Rose Gardner's Florist (The Providence Street Shops #2) - Bonnie Dee Page 0,8
game of whist this evening. Do you mind?”
His mother’s eyes widened. “Good heavens, we haven’t yet finished our meal. Cook made your favorite dessert. It would be too unkind to disappoint her.”
So Will remained, hardly tasting one mouthful of the lemon merengue that had been his favorite as a child. Perhaps he might plant a lemon or orange tree in the conservatory. He could almost smell citrus trees growing safe under glass in the dead of winter. Horticulture had just become his new passion. He would dive deeply into the books he’d recently purchased so he might speak intelligently with Miss Gardener.
It wasn’t until he had driven home and entered the silence of his bachelor house that Will paused to consider the reasoning behind his new venture. Did he honestly believe Miss Gardener would become enamored of him simply because he asked her a few questions about plants? She was a beautiful young woman and he a stodgy bookworm, hardly the romantic hero of a girl’s fancy. The pair of them together would be like an ostrich with a dove—ridiculous and improbable.
Miss Gardener might help him acquire plants for the greenhouse, but that was all. Better to forget the way her bright smile lit his dark spaces. Time to stop imagining how that fiery hair that Guy pretended had burned him would feel like to the touch. Soft as the skin of her hand, no doubt. He imagined glossy tendrils sliding between his fingers and sparkling blue eyes regarding him with affection. Such a sweet dream must ever remain a fantasy.
Heaving a glum sigh, Will changed into night attire then settled into an armchair to read. An old favorite, The Life of Galileo beckoned him, but instead, he studied one of the new volumes he had purchased: The Science of Horticulture. Regardless of whether he contacted Miss Gardener or not, he had promised Mother to refurbish the conservatory. At least one corner of his barren house would be filled with vibrant life.
Chapter Four
As Rose paid her supplier for the day’s delivery, she considered what she would do when winter came. The price of hothouse blooms was exorbitant. It would be wonderful if she could raise at least some flowers in a glass lean-to or cold frame behind the building. But she could not afford something like that, even if her landlord or the zoning laws permitted it.
She walked from the delivery door into the shop, head down, lost in a daydream in which flowers were plentiful and always in perfect bloom.
“Pardon me, Miss Gardener,” a low male voice interrupted her thoughts. Though she had heard only a handful of sentences spoken by that voice, she already recognized it.
Rose offered the speaker a welcoming smile. “Good morning, Mr. Carmody. How may I help you today?”
He remained near the door, careful not to take her by surprise again and far away from any obstructions, holding his hat in hand. “I am here for two reasons, Miss Gardener. One is to procure a bouquet. The other is to discuss a proposition.”
His second statement put her on guard. She had been propositioned by groping tossers in her old neighborhood and by lads at the dance hall where she and the other boarding house girls would go on a Saturday evening. Even gentlemanly customers had sometimes murmured scandalous invitations.
“I will gladly assemble a bouquet for you,” she replied primly. “What sort of flowers?”
“Lilies, if you have them. Or anything. It doesn’t matter. What I’m mostly interested in is your advice on the renovation of my conservatory. I’ve hired a glazier to repair the panes, but I know very little about plants and their needs. I had hoped you might come to my house to observe the progress of the restoration and make some suggestions on what flora I should choose.”
Come over indeed. As if she were the sort of woman who would stop by a single man’s house. Although, Carmody had been very courtly while treating her thorn wound. She rubbed the spot, recalling the feel of his warm hand cupping hers. The slight tingle there must be from the healing process.
It was certainly serendipitous that Mr. Carmody should request her advice on a topic she’d been considering mere seconds before. It felt like some sort of message from on high.
“Since you mention the subject, Mr. Carmody, I was just now thinking of indoor gardening and how it might be managed in our cold and overcast English winter. However, I must warn you that I