The Unlikely Lady(56)
Jane nearly squealed. She was quite certain she was experiencing a heart palpitation. “Now you’re quoting Mary Wollstonecraft!” She put her hand to her chest. “Stop it, Upton. I may never recover from learning that you own Wollstonecraft, but learning that you’ve memorized her is beyond the pale.”
This time he laughed. “I’ve hardly got every word memorized, I simply—”
“No. No. Don’t deny it. There is no retreating from this. You know and now I know you know. We can never go back to our previous thoughts about each other.”
“Dare I hope by that you mean you no longer think me a simpleton whose only pleasure is in drinking and gambling?”
Jane sobered. She pressed her lips together, contemplating his words for a moment. It was true. Her opinion of him had changed.
She took a deep breath. “I suppose I must grudgingly admit it, Upton, yes.”
His voice was even. “I never thought I’d see the day you admitted that.”
“There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” To her chagrin, her tone was a bit breathy and confused. Why couldn’t she stop plucking at the bedsheet? Upton was turning her into a plucker.
“Might I further hope that you don’t dislike me as much as you pretend to?” he asked.
She allowed the hint of a smile to play across her lips. “That entirely depends.”
“Upon what?”
“Upon whether you’re willing to admit you don’t dislike me as much as you pretend to.”
He grinned at her, she knew even without her spectacles. She felt it in her knees.
“With pleasure,” he replied.
“Very well, then I admit it. And I must thank you, also,” she said.
“For what?”
“For your help today. You quite came to my rescue.”
“Any time, my lady. I ask for only one small favor in return.”
Her fingers stilled against the sheets. Her heart fluttered in her chest. A favor? “What’s that?”
“Call me Garrett.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Yesterday, he’d brought her a book. Today he brought her … flowers. Bloody flowers. Textbook, poetry-inducing flowers. Would she mock him? Would she laugh? Damn it. Garrett didn’t know how she would react. The lilacs had bloomed early this year and he’d gone out into the gardens and gathered them himself. Daphne Swift had helped him find a matching lavender ribbon to tie around the stems and here he was on his way back to Jane’s bedchamber to deliver them. He shook his head. Flowers? He was turning into a walking verse of bad poetry.
Garrett stood outside Jane’s door and thought for a moment. The odds were quite high that she would mock the flowers. She was a mocker, after all, and they were flowers. Daphne had assured him, however, that all ladies enjoyed flowers, even Miss Lowndes.
He took a deep breath. There was more to discover behind that door than whether Jane would enjoy the flowers.
Did she love him?
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about that? Despite Cassandra’s insistence, nothing in Jane’s demeanor up till now indicated it. Yesterday, they’d got on well enough. Admitting she didn’t dislike him and asking him to admit he didn’t dislike her was still a far cry from love. So here he stood, bloody gullible fool that he was, outside her bedchamber door, clutching a bouquet tied with a bow. That’s right, a bow.
He couldn’t linger in the corridor all morning and risk someone seeing him pay a call to her bedchamber. It was a precarious thing to do as it was.
He knocked.
“Come in,” Jane called.
He pushed open the door and strode inside. She was sitting up in bed wearing a new white night rail, still of the grandmama variety, but her hair was down around her shoulders. It was splendid and lush and dark brown with a slight curl to it. His mouth went dry. He licked his lips.
Her spectacles were back, perched upon her nose. The book he’d given her was propped upon her lap, but as soon as she saw him she pushed it aside.
“Upton,” she said, and blushed—actually blushed. Jane!—and then more softly, “Garrett.”
He strode to stand before the chair that still sat next to her bed. “These are for you.” He held out the flowers at a ninety-degree angle.
A small smile wiggled its way onto her lips. She took the bouquet and hugged them to her. “Lilacs are my favorite.”
“Mine too,” he murmured.
“I find it difficult to believe you have a favorite flower.” She pressed the blooms to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.
“Likewise.”
She opened her eyes again and blinked at him. “I suppose that’s fair.”