No. I’m afraid of killing you in front of the ladies, you idiot.
Rafe would never spar with an untutored amateur—and especially not with a man he personally disliked. The danger for his opponent would be too great. He enjoyed cultivating a dangerous, brutish reputation, but he stopped well short of maiming.
Anger might have made him a fighter, but discipline had made him a champion. The best thing boxing had done for him was teaching him when not to punch. Without the sport, Rafe probably would have landed in prison by now. If not a grave.
“This isn’t the time or place for sparring,” he said. “We’re here so Miss Whitmore can choose her flowers.”
No sooner had Rafe spoken the words than Clio lifted a clutch of blossoms.
“Well, that’s done,” she declared. “Now we can take a wander over the meadows. There are deer in the park.”
He crossed to her. “You can’t be finished already.”
“It appears that I am. Mr. Montague was kind enough to cut these for me.”
He stared at the floral hodgepodge in her hands. A few of the buds weren’t even open yet, and others had shed half their petals. He saw roses and . . . some white flowers and some yellow, clumpy things. He didn’t know the names.
“You promised to cooperate with the wedding plans,” he said.
“And I am cooperating.”
Before he could argue back, Daphne joined them.
She took the flowers from Clio’s hand and tutted. “This won’t do. Horrid. Hideous. And wrong, all wrong. Montague, do you know nothing of the language of flowers?”
There was a language of flowers? Ye gods. Rafe didn’t even know what to call them in English.
“Each blossom imparts a different message. And this dreadful posy is saying all the wrong things.” One by one, Daphne plucked the flowers from the bunch and cast them to the ground. “Yellow roses are for envy.” Away went the roses. “Primrose? That’s inconstancy.” The primroses dropped to the grass. “And tansy . . .” She scowled. “A declaration of war.”
“There’s a flower to serve as a declaration of war?” Clio plucked one of the yellow, puffy flowers from the ground and turned to Rafe. “How very interesting. I wonder if we sent a bouquet of these to Napoleon. Or maybe it’s like calling a man out with a slap of the glove?”
“If a man slapped me with a tansy,” Rafe said, “I wouldn’t take kindly to it.”
“What if a woman did?”
“Well, then I’d pay her double.”
She turned away, but not before he saw the corner of her lips curl up and her cheeks go pink. An absurd swell of triumph rose in his chest.
What was it about those blushes of hers? He never could resist provoking them. When he saw that color bloom on her cheek, it made him feel he’d done something right. Like a little banner hoisted with the words writ, Well Done, You.
“Now wait, wait.” Bruiser angled his way into their group, retrieving the rest of the discarded blooms from the ground. “I am, in actuality, well versed in the language of flowers.” He stood tall and tugged his waistcoat straight. “The Viennese dialect.”
Good God. Rafe couldn’t wait for this.
Daphne looked skeptical. “The Viennese dialect?”
“Let us not forget, my lady, Lord Granville has been living for several years on the Continent.” Bruiser held a yellow rose aloft. “In Austria, these roses speak not of envy, but of devotion.” He added the primrose to the bunch. “These, tenderness of spirit.”
Daphne crossed her arms. “And the tansy?”
“Ah. The tansy. The tansy says—”
“I wish to sexually reproduce.”
This interjection came from Phoebe, who had heretofore been silent.
She had everyone’s attention now.
Bruiser didn’t miss a beat. “Well, yes. In the low country, perhaps. In the high country, it’s an invitation to yodel.”
“I wish to sexually reproduce,” Phoebe repeated. “That’s what the tansy says. That’s what all blossoms say. Any plant that produces a flower is seeking to procreate.”
“Oh, kitten,” Daphne said. “Really.”
She and Bruiser moved on, discussing the merits of hydrangea and nasturtiums.
Rafe drew Clio aside, tugging her in the opposite direction. “Forget all of this. We need to order hothouse blooms. Orchids or lilies or . . .” He churned the air with one hand. “Whatever else is finest.”
“What’s wrong with these?” She lifted her pathetic bouquet. “I think they’re cheerful.”
“There’s nothing exactly wrong with them.”
“Well, then. They’ll do.”
“No. They won’t.” He plucked the posy from her hand. “That’s my point. These might be good enough for a vase on the windowsill, but this is your wedding day.”
“Perhaps I’m satisfied with ‘good enough.’ ” She took the flowers.
He took them back. “I’m not satisfied with ‘good enough.’ ”
“You said it’s my wedding. You said I could have whatever I wanted.”
“I want you to want something better.” She reached to take back the posy, but he refused to let go. He flexed his arm, drawing her close. “You should have the best. Always.”
He held her firm. She didn’t pull away.