If only Vivian could take them upstairs to her rooms and read the note in private, but her cousin looked on expectantly as well. She carefully separated the wax from the paper.
Even the beauty of these roses cannot match yours.
Yr obedient servant,
Stanstead
He had found her. Warmth wound its way through her body as she bent to smell the flowers. “They are lovely.”
“I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Clara said.
The blooms were cup shaped with multiple layers, and although the first impression was indeed a pale pink, the petals ranged from almost white on the outside to a deeper pink in the middle. Vivian fluffed them and the scent became more prominent. “Neither have I. Where in the world could he have found them?”
“Who sent them?” Silvia asked as she sniffed the flowers.
“Lord Stanstead.” He must have gone to a great deal of trouble. These were not the usual hot-house blooms.
Vivian ruthlessly shoved down a sense of joy. He was not for her. She must remember that.
Her friend pointed to an arrangement of autumn flowers. “This bouquet is for you as well.”
On the card, Vivian’s name was scrawled in cramped handwriting. She opened it and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Lord Bumfield.”
A fresh pot of tea and toast arrived. Clara poured a cup, handing it to Vivian. “Practical, but hardly romantic, although he probably thinks it is.”
She was definitely not interested in Lord Bumfield. The man was nice, but a widower with several children, prone to flatulence, and stout. No, she’d do much better on her own than tied to a husband like his lordship. If shewereto be interested in a gentleman, it would be Lord Stanstead, and there was no point in even thinking of him. Even if Vivian was in the market for a husband, he would choose a younger, better connected wife.
She glanced at her cousin. “What are our plans for the day and this evening?”
“We have morning calls and three entertainments this evening.” Clara placed her cup on the low oval table between the sofas. “Which means we must be dressing.”
Two hours later, after visiting several houses, Vivian was ready to return to Mount Street. Surely there must be houses where the rest of the company didn’t consist of young ladies who could speak of nothing but fashion, and giggled over who was to dance with them. Then again, neither did she have much in common with the women discussing children or people she didn’t know. She wondered if there was any way she could politely excuse herself from accompanying her cousin and friend without having to plead a headache.
The Dunwood House butler bowed them into Phoebe’s home.
“My ladies, please follow me.”
They were led to a large drawing room where, thankfully, all the women appeared older than eighteen.
Phoebe greeted them. “Welcome. I think you know everyone. We were just discussing the Worthingtons’ soirée. Will you be there?”
“Unfortunately, I was forced to decline,” Clara said. “I must do my duty by Miss Corbet and my cousin.”
“I understand.” Phoebe bussed Vivian’s cheek. “We will be discussing politics most of the evening.”
This might be exactly the escape she wanted. “Although I must confess to being a complete novice, I am extremely interested in politics.”
“I’d be happy to send a carriage to fetch Vivian.” Her hostess slid a glance at Clara. “She may dine with us as well.”
“Naturally, if she would enjoy that more . . .” Clara’s voice faded as she studied Vivian.
Goodness, it was past time to start standing up for herself. “I do believe I would prefer the Worthington event.” Vivian gave a rueful grin, more to apologize to her cousin than anything else. “My feet still ache from last night.”
“Very well,” Clara said. “That is settled. Vivian, you will be introduced to the leaders of our country’s liberals.”
“Wonderful.” Phoebe smiled. “I shall send the carriage for you at seven o’clock.”
“I look forward to it.” Vivian returned the smile. She had never been encouraged by her father to discuss politics, and her husband had let her know in no uncertain terms that he had no interest in her views.
