before her and was lacing and unlacing her fingers.
“Yes?”
“I know that I am pretty . . .”
He smiled faintly. “I will offer you no argument.”
“It isn’t a precisely burdensome quality.”
“I should think not,” he said agreeably.
“And yet I feel as though I had nothing at all to do with it. It is like being congratulated for an archery prize when I haven’t even shot an arrow.”
He was tempted to say, I have perhaps seen more beautiful women, but the difference between them and you is like the difference between the grimy window and one rubbed clean, one through which the sun shines. It is about a certain quality of light.
“Do you excel at archery?” he said instead.
“This isn’t about archery,” she said, with such impatience he bit back a smile. “That is . . . I suppose I was wondering . . .” She cleared her throat. Then she drew in what sounded like a fortifying breath and released it slowly. “. . . why you ‘want’ me?”
She stumbled a little over the word want.
He watched her cheeks slowly flush rosy.
He went motionless.
Once again, he was absolutely flummoxed by the question.
He nearly felt a blush coming on, and he could not recall the last time he’d done that.
A woman no doubt had been involved, because that was the kind of creature they were.
But her expression was earnest, and a trifle tortured. The issue was clearly of some importance to her. He’d best wade in very, very gingerly.
“Is the emphasis on the want or the me in that question?”
“I wouldn’t mind at all if you addressed both.”
“Because, Lady Derring,” he said carefully, “if you are seeking flattery or persuasion, I’m afraid I can’t oblige. Not only do I not know how to do that, my objective with regard to you is specific.”
This was an example of why he was often referred to as a “right bastard.”
Perverse female that she was, she just shook her head with a little “how you do run on, Hardy,” eye roll. As if it was entirely what she’d expected him to say.
“And if you were hoping for flowers, or”—he cleared his throat—“I suppose poetry is also done, I’m afraid I . . .”
“Oh, dear heavens, no.” She brought her hand down on the table with an emphatic smack and was startlingly firm. “Imagine you bearing a bouquet of flowers!”
He frowned.
“I mean”—she leaned forward earnestly—“they’re meaningless, aren’t they? Flowers, poetry? So much ritual nonsense.” She gave her fingers a flick, as if releasing something she’d crumbled into dust.
He blinked.
He rather agreed—he’d learned that the hard way, long ago—but hearing her say that out loud was strangely less pleasant than he’d thought it would be.
“They do serve to signal intent,” he said cautiously. “They give poor hapless bast—er, men—a sort of language. Because communicating the finer feelings is often a struggle for our gender.”
“Signaling intent?” she repeated. Amused and bemused, all at once. “I suppose they do serve as offerings. Of a sort. That is, all manner of things certainly preceded my wedding to Derring. Bouquets of hothouse flowers. So expensive to grow and maintain for such fleeting beauty. They say more about money, don’t they? They say, look at all my money! Little books of poems, Byron and the like, though I was certain Derring had never so much as entertained a metaphor in his life. They were flattering, and I was grateful, and at no point was his intent, as you say, ambiguous. A man as conventional as Derring doesn’t lightly publicly woo the daughter of a lord, no matter how minor. But they don’t signify affection, do they? Not really. They do not make a person feel known.”
He listened to this, absolutely fascinated by something he’d failed before to consider, and by a deeper glimpse into her.
“Perhaps they don’t always.”
“Forgive me. I am trying, I suppose, to be truthful in all things. To say the things I wish to say and ask the things I wish to ask, and not try merely to please someone else.”
Once again, he knew a swift stab of loathing for Derring, who had clearly not known, or cared, who she was.
“Do you like flowers?” he asked a moment later.
“I love flowers,” she said wistfully. “Daisies, especially.”
“Daisies?”
“They grow where they want to, don’t they? Often in surprising little places. Seldom in a hothouse. They’re not confined, bought, and sold like more exotic blooms. I’ve always liked daisies best.”
She made it sound as though she might never see another daisy again.
Why did