hands. Until he’d changed his mind. Without a word, an explanation, or even an excuse, their courtship had ended. But the questions in Violet’s mind never ceased. They all began with why or what if, and she never found satisfactory answers. Only he had the answers. And now she’d been tasked with fetching him like a nanny chasing after an errant schoolboy.

Violet wasn’t even certain where to find the billiard room. How long had it been since she’d last visited the Wilcoxes? As she exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, she guessed that the faithful butler, Higgins, would surely appear and send her in the right direction. The dining room snagged her attention as she passed. Two maids and a footman circled the table, placing gleaming plates and sparkling crystal just so. They spied her and finished quickly, leaving the room to her in all its glory. Spring flowers spilled from silver bowls and a grand chandelier lit every surface with an amber glow. Even the name cards at each place setting were gilded around the edges. She couldn’t resist looking down the row for Edmund’s card. That’s when she saw it.

A single sprig of flowers lay on one of the plates. Forget-me-nots. Tiny, perfect five-petaled blooms stared up at her with their bright yellow center eyes. They were a stunning blue, as bright as a robin’s egg and lighter than periwinkle. She stepped closer and read her own name on the card in a looping, elaborate hand. Who would leave flowers on her plate? And not just any flowers. These flowers represented true love and constancy. Her pulse began to flutter and she felt suddenly breathless, as if she’d run all the way across the heath. Edmund? Could Edmund have left these flowers as a declaration?

“Miss Taylor, you’ve found my offering.” Violet jumped at the sound of Lord Greville’s smooth, deep voice. She turned, her skirts brushing against his legs. He stood shockingly near.

“Lord Greville. I...” Her voice came out as a squeak, laced with as much panic as Milly’s had been just moments before.

Greville grinned down at her with the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. “I missed my mark, Miss Taylor. You see, I meant to leave those on Miss Wilcox’s plate, but that butler of theirs is quite too efficient. He swept me into the drawing room before I knew what I was about.”

He reached around her and took up the pretty blooms, moving them to a plate near the head of the table. “There. My deed is done. Do keep my secret for now, Miss Taylor. Will you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Based on his status, Violet could deny him very little, but his blue eyes, a deeper shade of forget-me-not blue, were persuasive in their own right. Good for Milly. Now, if only the girl could manage a few coherent words to the man.

Just as Greville took her hand to drop a perfunctory kiss of gratitude, another voice rang through the dining room. Deeper than Greville’s, with a distinctive rasp and a complete absence of Greville’s easy joviality, it was a voice Violet could never mistake.

“Greville. Welcome. Tom will be along soon.” The man hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, the intervening months had brought more character to his face. His dark hair was longer, but it suited him. And for a man of such height and bulk, Violet couldn’t help but notice Edmund Carrick’s grace of movement. Nor could she stifle a tiny gasp as he moved toward her. Though he had spoken to Lord Greville, his eyes were on her, boring into her, looking beyond her plain chestnut hair and pale green eyes, into her essence. She had always felt that he, more than anyone she had ever known, saw her, Violet, for who she truly was. Who she wished to be.

He cut her off, positioning himself so that he faced Greville and was neatly situated between them. “Miss Wilcox must be missing your company in the drawing room.” He paused as if expecting Greville to jump at his command. “I will escort Miss Taylor back. We are old friends.” Old friends! Violet’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut, stifling the urge to let out a very unladylike scream.

The moment Greville strode from the room, Edmund turned to face her. Before she could speak a word of her hurt, her anger, or her many questions, he cut her off. “I have missed you, Violet.” Instantly warm syrup filled her veins and she opened her mouth to speak words of affection that had been bottled up with her pain. He reached his hand up to touch her cheek and she turned her head slightly, pressing against his warmth, relishing his familiar scent. Then, ever changeable, he snatched his hand away. Her cheek burned where he had touched her.

“What on earth were you doing exchanging flowers with Greville?” His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it and possessive, as he had no right to be.

“We weren’t exchanging flowers.” Her tone was meant to be dismissive, but she heard it waver and felt the sting of tears she’d stifled too long. “I thought they were from you!” She shouted the final word and the release felt glorious.

He moved closer and looked toward the door, as if he feared they would be overheard. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that their brown depths were tender. “Why did you think they were from me, Violet?” His voice had lost all trace of anger.

He reached for her again and she moved away from him. “I have no idea. It was a silly notion considering what they symbolize.” All the anger of his abandonment began to simmer, threatening to bubble over into words she could never take back.

“Symbolize? What do they symbolize?” She watched his eyes as he turned to glimpse the lovely cluster of forget-me-nots. “I would guess their name tells the meaning.”

“Yes. They mean ‘stay true to me’ and ‘don’t forget me.’”

“I could never forget you, Violet.” His deep voice was soft now, seductive. But she would not give in.

“They also symbolize constancy. So you can see why I was foolish to think them from you.” She expected him to wince or retort in anger. She was certain her arrow would sting. Instead he moved closer, his voice still low.

“What flower would you have me give you, Violet?”

“I am long past wishing for posies from you, Mr. Carrick.” If she called him Edmund, she would break. She would melt into him and lose herself again. Her anger protected her like armor, and she could not let it slip.

“Come, my lady, you know the language of flowers. Tell me what flower I should give you to say...” He paused just when she needed him to continue. “To tell you what you must already know, Miss Taylor. I am a fool.”

Violet’s throat burned with unspoken words, all of them flooding to get out, but he gave her no time to speak. Instead, he stepped forward and clasped her hand, his long, firm fingers curving into her palm. He tugged and she followed. They crossed the room and he opened the French doors along the wall. Like the drawing room, the dining room looked out onto the Wilcox’s expansive gardens.

The rain had stopped but the grass and every shrub and flower was drenched from the day’s showers. The air smelled rain-scrubbed fresh and even in the waning afternoon light, the array of colors was breathtaking.

He left her standing on the low balcony beyond the French doors and made his way into the garden. When he was knee-deep in blooms, he called back to her. “Which one, Miss Taylor? Which would you have me give you?”

The other guests in the drawing room must have heard his call as Violet saw the window slide open out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the voice of Tom, Milly’s brother, as he shouted to his friend. “Give her a rose, Carrick. All ladies love roses.”

Edmund shot her a questioning glance. “No,” she answered. She did not want a rose. Based on its color, the meaning might be lost, and the only bud visible this early was a bright pink. A rose that shade symbolized passion and desire. She wanted more than that from Edmund Carrick.

He moved onto a lovely jonquil, it’s sunny trumpet bowed by the rain. Its message was “return my affection,” but her affection for Edmund was never in question. She shook her head and he moved away, nearly tripping over a clump of poppies. Their papery petals had been battered by the rain, but a few had recovered, the bold red cup of their bloom revealing only a glimpse of their silky black center. He leaned down toward one of the tall, brazen poppies, but Violet stopped him again. Red poppies were beautiful and exotic, but they symbolized only pleasure. She wished for pleasure with Edmund, certainly, but still more.

He began to move further into the garden and nearly overlooked a neat row of graceful tulips in a variety of colors. They had held up well in the rain and stood tall, like little sentries guarding a sharply trimmed hedge of boxwood. She called out to him. “Wait. There. The tulips.” She saw his mouth shift in a momentary grin, his full lips broadening across his handsome face.

            He reached down for a yellow one and then picked another. He stood as if to return to her and she stopped him. “One of the red, too, Mr. Carrick.” Though the Wilcox’s gardener would probably be appalled at Edmund’s raid on his fine work, the assembled guests seemed to take great pleasure in the spectacle he was making. Violet glimpsed Milly leaning out the drawing room window and the girl shot her a knowing smile.

      

      In a moment he was before her, holding out the vibrant red and yellow tulips as an offering. “Now you must tell me what they mean, Miss Taylor. I hope they mean forgiveness. Perhaps even a second chance to put things right.”
      Violet reached for the tulips, but he would not release them. Instead he covered her hand with his own. “Will you forgive me, Violet?” His voice was so lovely, deep and strong. It rumbled through her, though he spoke softly. She felt his warm breath skittering across her cheeks and realized she was breathing as heavily as he.

            She swallowed hard, sifting the sentiments bursting the seams of her heart. “The yellow tulip symbolizes hopeless love. That is what I have been since last we met. Quite hopeless.” A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye, but she could not stop the words she needed to say. “The red tulip stands for undying love. That is what I feel for you, Edmund.” On a broken whisper, she finally said, “And what I wish from you in return.”

            When he pulled her into his arms, it was an intoxicating relief. Like lead weights, the pain, anger, and hopelessness fell away and the love she’d always felt for him could lift its head once again, as vibrant and strong as the tulips she held in her grasp. She fit with him, against him, as if his body was fashioned with spaces only she could fill.

            He pulled away enough to look down at her, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You are named after a flower, my darling Violet. Tell me what a violet symbolizes.”

            Violet took a long breath and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of the rain-soaked garden and the fresh cut tulips, imprinting the moment on her mind and heart. When she opened her eyes, she saw all that she hoped for and needed reflected back in his own dark eyes.

            “Faithfulness.” She spoke the word quietly, reverently.

            His jaw tensed and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his lips just inches above hers. “I should have known.” The words had barely left his mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body reacted, tautening like a tightly drawn bow, but he gave her only a taste before pulling back. “Will you still have me, Violet? Will you be my wife?” Her eyes widened at his words and he added, “We have wasted enough time, Miss Taylor.”

            Violet pulled back and offered him the red and yellow tulips. With her eyes and the wide smile on her face, she echoed their message: hopeless and undying love.

Christy Carlyle on Facebook

The language of flowers was a means of communication, particularly popular in the Victorian-era, by which individuals sent coded messages to share secret feelings or express what could not be spoken.

Miss Danvers Decides

by Christy Carlyle


(Miss Danvers Decides is a continuation of an earlier free short read, Lord Pennington's Proposal. If you wish, you can read that first part of the story here.)

London, 1867

“Marry me, Bella.”

Lord Jonathan Pennington’s words, spoken in his smooth baritone, echoed in Isabella Danvers’ mind as she stood in the cozy comfort of his study. Though a fire in the grate still gave off a bit of warmth, Bella pulled her shawl up around her shoulders to stifle the shivers that had begun to rattle her body.

Jack’s handsome face was as familiar to Bella as her own, but the words coming out of his mouth were strange as a foreign language. The eagerness in his tone and raw excitement in his gaze set her heart racing, while the three words shattered her composure. For a woman with a secret writing life, relying on words to write stories under a nom de plume, Bella could not rally a single phrase in response to Jack’s unimaginable proposal.

In the tangled jumble of her thoughts, she could only hear an echo of his words. "Marry me, Bella."

Marry Jack Pennington. It was a notion—an impossible dream—she had kept hidden within her heart and mind for more years than she could count. Her secret had been kept so close that even Father had been unaware of the feelings she harbored for the aristocrat who had been her childhood friend. When her father named Jack as her guardian in his will, he had bound them together but given the duty of finding a husband to the only man she had ever mused about marrying.

“Bella?” His tone had lost its exuberance and concern for her etched creases of worry across his forehead, just under the errant lock of black hair that dipped down toward his brow, always refusing to behave. “I’ve shocked you.”

Shocked, yes. That was it. Shock, fear, and a slice of unreasonable hope were among the riot of emotions making her tremble. Though she had suggested marriage to Jack moments before, she never imagined he might take the tease seriously.

The whole idea was ridiculous. Impossible. Jack might be the same man who had encouraged her strident opinions as a girl and derided her love of Gothic novels as a young woman, but he was, above all things, the Earl of Pennington.

He had never wanted the title; he’d made that clear. But she never doubted he would do his duty—to his father and the family name. Marrying the daughter of the Pennington’s longtime butler was out of the question. In fact, it would spark gossip and scandalize the society misses and mothers who would surely consider the Earl of Pennington a prime catch in the coming season.

From the moment he had inherited his father’s titles and estates, Jack had been the soul of propriety. He had always been a clever man, and as a child Bella adored his sense of adventure. But there had been little adventure since he’d assumed his father’s title, and she sympathized for the rounds of inane social visits and dusty estate ledgers with which he spent his time. Jack needed a bit of adventure, truth be told, but this—marriage to a completely unacceptable young woman­­­­­­—was precisely the kind of adventure he did not need.

“I am going to take a turn in the park.”

After finally finding her voice, Bella offered Jack a reassuring grin, but he seemed anything but reassured. When she stood, he shot up too and reached a hand toward her.

“Let me accompany you.”

“No.”

Harsher than she intended, her tone wounded him. She could see it in the flicker of disappointment that shadowed his green eyes.

“I promise I won’t be long.” She smiled up at him again, but turned toward the door, not waiting to see if he returned her expression. Though she spent a portion of nearly every day in his company, looking at the beautiful planes and angles of his face was suddenly painful.

“You heard my question, did you not?”

That tone was familiar and a grin tugged at her mouth at the sound of it. It was Jack’s I-am-six-years-your-senior-and-not-at-all-pleased tone.

“Was it a question? I thought perhaps you were teasing me, in return for my making such an outrageous suggestion.”

Bella still couldn’t look him in the eye, but she turned her head in his direction. They might tease each other, but there had never been a moment of rudeness between them.

He stalked toward her, boot heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. Bella did not move, and she dared not meet his gaze. He came close, just behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck.

When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet, and bone-meltingly tender.

“It was a question. Perhaps the most important of my life.”

Bella swayed toward him, and he placed a firm, warm hand on her upper back to steady her. Such sweet pleasure emanated from his touch that she felt the word bubbling up. Yes. The answer she wished she could give him, ached to say again and again.

“You will give me an answer, won’t you, Bella?”

A flutter in her chest blossomed into an ache as she walked away from him, still unable to meet his gaze. She stopped at the door of the study and turned back.

He had honored her with his question and she owed him an answer. But not yet. She could not bring herself to shut out the possibilities just yet. “After my walk, Jack. I promise you an answer after my walk.”

“Then I hope it’s a pleasant walk.”

Hearing the humor in his voice, Bella finally turned to look at him. She relished the moment as the tension between them ebbed. The moment made it easier for her to walk away.

Once she’d wrapped herself in her cloak and faced the chilly October morning, she longed for the comfort of sitting with Jack beside the fireplace. But she couldn’t face Jack without giving him an answer, and before her answer, there was someone she wished to see.

She met no one as she made her way along Brook Street toward Grosvenor Square. Bella knew it was early for visiting hours, but she hoped Emily would make an exception for her.

Bella did not mind the brief wait in the Earl and Countess of Wharton’s drawing room. Emily’s Grosvenor Square townhouse was always filled with hothouse flowers and, perhaps because of its lavender wallpaper, the drawing room was usually dotted with bowls overflowing with violets. Their sweet, vibrant scent reminded Bella of Eastleigh, the Pennington estate in Hampshire where she and Jack had grown up.

“Bella, my dear, I did not expect you today. Have you brought me another?” The countess clasped her hands together like a child eager for her first gift on Christmas morning. “I read the last one in single sitting. I could not put it down. Charles actually scolded me for spending too much time reading.”

Thrilled to hear her story had so enthralled her friend, Bella giggled. “I am afraid I haven’t brought you another story. I’ve come to ask you a question. And to tell you of a question Jack has put to me.”

“How intriguing. It sounds as if tea is in order.”

After ringing for refreshment and settling themselves on the settee, Emily looked at Bella expectantly. Though their stations were as different as Bella’s from Jack, Emily had always treated Bella like a sister, an honorary member of her large, wealthy family. Nothing had changed when she'd married the Earl of Wharton, and Charles and his family had embraced her as readily as Emily had.

“So tell me of Jack's question.”

“First tell me what it’s like to be a countess.”

Emily laughed, a rich, throaty sound that made Bella smile.

“Are you considering becoming one yourself?”

Her question, asked with a smile and laughter lingering in her tone confirmed the foolishness of the very notion to Bella. How could she ever be Jack’s countess?

“Jack has asked me to marry him.”

For a moment Emily didn’t move, her bow-shaped mouth hanging open in a most unladylike manner, but then Bella's words seemed to ignite her. She shot up from her spot on the settee and clasped her hands to her mouth, stared back at Bella wide eyed, and then sat next to her again. When she reached for her hands, Bella noticed tears in Emily’s eyes.

“Darling Bella, what happy news. I am bursting with happiness for you.” She did cry then, tears slipping down her cheeks as she clasped Bella in an embrace.

Bella hugged her friend back, and felt tears well in her own eyes. “I have not given him an answer.”

“What? Why ever not? My dear, you must. You simply must.”

Pulling back, Bella swiped at her cheek. “I cannot marry him, Em. It’s impossible.”

Emily stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “I don’t understand.”

“I am a butler’s daughter. Butlers’ daughters don’t become countesses.”

“Apparently they do. You will. Bella, you and Jack… Well, it has always been clear to me. You’re meant for each other.”

“He does not know about my writing.”

“Then you must tell him.”

“He loathes Mrs. Radcliffe and all Gothic novels.”

Emily shook her head as if Bella spoke nonsense.

“He’s never read one of yours, Bella dear. You’ve never given him the chance.”

“What will people say? I couldn’t bear to bring him shame.”

Bella continued on, voicing her fears and anxiety, her belief that she might tarnish the Pennington name by marrying Jack.

Emily listened patiently, holding her hand through much of the tirade, offering her a reassuring squeeze now and then.

“Are you quite finished?”

Surprised by her friend’s tone, Bella looked up into the young countess’s clear blue eyes. Her face was set in a firm yet benevolent expression.

“Yes, I’m finished.”

“I have only one question for you.”

Bella nodded her head and took a deep breath. No question the countess might ask could be more daunting than Jack’s.

“Do you love him?”

The question was ridiculous, perhaps as ridiculous as Jack’s. Of course she loved him. She had always loved him. Bella could barely recall a day of her life before she loved Jack Pennington.

Though Bella had not said a word, Emily beamed.

“Well, that’s that.” The countess lifted a gold fob watch pinned to one of the many folds of her elaborate skirt. “You mustn’t keep him waiting. He is an earl, after all. If he’s anything like Charles, he will detest waiting.”

“But—“

“Give him the answer of your heart, my dear. Do not allow fears to steal your happiness.”

Emily led Bella to the foyer, helped settle her cloak around her, and kissed her on the cheek before giving her a gentle nudge out the door.

As Bella descended the stairs, her friend called to her.

“Bella?”

She turned back to Emily.

“I think you will be a magnificent Lady Pennington.”

***

He rubbed his hands together as he watched her. It was a gesture that indicated Jack was nervous, worried, and Bella instantly felt a pang of guilt for keeping him waiting so long.

“Come sit by the fire.” He gestured toward her favorite chair and Bella was relieved to sink into it again.

“Your walk. Was it pleasant?”

“It was short. I didn’t go to the park as I’d intended. I went to visit Lady Wharton.”

He edged back, sitting stiffly in his chair, but he rested his hands on the chair's arms. For some reason, hearing of her visit to Emily’s seemed to ease his anxiety.

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes. I suspect I will be visiting her quite often. Perhaps she can give me lessons.”

Jack opened his mouth as if he meant to speak but then closed it again. He eased forward in his chair, leaning toward her.

“Lessons?”

She smiled at him, willing him to read her meaning, eager to banish the anxiousness she could still read in his gaze.

“You see, I know nothing at all about being a countess.”

He ducked his head, his shoulders sagging as if a great weight had lifted.

“Bella, I am a simple man. Tell me simply.”

He was anything but a simple man, and if the moment had not been so full of joyful anticipation she would have told him so. Instead she spoke one simple word as simply as she was able.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Is this the yes?"

Since the word seemed inadequate on its own, she nodded her head before repeating it. “Yes.”

He reached for her hand as he had a hundred times before, with a warm, easy familiarity. But when he pulled her close and pressed his mouth to hers, everything was new. Heart bursting with bliss and relief, Bella knew theirs would be a wonderful adventure.            

Lord Pennington's Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

     

London, 1867

            Lord Jonathan Pennington had always considered himself a patient man, but as he sat listening to the steady drone of Arthur Lanham, he began to reconsider. Perhaps impatience was the better choice. In this instance at least, brevity was certainly preferable. He cut the man off just as Lanham took a breath to begin another sentence.

            “Yes, of course, Lanham.” He had no idea what he had agreed to, but it seemed to satisfy the man and, more importantly, silence him. “Do let us get to the matter at hand.”

            Lanham smiled at that, and Jack noticed that his lips were inordinately wide. It made him look hungry. Voracious even.

            “Isabella,” Lanham said, still smiling.

            Jack hated the way Lanham said her name. His tongue stuck on the s, and he hissed a moment before continuing on to the other syllables. Like a snake—a voracious snake. Jack leaned forward in his chair, the buttons on his brocade vest clicking against the edge of his desk, and stared directly into Lanham’s pale blue eyes. “Miss Danvers, if you please.”

The man’s overfamiliar way of addressing Jack’s ward would most definitely count against him. Jack dipped his pen into his inkwell and scratched far too familiar onto the piece of paper in front of him.

Lanham leaned over as if to read Jack’s writing.

“Are you compiling notes about me, old man?”

It was Jack’s turn to smile, but it was a gesture that held no warmth, no true mirth. His every impulse told him to turn the young upstart out on his ear and forbid him from ever calling on Isabella again. But he had done that with the five other men who had asked for her hand in marriage over the years, and he could no longer shirk his responsibility. Though she was beyond the age when any young woman should require a guardian, her dear, foolish father had insisted Bella’s guardian remain her caretaker until she wed. The late Harold Danvers could never have imagined his daughter would remain unmarried at four and twenty.

“I am a busy man, Lanham. I take notes on virtually everything. Helps me sort out what’s what. I have two estates to run and a ward to marry off. Too much for a man to remember without the aid of paper and ink.”

“Well, I am more than happy to take Isa—, er, Miss Danvers off of your hands.”

            The smile was back on Lanham’s face, broad and gleaming. The very sight of it made Jack’s stomach churn and he took up his pen again. He wrote Unpleasant smile and underlined the words before settling back in his well-worn desk chair and giving Lanham his full attention.

            “You make her sound like a pony I wish to be shot of. I have known Miss Danvers since we were children, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval lightly, and she is quite discerning. Tell me, what do you find to admire in my ward?”

            “Pardon?” The man looked truly befuddled, but not enough for Jack to feel an ounce of sympathy.

            “Why do you want to marry her, man?” Jack knew that Bella’s dowry made her an appealing catch for most bachelors of her acquaintance, though it was, thankfully, not great enough to attract fortune hunters. Yet he was determined to secure her a betrothal based on true admiration. He couldn’t bear the thought of her wed to a man who did not appreciate her many fine qualities, especially her sharp mind and even sharper wit.

            Lanham cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. Jack clasped his hands in front of him and waited—impatiently.

            “Well, she is a very fine-looking lady. Isn’t she, my lord?”

Good God, did the man truly need confirmation of Isabella’s beauty? She was a vision, truth be told. Jack always found pleasure in looking at her, yet it was only one of her many fine qualities, and the one she least concerned herself with. Jack knew Bella wished to be loved for her mind, for her character, not for the blush of her cheek nor the extraordinary shade of her violet-grey eyes.

Lanham droned on. “Her hair is a most attractive shade of brown…”

Chestnut, actually. Bella’s hair was chestnut, richly burnished with hints of gold and red. When she wore it in a braided coil and left a few tantalizing curls to brush her shoulders, those strands shone like gold. The man hadn’t even bothered to identify the true color of her hair.

“And her skin is so very—“

            “Yes, thank you, Lanham. That will be all.”

            “My lord?”

            “The answer is no, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval for you to marry my ward, and I ask you not to call here again.”

            The young man sat gaping, his mouth open and eyes wide. He did not look like a snake now. More like a fish that had inadvertently flopped onto the riverbank. When he made no move to leave, Jack stood and approached the door of his study. He opened it and turned back to Lanham.

            “Good day, Mr. Lanham.”

            The young man stood, straightened his tie, and tipped his chin a notch, recovering all of the over-confidence with which he’d entered Jack’s house less than an hour before. He moved toward the door and Jack itched with eagerness to close it behind him, but Lanham stopped just on the threshold. He did not look at Jack and spoke in a clipped, tight voice.

            “It is no wonder Isabella is an old maid at four and twenty. You turn away every man who wants her. Take care, sir. Soon no one will.”

            Wilkins, Jack’s ever-watchful butler, scuttled down the hall, presented Arthur Lanham with his coat and hat, and escorted him to the townhouse’s front door. Without another word, the young man strode out—chin still aloft—into the frosty London morning.

            Jack closed the door of his study and sank into his comfortable chair, stretching his legs until the heels of his boots rested against the grate of the fireplace. The fire had waned long before, but there was enough heat to provide a measure of comfort.

            He had to tell her, had to acknowledge that he had turned away another of her suitors. Would she understand he had no choice? Would she see that he could not give her away to any man ignorant of her true worth?

            As he pondered what to say, how to explain, he heard the study’s door handle turn and the slight creak of hinges as it swung open. He knew she was there without turning. Her presence ignited his senses, as if the air around him had changed, and he could smell the faint scent of rosewater she wore.

            He heard her footsteps approach and sensed her standing behind his chair.

            “I take it I have reason to thank you.”                       

            Jack turned to look at her and Bella moved to take the seat next to his, her favorite chair. As he met her gaze, a burst of relief surged through him. He read nothing like regret in her expression. If anything, she looked relieved and slightly bemused.

            “You did not wish to marry Mr. Lanham?”

            She gave him a look—the look she gave him when he said something ridiculous and she could barely conceal her disdain.

            “Certainly not. But I would have done so if you told me to. Papa trusted you to help me choose a worthy husband, and so do I.”

            Jack tried not to stare at her. Bella was highly animated whenever she spoke, and she said as much with her eyes as she did with her mouth. They had known each other so long that much of what they said to each other was contained in gestures and glances; even the silences between them held meaning.

            “What if I find no man worthy, Bella?”

            She settled back in her chair and stared into the fire, though there were only a few glowing embers to draw one’s eye. Jack turned his gaze from Bella’s face and glanced into the fireplace too. One ember glowed particularly bright and suddenly burst into a tiny dancing flame. He saw Bella grin out of the corner of his eye and wondered—not for the first time—if she affected everyone and everything as she did him.

            She turned her head to gaze at him. “Then I suppose you will have to do the deed yourself.”

            Jack didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his heart began a frantic tattoo. He could hear it pounding in his ears and felt certain it would burst from his chest.

            Bella gave voice to the notion he had kept hidden away in his heart and mind for so many years.

When he returned from the war, he had been determined to ask her. Then word had come of his brother’s death. He had never expected to be heir to an earldom, never anticipated the responsibility. Never wanted it.

            After a year he had come to London with one thought—to ask Bella to be his wife. But then her father had died and left a will naming Jack as her guardian, the man tasked with finding her a husband. Harold Danvers had seen them simply as childhood friends, or perhaps he thought only of their six year age difference. It was a difference which had seemed so much greater in their youth than it did now.

            “Don’t look so frightened, Jack.” He heard the smile in her voice, though he could not meet her gaze. “I was only jesting. It’s nearly time for tea. Shall we have walk in the park after? I won’t mind the cold if you won’t.”

            His heartbeat began to steady as a soothing sense of certainty rushed through him. Marry Bella. It was there before him all the time. How could he ever approve of any of her suitors when he wanted her for his own?

            “Jack, please say something.”

            He had lost track of time and was unaware of how long he sat pondering their future, leaving the woman he loved to mistake his silence. He turned and reached for her hand.

She smiled at him—that warm, open Bella smile—and lifted her hand to meet his.

            “Marry me, Bella.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will Bella accept Jack's proposal? Check back in October for Miss Danvers Decides

A Constant Heart

by Christy Carlyle

London, 1881

No one attended Lady Granby's balls unless they wished to be noticed. It was one of the smallest ballrooms in London. Too small for much dancing, actually, and unbearably hot. And Lady Granby was known to be a determined matchmaker. If you accepted an invitation from Lady Granby, you desired to be seen.

Emma Prichard hoped to go unnoticed. She wasn't arrayed in colorful finery. She hadn't even dressed her hair, except to collect her dark brown waves into a neat chignon. One must always look acceptable, even if unremarkable. It was the Prichard way. And truly she did not wish to be invisible, merely unremarkable. Notice might draw questions, even pity, or, worst of all, an attempt at matchmaking. She had been brought up too well to be rude, so she simply met few eyes and nodded politely at those she did acknowledge.

When you were an old maid, going unnoticed wasn't really difficult at all.

As a frequent chaperone to her younger cousin, Emma's usual ballroom experience consisted of conversation and refreshment while seated in an uncomfortable chair along the far side of the room. She and a few of her fellow wallflowers had taken to calling their line of painfully straight-backed chairs Wallflower Row. Courteously, the wallflowers each gave the others a turn at walking the perimeter of the ballroom, retiring for a sip of lemonade, or catching a breath of fresh air on an obliging balcony. Emma had elected to take the first turn of the evening and spent much of it smiling reassuringly at Abigail as she whirled around the ballroom in the arms of the second gentleman on her dance card. Her cousin was a lovely girl but a painfully shy debutante. 

If all went well during her first season, Abigail would marry. The notion brought a bittersweet satisfaction to Emma. Fingering the locket at her throat, a familiar, hollow ache started in her chest as regret pushed its way into her thoughts. James. Her regret had a name. Shaking her head and dropping the metal onto the warm skin of her throat, she forced her thoughts back to the happier prospect of Abigail's future.

Taking the final steps toward Wallflower Row, the sound of her name rang out with surprising clarity across the din of music and gaiety.

"Emma Prichard? Oh no, she never did marry. Two failed seasons and then she gave up the hunt." 

The voice was one Emma knew well. Constance Banbury was the mother of four daughters and, as the matriarch of so many marriageable ladies, she made it her duty to know the competition well. Those who frequented the races at Epsom Downs did not know their horses as well as Mrs. Banbury knew which gentlemen were eligible and by how much. Emma slowed her pace. A perverse curiosity made her want to hear what Mrs. Banbury and her companion might say.

"Oh no, my dear. 'Twas never a question of money. Her family has heaps. It does make one wonder. There is some scandal there, Elspeth, mark my words. It may be well hidden by all that Prichard propriety, but there is scandal nonetheless."

Biting back a rueful grin, Emma took the final steps toward the row and resumed her seat next to Penelope Rutledge, a good friend and fellow wallflower. Pen's dark, simple gown nearly matched Emma's, but her playful blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair set her apart from the plain brown of Emma's coloring. At least plain is how Emma always thought of her brown eyes and hair. James had said her hair was the color of chocolate and her eyes the shade of an amber jewel... But those sentiments no longer signified.

"Just in time!" Penelope chimed. "Frederick Jennings has been leering at me for the last few moments. If you had not returned, I think he might have actually summoned the courage to ask me to dance."

"Heaven forfend." Emma shot her friend a look of feigned disgust.

"You may jest, but I have danced with him, and I assure you it is not an experience I wish to repeat." Penelope huffed and straightened her gown fussily across her knees. Suspicion crept into her tone when she spied Emma's grin. "What is it? You look bemused."

Emma leaned toward Penelope to whisper conspiratorially. "I am a scandalous woman." 

"Really?" Pen pulled back in offense. "Since when and why was I not the first to know?"

 "Only according to Mrs. Banbury." 

 Pen settled back in her chair. She knew the barbed tongue of the Banbury matriarch well. "I am surprised you're smiling. Her comments usually cut to the quick. No matter how ridiculous they may be."

"You don't wish to hear it, then?" The question was hardly worth asking.

 "Well, yes. Of course, I do," Penelope blurted. Her outburst drew the eyes of a few ladies nearby. She added, in a quieter, more demure voice,"But only if you wish to share it."

"She supposes I never accepted an offer of marriage because I am mired in scandal." Emma spoke the words with a smile on her lips, still amused at Mrs. Banbury's ridiculous assumptions. "According to Mrs. Banbury, I never married because of some great and horrible secret."

Penelope looked at Emma, her bright blue eyes softening. Her voice had fallen to a whisper. "Is that better than the truth?"

It stung Emma to acknowledge Mrs. Banbury amusement at learning there was no scandal attached to her spinsterhood, just foolishness and a stubborn determination not to marry any man if she could not marry the one she loved. Unfortunately, the man she loved was equally stubborn and their last words had been spoken in anger. Stubborn pride. With James North so firmly in her heart, Emma had not even considered marrying another man in the three years since since their parting.

 "She would probably laugh to hear it was nothing as interesting as scandal." Emma had no need to hide the details from Penelope. In their common status as young women on the shelf, they had grown closer than sisters and Emma knew Pen's story was not so different from her own.

 "There is no shame in a constant heart." Penelope said the words emphatically and Emma knew she spoke for both of them. Pen had waited these past three years since her coming out for her brother's closest friend, Lucas Sharpe, to see her as more than a sisterly family friend.

 "She would laugh because I have turned spinster for a man I will likely never see again."

"I would not wager on it."

Emma turned to her friend in astonishment. "You don't think she would laugh?"

"Not that. I think you will most definitely see him again." 

"Ah, Pen. I do love your optimism." Emma gave her friend's fingers a light, reassuring squeeze, but Penelope clasped Emma's hand firmly and turned toward her with anxiety etched in her features.

"Emma, you do know he is here. Tonight."

The hollow ache in Emma's chest dropped into her stomach and she felt dizzy. Dizzy and yet restless with an uncontrollable energy. She stood, though Pen still held her hand.

"Em, do you think it's wise?" Emma glanced down at her friend, reading the concern on her face. Concern and understanding. Pen released her hand. "Yes, of course. You must go. Go and find him."

~ * ~

One inquiry to the kind and discreet Mr. Wimpole led Emma to a room Lady Granby had designated as the men's gaming room. Thick with cigar smoke and crowded with men chatting in clusters and gathered around card tables, the room still felt less crowded than the stifling ballroom.

It was not difficult to find him in the gathering of men. He was tall and stood a head above most around him. He seemed even taller now, more imposing a figure than Emma remembered. His hair was still the same onyx black, though long now and somewhat unkempt. It shone blue in the wall sconces lining the overcrowded room. His back was to her. 

Removed from those around him, Emma watched as he turned his head this way and that as if looking for someone. He would have a clear view above the heads of a roomful of shorter men. Suddenly, he turned and glanced toward Emma, as if he'd sensed her eyes on him. The crystal snifter he had raised to his lips fell with a soft thud to the thick aubusson carpet under his feet. 

Shock was clear in his features, his dismissal of the spilled drink at his feet. But was there more? Was his heart hammering in his chest too? Did he feel the invisible pull, like a magnet, between them?

Emma swayed toward him, unable to deny the magnetism. But before she could take a step, he approached in two long strides. A delicious scent, the bay soap he'd always used, swept over her and she bit back a moan at the exquisite pleasure of finally being near him again. He looked down at her, his dark blue eyes unreadable. Studying her, his gaze touched her hair, her lips, her neck before settling back on her eyes. Then he turned and moved past her. Emma thought for a moment he meant to walk away from her. Again. Then she felt his long fingers tugging at her own. 

~ * ~

"James. Where are you? I can't see you." Her voice sent a trickle of pleasure down his spine. His name on her lips. He had waited three years to hear it and was stunned at the lack of anger in her tone. Where was the resentment he so richly deserved?

He had spirited her away like a marauding pirate and had no idea where they'd ended up, except it was an empty room. Empty and dark. A sliver of moonlight through a partially open drape was the only illumination. He could just make out the shape of her. Pale skin, dark hair. Her hand reached out for him, and he grasped it like a drowning man reaching for a life line. 

Pulling Emma toward him, James kissed her palm and heard her gasp. A polite man would have been deterred, but his hunger for her didn't allow for delicacy. Snaking his arm around her waist, he tugged, fitting her curves against him. Then he dipped his head to taste her skin. 

As he kissed her neck, he touched a spot behind her ear with his tongue and found the place she'd dabbed her violet water. The dainty scent, one he only associated with Emma, was maddeningly erotic. She tilted her head, giving him access, while her hands roamed over his chest. They slid inside his jacket, fingering the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Emma." He said it once, his voice a husky murmur, before his lips found hers. Starved for the taste of her, he could not give her a delicate dance of mouths. This was a plunder. She moaned and he pulled his mouth from hers, as breathless as she.

She placed both hands on his chest. He reached up to stroke them and she pushed away from him. She sidestepped out of his embrace and he immediately missed her warmth.

He spoke the words he knew he should. "Forgive me, Emma, for absconding with you just now." It wasn't true. He was not the least bit sorry for pulling her into the darkened room alone, though he knew for the sake of her reputation, he should be. He had other regrets. Three years worth of them. It was easy to add, "I am sorry."

He wished for more light. Her silence chilled him. But this is what he had expected, what he deserved.

Her breath was still coming quickly. Beyond the beat of his heart and his own labored breathing, it was the only sound in the dark room. The shape of her face, the glow of her skin, was visible in the dim light. He waited for the condemnation, the anger, but she didn't speak. He couldn't stop himself from breaking the quiet between them. "I never stopped loving you, wanting you." 

"Then the last three years must have been as miserable for you as they were for me."

There was his Emma. He heard it all in those few words. A spark of spirit, the pain and regret that echoed his own, and even the resentment that must have built like a pyre, each year adding more tinder to the flame.

Yes. It echoed in his mind over and over, resonated from every part of him. He hadn't even realized he'd spoken the word aloud until she was in his arms again.

Then he said it again. "Yes." He breathed the word against her mouth and then pressed his lips to her forehead, her eyebrow, her cheek. Wet, salty. He drank in her tears with his kiss. He pulled away. He'd wounded her. There was so much more he needed to say.

But she held him fast. Pulling at his lapels, she reached up and nuzzled his neck, kissing the skin above his neck cloth. "I missed you, James." He heard the tears in her voice and something deep inside of him, the wall around his heart that he had spent so long erecting, began to crumble. He had spent the previous three years trying to make something of himself, earn his fortune and the right to be with Miss Emma Prichard. Were the years of separation worth it? They stretched before him like a gaping, empty chasm. All those years of effort meant nothing when he realized that they could have been spent like this. Day and after day with this beautiful, generous woman--the unbearably stubborn Emma Prichard--in his arms, pressed against his body.

"And I you, Emma."

She kissed him then, melting his regret, bringing him back from the chasm's brink. "Show me how much" Her voice was low, laced with need and desire. A siren's call. "Show me how much you missed me."

He pressed her against the wall, leaning in to kiss her again. For the first time since he'd sequestered them in the darkened room, he was gentle, tentative. 

A muffled rap on the door startled them both. James leaned down, resting his forehead against Emma's, feeling the puffs of her rapid breath on his neck. 

"Emma?" the muted words through the door were a woman's and she was frantic.

For a woman on the edge of ruin, Emma startled him by answering in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Yes, Pen. I am here." James released her, stepping away just enough to allow her to settle her dress and push disheveled strands of hair back into place.

The woman beyond the door continued to whisper. "You must come back to the ballroom. I am sorry, dear, but your brother is here. He is looking for you. And for Mr. North."

James heard the rustle of Emma's clothing and reached out a hand to steady her.

She did not spare him the worry in her voice. "We must go. Robert will be beside himself."

"Perfect. He's just the man I wish to see." Satisfied that Emma had righted herself, James reached up to straighten his necktie.

"Are you mad?"The tone of worry in her voice had turned to panic. "James, this isn't the time or the place to speak to my brother."

"Why?" He bit off the word and immediately regretted his tone. Reaching out, he sought her hand, and she grasped his firmly. "Haven't we waited long enough?"

He knew she would say yes. She must say yes.

He heard her intake of breath, as if she was about to speak. Her answer was his future. A searing ache, a familiar pain, started in the center of his chest. The wait of a few seconds felt interminable.

Light flooded the room and a thunderous bang echoed off the walls. Robert Prichard stood in the doorway, body tense, his face contorted in a mask of pure rage.

~ * ~

  

Emma had dreamed of this moment. She'd dreamed of reuniting with James, yet the rage she read on her brother's face made it all more like a nightmare.

Robert was foxed. She could see it in his swaying stance and the glossy sheen of his eyes.

"You still can't have her, North. Can't you find some other woman to ruin?"

Pen spoke up. Emma hadn't even realized she'd come into the room too, and she jumped at the sound of Pen's usually soft voice, now firm and authoritative. "No one has been ruined, Robert. But we will all set tongues wagging if we don't return to the ball immediately." Pen placed a gentle hand on Emma's arm. "Abigail is with Dorcas Whitlock and her sisters." Pen spoke of another of the wallflowers with three younger sisters. "We should go to her."

"Yes." It would be such a relief to escape from Robert's drunken wrath, but one glance at James, and Emma found herself rooted in place. The notion of being parted from him again sent a sickening shiver of dread through her body. And she had questions for him. So many questions. But Penelope was insistent, and Emma turned to follow her back to the Granby ballroom.

"Wait." His voice, even a single word, calmed her. She closed her eyes and let the sense of comfort wash over her. "We must settle this matter now, Prichard. Emma and I have waited long enough."

"Emma." Her name echoed off the walls. Both Penelope and James had spoken it at once, each calling to separate parts of her nature. Penelope called to her sense of duty. What sort of a chaperone left her charge alone to abscond with a man into a darkened room? Abandoning duty was not the Prichard way.

Yet James called to her very soul. Her deepest desire was to send Pen and Robert away, forget about her duties, and hide away with the man who had never left her thoughts for three long years. But could she trust her heart to him? He had left her so easily and stayed away so long. Would he leave again?

It took all of her strength, every ounce of resolve to speak the words she knew she should. "James, this is not the proper time. I am here to chaperone my cousin and I have left her alone too long." The words struck her, echoing in her heart. "Alone too long." The phrase had nothing to do with Abigail and when she gazed at James, illuminated in the warm glow of hallway sconces, she knew he took her meaning.

He spoke directly to her, as if Robert and Pen weren't there and listening to every word. "You never have to be alone again, Emma. Tell me I won't be either."

"Good God, North. Have you no sense of propriety?" Robert slurred the words and tripped over his own feet as he moved toward Emma. His eyes widened, as if he was shocked at his own instability, and he grasped the edge of a well polished table to steady himself.

James finally turned his attention from Emma and glared at her brother. "Ah, the famous Prichard propriety. Will you tell Emma what your propriety has cost her? Cost us?"

"Does it really matter now?" Penelope stepped between the men, looking from one to the other. She sounded exasperated. Then she turned to Emma. "Tell him, dear. Tell Mr. North that he needn't be alone."

When Emma hesitated, Penelope continued. "She has been true to you, Mr. North. Constant and true. And you, sir? Have you been true to my friend? I do hope so, because she deserves it more than any woman I know."

James didn't say a word, but he approached Emma, gazing into eyes, a slight smile curving his lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words were sufficient. Apparently, Penelope didn't agree.

"Well, I shall take that as a yes, Mr. North. Now, will you do what is proper by my friend?"

"Shall I bend a knee here and now?" His words answered Penelope's question, but he never stopped looking at Emma. She couldn't stop gazing at him either. She studied every aspect of his beloved face, the familiar angles and the newer lines. How many times had she pictured him in her mind's eye? No imagining could ever compare to having him here, so close, so warm, and now, finally, hers.

"Yes, yes, of course you must do that. But not now. We're at a ball, Mr. North. Won't you ask her to dance?"

"Shall we, Emma? Or is your dance card full?"

A sensation tickled at Emma's middle, bubbling up into her throat, until a giggle burst from her. A giggle—as girlish and silly as anything she'd ever heard from Abigail. And she felt light. The ache in her chest was gone. She fingered the locket that James had given her so long ago, and it felt lighter too.

"Yes, my dance card is full, Mr. North." She stepped toward him, reaching out to take his offered hand. "And will be. From now until forever, I hope."

He lifted her hand to his lips, closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth to her skin. "Yes. Forever, Emma. Finally forever."