Juliette blinked. Her gaze shifted to the roses. “I never thought of flowers as meaning anything . . . as symbols.” She glanced back at the white violets, then sighed. “But, yes, I take your point. Violets are too easily crushed.” She raised her gaze to Meg’s face, gave a small apologetic smile. “You’re right—we’ll carry roses.”
Meg inclined her head and said no more, letting the incident slide as she ruthlessly steered the party on through the approval of the blooms for the larger arrangements. Happily, those were concluded without disagreement, although once again Gaston stepped in to champion her suggestion of hydrangeas rather than chrysanthemums.
Finally all was settled to everyone’s satisfaction. Cicely and Juliette led the party from the shop; the vicomtesse followed close behind.
Meg brought up the rear, with Gaston at her shoulder.
Reaching the door, he held it for her. She paused, then glanced up and met his eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black; the twinkling was there, but muted. He arched a questioning, faintly expectant brow. She rarely had trouble reading his expressions.
“Thank you.” She had to give the devil his due. “Your assistance was appreciated.”
He grinned and the twinkling intensified. “That is why I am here—to assist.”
She snorted inelegantly and swept out onto the pavement.
The vicomtesse turned to her. “To repay us for our hard work this morning, I wish to take us all to luncheon. I have been meaning to try the dining room at Bartholomew’s Hotel—it will give us an opportunity to catch our breaths, and if there are any further questions you might have, Lady Margaret, it will give you a chance to ask them.”
Meg hadn’t made any plans for luncheon; afterward, yes, but . . . she inclined her head graciously. “Thank you. That would be welcome.”
June 16, 1820, 1:00 P.M.
Dining Room, Bartholomew’s Hotel, London
“So do you still spend much time at court these days? In Paris?” Meg gave up pretending an interest in the discussion of ribbons—not ribbons for the wedding, but ribbons in general—that held Cicely, Juliette, and the vicomtesse in thrall, and addressed her question to Gaston. He and she were sitting next to each other at the end of the table, Gaston facing the vicomtesse at the other end, with Meg at his elbow. The chair opposite her was empty.
Without raising his gaze from his plate, he shook his head. “My time by the king’s side is over—I’ve stepped back and let others assume the task. It was one thing while I was essentially landless, but with my title and estates now restored, I have other responsibilities.” After a moment, he added, his voice low, just for her, “For my money, much of what fueled the Terror stemmed from noblemen forgetting just those responsibilities. My father did not, and nor will I.”
“How old are your brothers?” She told herself she asked out of idle curiosity. It was that, or ribbon knotting.
“Their ages lie between thirteen and twenty, but my father died ten years ago, and while my mother did her best, they have lacked what you might term a firm male hand. They and my mother have been back on our estates for some years, it’s true, but only in the last year have I had any time to devote to them, and . . .” He gave one of his expressive Gallic shrugs. “What would you? I am perhaps not well qualified in the suppressing of exuberant high spirits.”
“Hmm. Yes, I can see your problem.” Straight-faced, Meg tipped her head his way. “There would too frequently be the question of who was leading whom astray.”
He smiled. Not one of his teasing grins, but a genuine smile. “I am not that bad.”
She arched her brows, but made no reply. The truth was . . .
He was unfailingly honest; she’d never known him to be anything but, even when it would have paid to lie, or at least prevaricate. He was dedicated, loyal, and clearly took his responsibilities on all counts very seriously. Underneath the soldier’s armor, the chevalier’s sash and plumes, he was a thinking man. Not an intellectual, but with a strong streak of common sense and practicality. He was a man who got things done. Who won battles, and rebuilt estates, and found someone to help him civilize his younger brothers . . .
Meg fought the urge to drop her head and cover her face with her hands. She could see what he was doing—of course, she could. But, damn him, he wasn’t being pushy, wasn’t giving her any reason to cut him off at the knees, to avoid his company.
To stop him from speaking.
For her to stop listening and so avoid the temptation he was laying before her. All the reasons she should consider . . .