Adam pondered as he walked, not paying much attention to his surroundings. He was an ordinary chap, with his feet firmly on the ground, he told himself, not any mystical, poetical, portent-seeking fellow. All of the recent events must simply have been coincidences, having nothing whatsoever to do with his wants or wishes. On the other hand, the one clutching Miss Relaford’s card as though it were his ticket to Paradise, he had never believed in love at first sight before, either.
What else could this feeling be? His innards were tied in knots, his tongue was as thick as a sheep hide, and the thought of taking tea with the young woman almost made him drool. He was thirsty and hungry, that was all, he told himself. And did not believe himself for an instant.
Could it be mere infatuation with her looks? No, for Miss Relaford was as charming as she was beautiful, sweet and intelligent, too.
Lust? Adam shook his head and muttered a denial to himself. A woman with a small child in hand anxiously crossed to the other side of the street.
Oh, at the thought of Miss Relaford’s soft hand, soft lips, soft skin, he grew hard enough, but the feelings Adam felt for her after such a brief acquaintance went much further. He had never had so burning a need to make a woman happy before, to cherish her and protect her. Why, he’d just made a fool of himself again, insisting he see her to her waiting carriage as if a whole building full of Bow Street officers could not keep Miss Relaford safe. And he was counting the hours, multiplying out the minutes, until he could see her again. If that was not love, what was? Perhaps he’d ought to consult one of those poets after all. They were always going on about the tender emotion.
Tender, hell. His head was tender, his ribs were tender. His heart was a maelstrom of confusion, and the whole mess was too much for his aching head to contemplate. He needed a meal and a room and a bath. Then, maybe, he could begin to understand what was happening to him.
Just in case, though, Adam tucked Miss Relaford’s card in his fob pocket, next to the lucky coin, closed his eyes, and made a wish. “I wish I were worthy of her love,” he said. Nothing was different when he opened his eyes, of course, and nothing happened except that a woman with rouged cheeks passed him on the walkway, winked, and said, “You’re worthy of mine any day, dearie.”
Adam took a room for one night at the coaching inn, intending to catch the next day’s stage to Suffolk. He paid extra to have the inn’s staff do the best they could with his stained coat and scuffed boots, while he did the best he could with his injured ribs. After a hearty breakfast and a long hot soak, Adam tied his new neckcloth—of finer linen than any he owned—higher than usual, to try to hide his discolored chin. He brushed his damp curls back, over the gash in his head, and brushed his teeth, twice.
Then he went shopping for a bouquet of flowers to bring to Miss Relaford.
Roses, of course, pink like the blush on her cheek. Or sweet-smelling violets. A rare orchid, perhaps. A bouquet of wildflowers would be more in keeping with his countryman’s taste, and purse, but this was London, not the country. And it was December, not June. The street-corner flower sellers offered red-berried holly, mistletoe, and ribbon-tied boughs of fragrant evergreens for decorating, dried lavender and clove-studded apples, not posies for a lady.
The shop he found had ferns and ivies and orange trees, and a small selection of flowers from forcing houses—at prices that would have forced him to part with far too much of his recent windfall. He might give his soul to the lady, but not food out of his dependents’ mouths.
“I still have a bouquet of roses what weren’t fetched yesterday,” the florist told him when the man saw Adam turning away. “You can have ’em cheap. They ain’t too droopy yet, and the red’s so dark, your gal won’t notice the brown edges on the petals.”
A few petals fell off when Adam carried the roses out, so he held them close to protect the bouquet from the blustery winter wind as he walked to Half Moon Street.
He checked Miss Relaford’s card again, as if the thing were not etched in his brain, and then stood outside the house in despair. It was worse than he’d thought; she was wealthier than he suspected. The place was immense and immaculate, with nary a speck of soot on any of the myriad windows. Why, some of his windows at Standings did not even have glass!
Lud, what was he doing here? He might have turned and gone back to the inn, but he was no quitter, else he’d have given up on Standings ages ago. What he was doing here, Adam told himself as he tried to straighten his hair that the wind had disarranged, was taking tea with a lovely lady, so he might have another pleasant memory to take home with him, nothing more. Still, he could not help wishing he made a better, more dashing appearance. Miss Relaford was so beautiful while he was so blasted ordinary, if one ignored the garish colors of his chin. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown coat, and brown breeches—how boring. He sighed and raised his hand to the gleaming door knocker.