Page 25 of The Companion’s Secret

“I’ve sent my man to do many things for me, and he rarely disappoints.” He allowed himself one step closer, close enough that he might easily reach out and take her hand in his, though he did not. “But when the task concerns pleasing a woman, I do it myself.”

Understanding chased through her eyes, followed closely by pleasure. Yes, it pleased her that he had chosen the flowers—and her own pleasure seemed to catch her unawares. Oh, she was better than most at hiding her telltales. He would not want to sit down at the card table across from such a one. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for them both, he was equally adept at reading the signs.

“And they did, did they not?” he murmured. “Please you, I mean.”

Unlocking her intertwined fingers, she reached up to adjust her spectacles. “I was surprised by them.”

She might bear the name of a flower with smooth, glossy leaves and sweet-smelling petals, but then children were generally christened before their personalities were either known or developed. Gabriel had the distinct impression her father might better have chosen to name her after some plant with thorns.

Something rumbled in his chest. A laugh of amusement or a growl of frustration? Before he could decide which, and whether to let it escape, she added a prim concession.

“Though I suppose it would be fair to say I was pleasantly surprised.”

A small triumph, but still it left him almost giddy. She was not indifferent to him. He dipped his head, partly in a bow of acknowledgment, and partly to hide what he feared might be a foolish grin. “Then I shall consider myself amply rewarded for the trouble of finding camellias in London, in May.”

When he raised his eyes to her once more, she was studying his expression. “Wildflowers cannot have been much easier to come by,” she said after a moment.

Wildflowers?

Gabriel, who had built his reputation on never revealing more than he meant to reveal, blinked. Twice.

A dreadful tell. Little old ladies who played nothing more daring than loo would have tittered at him knowingly behind their cards. A sharp would have called his bluff on the spot.

Camellia did neither. But she knew he had come up empty this hand. Of that, he had no doubt. The corners of her brows drew together ever so slightly, and her gaze slid past him, to the extravagant arrangement on the table.

Oh. Wildflowers.

“And was Lady Felicity also…pleased?” he heard himself say.

“You must ask her yourself.” Camellia’s bright eyes were still focused on some point behind him, but higher now. The object of her gaze was something other than the flowers.

They were no longer alone.

“My lord. How good of you to call.” On silent feet, Felicity crossed the room, her voice brittle and dull, like the wintry leaves on a tree from which the sap of life had been sucked. No, she was certainly not eager. But she had come, nonetheless.

When she stopped and stood beside her cousin, comparison between them was inevitable. In the unforgiving morning light, filtered through yellow draperies, Camellia looked drawn and tired, every bit ten years Felicity’s senior. Dark and more than a little defiant.

Next to her, the daughter of the Earl of Merrick glowed gold, like a beam of sunlight herself. She was not smiling; in fact, her expression was so blank, he suspected she had spent some time in the looking glass perfecting it, having seen the animation in her face when she spoke with others. An English rose, which he was to prune and train and pluck as he saw fit. She would never shock or scold him. She would never, never tell him no.

No other man of his acquaintance would have thought it a decision worth weighing. Felicity was in every respect the ideal toward which marriage-minded English gentlemen strived, and if not for her brother’s foolishness and her father’s weakness, he would have lost any chance at her hand long ago. His choice was clear. So clear, he ought not even call it a choice.

But oh, he craved something quite different in a woman. A challenge. A contest of wits, of wills—one he was not certain to win. The companionship of one as sharp and cynical as he. For beneath that diamond-honed edge of defiance that glittered in Camellia’s green eyes, he saw passion. Throbbing, aching, scratching, clawing, dangerous, deadly passion. It might destroy him, but he would revel in his destruction.

Worse, though, he would destroy her.

Turning slightly, he bowed to Felicity. He thought of the promise Fox had extorted from him. He must be a gentleman. He must marry this girl and do his duty by Stoke and the memory of his father. “How lovely you look this morning, ma’am,” he said to her.

A curtsy, accompanied by a careful smile. “Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” With the wave of one arm, she gestured him to the chairs behind her, then cleared her throat nervously. “Mama wishes to speak with you, Cousin.”

So, they were to have a moment’s privacy. Time enough for him to speak his piece, if he chose. A glance darted between the two women. He expected to see desperation in Felicity’s eyes, a plea not to be left alone with this monster. But she was braver than he had realized. He saw only resignation to her fate.

Camellia gave a sharp nod. “Of course. I’ll just…” She turned and hastily gathered her papers, so dense with ink they crinkled and crackled in her hands. In another moment, she was gone, the door left open behind her.

“I fear I disturbed Miss Burke at her work,” he said as he sat. Rather than giving under his weight, the overstuffed cushion resisted, as if trying to push him onto the rug. Onto one knee, perhaps. Firmly, he planted the soles of his boots flat against the floor.

“Oh, it is nearly impossible not to disturb her work. She’s always writing. Mama says she goes through paper and ink at an alarming rate.”

Bristling at the implied criticism of Camellia, he said, rather more loftily than he had intended, “On Lady Merrick’s behalf, I suppose.”