The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,36

at him through the crack.

“On what?” He afforded her a charming smile that served to melt her insides.

She narrowed her eyes on him. “On what you plan to say when you enter.” He’d again declined to tell her his real name earlier. She’d trotted off, leaving him to think about how much trouble he’d have been in had she failed to assist him with Mrs. Wimbley and Lady Copperpot. It had to be worth something to him.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said.

It was the tone of his voice that made her open the door wider. He sounded humble and sincere.

She popped her head out of the door and glanced both ways down the corridor to ensure no one else was in the hallway, then she stepped back and made room for him to step inside, saying with a smile, “In that case, you may enter.”

He took two long strides into the room while she closed the door. The moment she turned to face him again, she realized that he’d been carrying a long-stemmed red rose behind his back. “From Lord Clayton’s garden,” he said by way of explanation. “I removed the thorns.”

He still sounded humble and sincere. Humble and sincere and bearing gifts? She was enjoying this side of him. Quite a bit.

She took the rose and held it to her nose. She’d never received a flower from a man before. William had never brought her flowers. He talked about things like bringing her flowers, but he hadn’t actually produced any.

“My apologies if roses aren’t your favorite,” Nicholas continued. “I thought you might find it suspicious if I asked.”

Marianne couldn’t help her smile. “Yes. I probably would have found it quite suspicious. But thank you. Roses are lovely.”

“For the record, what is your favorite flower?” he asked next, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was a bit nervous now that his hands were divested of the only thing they’d held. She’d never seen him nervous before. That was appealing, too.

“My favorite…?” She blinked. Did she have a favorite flower? It was certainly not something she’d considered before. Lady Wilhelmina’s favorite flower was the lily—she mentioned it often, and usually had vases full of them in her bedchamber back home.

But Marianne had never had an occasion to decide what her favorite flower was. When she was a child, she’d liked to run through the meadow filled with larkspur near the cottage where she’d grown up. That was the only flower she could think of at the moment.

“Larkspur,” she blurted.

“Larkspur?” He frowned.

She felt her face flush. The tone of his voice made her think that larkspur wasn’t exactly the type of flower one presented to a lady at her door. “I mean roses. Roses are perfect.” She clutched the rose even tighter to her chest.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to—”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Mr. Baxter. This rose is lovely. Thank you for it. Is that all you came to say?” Her voice sounded more curt than she’d meant it to, as awkwardness coursed through her veins.

He cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I came to say thank you again for what you did today. In Lord Copperpot’s bedchamber, I mean.” Humble, sincere, bearing gifts, and now apologetic. She could get used to this side of him. Quite used to it.

She twirled the thorn-less rose between her fingers. “Do you care to tell me what you were looking for?”

“No,” he replied simply, shaking his head and smiling at her.

“Very well, but I do think you owe me something more than a rose for my assistance.”

A slow smile spread across his face and he arched a brow. “Like what?”

She brought the rose up to her nose again and breathed in its sweet scent. “I already told you. Your name. Your real Christian name.”

He expelled his breath and shook his head. “Are you certain I can’t go find you some more roses? Or some larkspur?”

“Positive,” she replied with another smile, her nose still buried in the dark-red petals.

“Fine. I’ll tell you, but only if you tell me what your real Christian name is, too.”

She nodded promptly. “Very well. I promise.”

“And you’ll tell the truth?” he countered, his brow arched again.

She lowered the flower from her nose. “If you will,” she replied with a sweet smile.

He shook his head again, but the look in his eye told her he was serious. Quite serious.

“I will,” she promised, in a much more solemn tone this time.

He turned and took a step toward the window, scrubbing