"Penny for your thoughts," he said and batted her sunhat with a tasseled blade of grass.
"I'm happy," she said, "because I'm sitting in the sun without my corset."
He hid his smile by drawing circles on the blanket. "As a gentleman, I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
Florence
grinned back and wondered if she'd ever find a suitor she felt as comfortable with as him. She touched his shoulder with the tip of her finger. "May I ask you a question?"
He rolled onto his back. "Ask away, dearest."
"It's a personal question," she cautioned, "one that might inspire sad thoughts."
"I shall not
renege
my permission because of that."
She set her wine in the grass. "I know you lost your parents when you were young, but I don't know
how they died."
"Ah," he said, and closed his eyes. To her relief, he was not offended. "They took a trip to
Egypt
to see the pyramids. On the journey back, one of the passengers brought the yellow fever onto the ship. It was
a bad outbreak. Twenty-two died before they were able to contain it, my parents among them. My mother was one of those who nursed the sick. She saved a few, they say, and died a heroine. I imagine Father was proud of her in the end."
Here, at last, was a hint of sadness.
Florence
wanted to comfort him, but wasn't sure she should. Had
his father been ashamed of his wife? Had he reason? The question seemed too prying. Rather than ask
it, she pleated the worn flowered cotton of her dress. "That was when Edward became your guardian."
She could not forestall a blush at speaking his name, but Freddie did not notice.
"Actually, Aunt Hypatia became our guardian. Edward was only seventeen, and I was twelve. But he fathered me from then on, if that's what you mean."
"Was it difficult?"
"To let Edward have charge of me?
Not in the least, for he'd been doing it all along. Even as a boy, he took his duty as elder brother seriously." His face softened with memory. "Our father was strict. A hard man, you'd say, to the point where he sometimes seemed cruel. His father had been the same. According to family lore, our great-grandfather was a wastrel.
Nearly gambled Greystowe into the poorhouse.
Perhaps the generations left to repair the damage were right to run a tight ship. Whatever the reason, many times Edward stood between my father's rod and me."
He rolled onto his elbow and covered the hand that was crumpling her skirt. "Shall I tell you the best Edward story?"
Ignoring the sudden skipping of her heart—for why should she care about Edward's part in the tale?—
she smiled into bis boyish face. "Of course you should tell me."
He composed himself by propping his jaw on his hand. "You may not know this, but Greystowe is
built above a lake with an island in its center and a family of proud black swans who return each year to raise their brood."
"Black
swans?"
"None other.
Nasty, noisy things, if you want to know the truth, but handsome enough to look at. At
any rate, when Edward was seven, our father decided he ought to learn to swim. He rowed him to the deepest end of
he hauled him out, let him catch his breath, and did it again."
"Heavens!" said
Florence
, her hand to her breast.
"I told you my father was stern. I imagine his father did the same to him. He liked to say Greystowe
men were made of iron."
"But Edward might have drowned!"
"He learned not to soon enough," Freddie assured her.
and
soothingly patted her hand. "Edward being who he was, when it came my turn to learn, he insisted
he
be allowed to teach me. Told my father the responsibility would prepare him to be a leader. He always was better at getting around the earl than I was."
Florence
shook her head against a dawning horror. "You can't mean to tell me Edward dumped you in that lake!"
"Indeed, no." Freddie laughed and her shoulders unwound in relief. "But he did take it into his head
that I had to learn in a single day or Father would do it instead. We stayed in that lake till
, a
shivering pair of prunes."
"And did you learn to swim?"
"Enough to satisfy Father.
And better over the course of the summer. Edward was so pleased he gave
me lessons every day. Two years later, I won a swimming prize at school. Edward doesn't know I know this but, to this day.
he
keeps that medal in a cabinet by his bed."
Florence
blinked her stinging eyes. "What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I really were your cousin, so I could have been there to cheer you on."
"I should have liked that." He touched her cheek where a single tear had slipped away. "Now you must
let me ask you a question."
"Oh, Freddie, you know I can't tell stories like you." "It's not a question that requires a story. At least,
I don"t
think
it is."
"Very well," she said, and smoothed her simple skirt. "Ask me anything you like."
He cocked his head at her answer, eyes twinkling, but all he said was, "What do you think of Peter Vance?"
"The duke of Monmouth's son?"
She sat straighter in surprise.
"Yes. Aunt Hypatia tells me he sent you violets this morning and invited you to the opera with his family."
She squirmed at the memory of the card that had accompanied his bouquet.
Something about the
"violet hiding in the shade" and the "sweet and simple beauty" that its perfume betrayed.
The sentiment was flattering, even poetic, but
Florence
had felt supremely uncomfortable when he'd read it.
"I'm sure he only sent them to please his sister," she said. "And even if he didn't, he's the son of a duke."
"The youngest son," Freddie interposed.
"Yes, but I don't think he is someone I should consider. I am only a vicar's daughter."
"You may consider anyone you please. You're a sweet and pretty girl. The question is
,
does Peter
Vance please you?"
Florence
gazed at the sky, at the sheer white clouds and the swallow that soared above them towards
the greensward in
of humor, but he was handsome and ardent and undeniably better than a simple girl like her deserved. Instinct told her he'd be kind to his wife and take a mistress in half a year.
Which did not rule him out
as husband material—at least, not the sort of husband she'd told Mr. Mowbry she was seeking.
If her thoughts had been haunted of late by a taller, darker, and infinitely more dangerous
figure, that
was
a foolish romantic notion she would do her best to quash.
"I suppose he pleases me," she said. "But how can I tell? I have danced with him and talked of nothing. He has brought me punch and paid compliments to my hair. All I really know is that he likes horses, is pleasant to look at, and has an agreeable sister."
"Agreeable sisters are important."
He seemed to be teasing, but
Florence
couldn't smile. "You must think me terribly cold-blooded."
"You,
Florence
?
Never."
"But to hunt for a husband this way, as if he were a bit of beef, rather than a living human being who would be yoked to me for a lifetime."
"What a horror that would be!"
She shoved his muscular shoulder.
"Scoundrel.
You always make me laugh. I must confess
,
I halfway wish I could marry you."
This stilled him.
"Do you?" he said, eyes hooded from her gaze. She wondered if she'd alarmed him.
"I'm afraid so," she admitted as lightly as she could. "But please don't tell your aunt. She'd be aghast."
"I don't know about that. From what I've seen, she's very fond of you."
"Not fond enough to invite a silly nobody into her family!"
He peered at her from under his brows, the same measuring look he'd been turning on her all day.
"You might be surprised." He smoothed the blanket beside her knee. "
Florence
, would you really
want to marry someone like me?"
"How can you doubt it? You're quite the nicest man I've met. You're funny and you're kind and when I'm with you, I almost feel brave."
He pressed his hand to his heart. "Goodness. I am a paragon."
She clucked her tongue at him in scold. Though his eyes shone with more than laughter, she should
have known he couldn't be serious.
But then he cleared his throat. "
Florence
?"
"Yes, Freddie."
He drew a breath and let the words out in a rush. "Would you marry me? Would you really? I know
I'm not as good as I could be, but I'm not as bad as some. I don't drink or gamble or curse. I don't often work hard, but I can, and I'd always do my best to keep you happy."
Her eyes felt as round as saucers. He wanted her to marry him, the man she'd made a model for her ideal. She should have been elated—indeed, part of her was—but behind the elation, a sensation uncommonly like panic was expanding in her chest.
"You can't be serious," she said, half of her wanting him to admit he was teasing.
"Yes,
Florence
, I am." He sat up and took her hands. "I'd very much like to marry you. That is, if you think you'd enjoy yoking us together."
Her heart was pounding like a drum. She told herself only the thought of Edward kept her from jumping into Freddie's arms, because he'd kissed her, because he'd made her pulse race and her skin tingle from head to toe.
But Edward wouldn't marry her. Even if he would, he wasn't what she needed. Peter Vance might disappoint her, but Edward would break her heart. She knew that as surely as she knew her name.
She'd promised herself she wouldn't end up like her father, half her soul lost to mourning a love she
could never find again.
Florence
was not some hearts-and-flowers ninny.
Florence
was a sensible girl. Despite which, she couldn't quite make herself accept.
"I don't know what to say," she said.
"Say yes," Freddie urged.
"Oh, Freddie.
How can I? Your aunt will think I've betrayed her trust."
"I assure you she won't, but I'd face even that if you feel certain you'd like to have me."
She searched his dear, kind eyes, eyes that for once seemed as shy and unsure as her own. She could make him happy, she thought. They were not in love, but there was fondness between them, and respect. She could make a home he would be pleased to call his own. She could ease the sadness she sometimes saw behind his smile.
As for her...