Chapter Six #2
But there it was. He was barely certain how he could afford to replace the two saucepans in the kitchen which had worn out. He’d have to hope the third would last a while longer, or else they’d be cooking in shifts.
‘And you definitely want the daffodils?’
Miss Vivienne’s words brought Henry back to earth. He had only intended to step into the florist quickly on the way back to the Lodge, but of course, he’d forgotten Miss Vivienne’s impressive gift for conversation.
‘Yes, the daffodils.’ Henry nodded.
The florist beamed. ‘Wonderful! Let me just go and calculate that all up, won’t be a tick.’
She bustled off, just as much a part of the place as her flowers, leaving Henry to stand beside the roses.
He reached out a hand and touched a closed bud. Roses. An overrated flower, in his opinion. Charles had laughed the one time Henry had voiced that, making sure he would never mention it again. Orchids, on the other hand…
Henry stepped along toward another aisle where he knew the orchids could be found, but was surprised to find the aisle was not empty.
A woman stood halfway down it with her back to him. But that didn’t matter. Henry would know that pelisse anywhere.
Aphrodite Oliver. Ditty.
His stomach lurched. He had never managed a calm conversation with the woman.
They had all been more like a confrontation.
It would be a bad idea to have another argument here, right before Miss Vivienne.
Another person in Brexley, alongside Mrs Fletcher, thinking he was trying to woo the stranger to the town by arguing with her…
Henry took a quiet step backward and froze as Miss Oliver turned.
But she didn’t. Not entirely. She just turned her head slightly as she lifted her sleeve and…wiped away a tear.
A sniff echoed down the aisle.
Oh, goodness. Was she—crying?
Discomfort lodged in Henry’s chest. He’d never been one for accosting strangers, but Miss Oliver wasn’t a stranger, was she?
He’d driven her about, criticised her, made her life difficult in front of his brother, then berated her on the street for…
you know, he couldn’t remember why now. And that was only yesterday.
Perhaps it was time the good manners his mother had raised him with came to the fore.
Henry stepped forward.
At the sound of his footstep, Miss Oliver whirled around. She was a picture: red eyes, damp cheeks and absolute horror in her expression.
‘You!’ she blurted out.
Henry winced. Well, if he had wondered just how much damage he’d managed to do to an innocent woman, he now knew.
‘Here,’ he said aloud, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I think you need—just a thought…’
His voice trailed away as Miss Oliver glared, evidently furious he had seen her in this state.
What had caused such a state? She was standing in a florist’s, crying. Had she been bereaved? Oh, heaven forbid she had received bad news while away from home.
Henry didn’t have to like her to feel sorry for her. It was never nice to feel far from home. The years he’d spent at medical school, over three hours’ hard riding from Brexley, had felt like the longest years of his life.
Perhaps if she had a gentleman caller, he would be comforting her.
The thought was swift, fleeting, and Henry tried not to chase after it. What did he care if Miss Oliver was unattached?
‘Here, take it,’ he repeated, shoving the handkerchief into her hand.
Much against her better judgement, Miss Oliver accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You must think me so silly,’ she said in a muffled voice.
Henry shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Well, maybe. It all depended on why she was bawling her eyes out in the middle of a florist’s.
Not the sort of question he had ever asked anyone, now he came to think about it.
‘Tears are natural,’ he said aloud. ‘Very healing.’
Ditty snorted as she blew her nose. ‘And what would you know about that?’
Henry blinked. Then he remembered that at no point had he mentioned he was a doctor. Ah. ‘Well, in fact—’
‘I am so sorry,’ she said, her cheeks flushing. ‘You probably don’t want this—’
‘You keep it,’ said Henry swiftly. ‘I wanted—’
‘I just read—’
They fell silent, awkward tension rising between them.
He was certainly not going to be the one to break it. Something had happened, something powerful enough to make this woman—who had always struck him as being determined, authoritative—to cry. In public.
And it was her bad luck she had to run into him, he thought ruefully.
Miss Oliver blew her nose again, swallowed hard and forced the handkerchief into her reticule. ‘It’s probably silly—’
‘Nothing that can make a person cry is silly,’ Henry interrupted. ‘That is something I know a lot about, so you can trust me on that.’
After all, what sort of doctor would he be if he didn’t understand grieving?
Miss Oliver smiled wanly. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look, Miss Oliver, I may not agree with, well, everything that you do,’ said Henry stiffly, ‘but I am a man of honour, and…well, as you’re all alone here in Brexley—’ and I’m the duke, and I feel a sense of duty and obligation to all in Brexley, and now you’re here ‘—without a father or brother or…or husband, I mean,’ Henry continued, hoping to goodness his voice wouldn’t waver.
‘If I can be a—a support to you. It’s the least I can do. For my brother.’
The smile became a little more watery. ‘I suppose you’ve never read your name in a newspaper?’
Henry considered this. Well. Yes. When he had inherited the dukedom of Glanyrafon, the news had been all over the papers for a time.
It had gone fleetingly and it was a relief when it was over, but it was a very stale, factual set of reporting.
Most of the time they had not given his actual name, they just spoke of the new Duke of Glanyrafon.
‘Well,’ he said begrudgingly. ‘Not as such.’
‘So you’ve never had to face this?’
Henry’s eyes widened as Ditty placed two newspapers, slightly damp, in his hands.
…accused of stealing the money of her clients without delivering the services she promised…
‘And you didn’t do these things?’ he could not help but say, his mouth speaking before his mind could catch up. ‘Fleece these people, take their money and run?’
Henry melted under her stern gaze.
‘The mere fact you can think to ask the question,’ Miss Oliver said icily, wrenching the clippings from his grasp, ‘proves you don’t know me at all.’
No, Henry wanted to say. But I’d like to.
Before today, he would have said the woman who arrived in Brexley and announced she was going to plan his brother’s proposal was a charlatan. Out for people’s money.
But after their conversation the other day, after seeing her response to his arguably cutting words, seeing her temper flare and the emotions spark under the surface…
Well, now he could not help but be a little curious. A little doubtful that Miss Oliver had come to Brexley to fleece his poor brother, but rather to help him.
After all, a woman who was cold-hearted enough to scam people out of their money didn’t break down in tears in the middle of a florist’s when accused of such a thing.
Henry shifted uncomfortably on his feet again, wishing he knew what to do with his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I know that. I knew—I mean, you’re obviously not that person.’
Ditty stared for a moment, then grinned ruefully. ‘No, I’m not Annabelle, or whatever other ridiculous names they call me.’
Henry chuckled lightly under his breath, the awkwardness between them not dissipated, but certainly calmer than before.
‘No, you’re not,’ he said lightly. ‘You’re Aphrodite. Ditty. Sorry, I probably shouldn’t—Miss Oliver.’
Their gazes met, and just in that instant, Henry felt the world shiver. As though he had never expected to meet the gaze of someone so different from everything he had expected he would find attractive.
And yet…
‘You can call me Ditty, if…if you want,’ she said quietly.
Henry swallowed. ‘And you must call me Glanyrafon.’
‘I beg your pard—’
‘I mean, Paisley,’ he said swiftly. Damn. That was the trouble with being an unwilling duke. One rather forgot one’s name.
‘I came in here to research flowers,’ she said, forcing brightness into her voice. ‘I had no idea there would be such variety in such a small place.’
‘Oh, Miss Vivienne prides herself in the choice she can offer her customers,’ said Henry briskly.
How had she done it? Broken down all his assumptions of her in just one conversation?
‘I can see that,’ said Ditty softly.
She pulled an orchid from one of the stands and held it to her nose, sniffing.
Henry fought the impulse to buy it for her. The last thing the woman needed was being put in an awkward position, he told himself furiously. The woman was alone in Brexley and clearly had a gentleman courting her in London.
Control yourself!
‘It’s just… I have to get this right.’
‘The flower?’
‘No, your brother’s proposal,’ Ditty said with a dry laugh. ‘I’ve never— Well, this is my first client out of London. I thought this would be a bit of an adventure, I had no idea the newspapers would… This must go well.’
Henry’s stomach twisted. ‘Ah.’
‘And I have so many ideas, good ones, perhaps great once I’ve put them all together,’ she continued in a rush, as though she was trying to convince him.
Perhaps she was. ‘And I need this to be perfect—your brother deserves it, of course, and so does Miss Yorke, but if I can prove to him, to Brexley, to the world that what I do matters, that it means something—’
‘That you aren’t a swindler,’ Henry added helpfully.
His knees quivered as Ditty shot him a look, but they quivered for quite a different reason when she then smiled, seemingly despite herself.
‘Yes, something like that,’ she said wryly. ‘It’s just…can’t you see? This is important to me. It must be perfect.’
And he could see it. Henry had never been one for business; Brexley was a small town, and he wasn’t in business at all. His work was for the living, and keeping them alive—and happy—for as long as possible. Inheriting a title had not changed that.
But he wasn’t an idiot. Articles like those would ruin her. She needed this. She needed his brother’s proposal to be…perfect.
Oh, hell.
‘Look,’ he said awkwardly.
Ditty’s gaze flickered up to him, and she waited in silence.
Henry swallowed, tasting his own nerves. ‘Look, I won’t get in your way. Even if—well, even if I don’t agree that romance can be manufactured, or made, or whatever you want to call it. I can see this is important to you, so I won’t get involved. I won’t ruin it for you.’
His breath caught in his throat as a slow smile crept across Ditty’s face. ‘Really?’
He nodded, wishing he could think of something clever to say. ‘Yes.’
They stood there for a moment in silence. In a way, he rather liked it. It was the first time they had just been in the same place without jumping down each other’s throats.
And perhaps it was his imagination that they were somehow standing closer together. Perhaps he was dreaming it, that Ditty was leaning closer to him, her hand near his, her breathing short, her lips so easily kissable just inches away—
‘Would—would you like a rose?’ Henry cringed as he pointed at the aisle over from them, where the roses were.
What on earth did he think he was doing?
‘To cheer you up,’ he added, as though attempting to make it perfectly clear that all thoughts of romance were firmly elsewhere. Certainly not in his mind. Or heart.
Ditty grinned. ‘Believe it or not… I don’t like roses.’
Henry laughed. ‘What, a proposal planner who doesn’t like roses? You’re jesting.’
‘On my honour as a proposal planner,’ Ditty said, her smile broadening. ‘I have just always preferred daisies. That’s a strange thing to admit, isn’t it?’
Henry hesitated. The sparkle was back in her eyes again, the most natural thing in the world. Of course Ditty didn’t like roses. Daisies, that was her preference.
‘Well, let me buy you a daisy, then,’ Henry found himself saying.
For a moment, he really thought she would accept, but—
‘Here you go, two bouquets, one for Mavis, one for Avril,’ chirped Miss Vivienne as she bustled over. ‘I’m sure they’ll both love them.’
Henry watched Ditty’s face fall as Miss Vivienne thrust the two bouquets into his arms. She would think—
‘Far be it for me to overburden your arms,’ Ditty said with an awkward laugh. ‘You seem to have enough ladies to entertain. Miss Vivienne, if I may borrow you for a moment…’
Henry watched helplessly as Ditty pulled the florist over to the orchid display and started asking pressing questions about flowering time, moisture requirements and wilting under candlelight.
That could have gone better.