He leaned toward her, something odd and slightly hot sparking in the depths of his pale eyes. “Must you?” he murmured. “I should be very excited to hear it.”
Daphne had the sudden sense that he was talking about something far more intimate than the mere mention of his given name. A strange, tingling sort of heat shot down her arms, and without thinking, she jumped back a step. “Those flowers are quite lovely,” she blurted out.
He regarded them lazily, rotating the bouquet with his wrist. “Yes, they are, aren't they?”
“I adore them.”
“They're not for you.”
Daphne choked on air.
Simon grinned. “They're for your mother.”
Her mouth slowly opened in surprise, a short little gasp of air passing through her lips before she said, “Oh, you clever clever man. She will positively melt at your feet. But this will come back to haunt you, you know.”
He gave her an arch look. “Oh really?”
“Really. She will be more determined than ever to drag you to the altar. You shall be just as beleaguered at parties as if we hadn't concocted this scheme.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “Before I would have had to endure the attentions of dozens of Ambitious Mamas. Now I must deal with only one.”
“Her tenacity might surprise you,” Daphne muttered. Then she twisted her head to look out the partially open door. “She must truly like you,” she added. “She's left us alone far longer than is proper.”
Simon pondered that and leaned forward to whisper, “Could she be listening at the door?”
Daphne shook her head. “No, we would have heard her shoes clicking down the hall.”
Something about that statement made him smile, and Daphne found herself smiling right along with him. “I really should thank you, though,” she said, “before she returns.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Your plan is a brilliant success. At least for me. Did you notice how many suitors came to call this morning?”
He crossed his arms, the tulips dangling upside down. “I noticed.”
“It's brilliant, really. I've never had so many callers in a single afternoon before. Mother was beside herself with pride. Even Humboldt—he's our butler—was beaming, and I've never seen him so much as smile before. Ooops! Look, you're dripping.” She leaned down and righted the flowers, her forearm grazing the front of his coat. She immediately jumped back, startled by both the heat and power of him.
Good God, if she could sense all that through his shirt and coat, what must he be like—
Daphne colored red. Deep, dark red.
“I should give my entire fortune for those thoughts,” Simon said, his brows rising in question.
Thankfully, Violet chose that moment to sail into the room. “I'm terribly sorry for abandoning you for so long,” she said, “but Mr. Crane's horse threw a shoe, so naturally I had to accompany him to the stables and find a groom to repair the damage.”
In all their years together—which, Daphne thought acerbically, naturally constituted her entire life—Daphne had never known her mother to step foot in the stables.
“You are truly an exceptional hostess,” Simon said, holding out the flowers. “Here, these are for you.”
“For me?” Violet's mouth fell open in surprise, and a strange little breathy sound escaped her lips. “Are you certain? Because I—” She looked over at Daphne, and then at Simon, and then finally back at her daughter. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Violet blinked rapidly, and Daphne noticed that there were actually tears in her mother's eyes. No one ever gave her flowers, she realized. At least not since her father had died ten years earlier. Violet was such a mother—Daphne had forgotten that she was a woman as well.
“I don't know what to say,” Violet sniffled.
“Try ‘thank you,’” Daphne whispered in her ear, her grin lending warmth to her voice.
“Oh, Daff, you are the worst.” Violet swatted her in the arm, looking more like a young woman than Daphne had ever seen her. “But thank you, your grace. These are beautiful blooms, but more importantly, it was a most thoughtful gesture. I shall treasure this moment always.”
Simon looked as if he were about to say something, but in the end he just smiled and inclined his head.
Daphne looked at her mother, saw the unmistakable joy in her cornflower blue eyes, and realized with a touch of shame that none of her own children had ever acted in such a thoughtful manner as this man standing beside her.
The Duke of Hastings. Daphne decided then and there that she'd be a fool if she didn't fall in love with him.
Of course it would be nice if he returned the sentiment.
“Mother,” Daphne said, “would you like me to fetch you a vase?”
“What?” Violet was still too busy sniffing blissfully at her flowers to pay attention to her daughter's words. “Oh. Yes, of course. Ask Humboldt for the cut crystal from my grandmother.”
Daphne flashed a grateful smile at Simon and headed for the door, but before she could take more than two steps, the large and forbidding form of her eldest brother materialized in the doorway.
“Daphne,” Anthony growled. “Just the person I needed to see.”
Daphne decided the best strategy was simply to ignore his churlish mood. “In just a moment, Anthony,” she said sweetly. “Mother has asked me to fetch a vase. Hastings has brought her flowers.”
“Hastings is here?” Anthony looked past her to the duo further in the room. “What are you doing here, Hastings?”