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“I don’t know why since the irises have stopped blooming,” his mother replied tartly. She inclined her head. “But go. I think I’ll ask Lord Kensington what he knows about the palace scandal.”
“You are kindness personified, ma’am.” Vale proffered his elbow to Melisande.
She rose as her mother-in-law muttered, “Oh, pish” behind them.
Melisande’s lips curved as Vale guided them toward a pea-gravel path. “Your mother thinks I’ve saved you from a terrible fate in a marriage to Miss Templeton.”
“I bow to my mater’s wonderful common sense,” Vale said cheerfully. “Can’t think what I saw in Miss Templeton in the first C in“I place.”
“Your mother says it may’ve been the lady’s bosom.”
“Ah.” She felt him look at her, though she kept her gaze on the path ahead. “We men are pitiful creatures made of clay, I’m afraid, easily distracted and led astray. A lush bosom may have indeed fogged my innate intelligence.”
“Hmm.” She remembered the parade of women who had been his lovers. Had they all had lush bosoms as well?
He leaned toward her, his breath brushing her ear, making her shiver. “I would not be the first to mistake quantity for quality and reach for a large, sugary cake, when a neat, small bun was in reality more to my taste.”
She tilted her head to glance at him. His eyes were sparkling, and a smile played around his mobile lips. She had trouble maintaining a stern expression. “Did you just compare my form to a baked good?”
“A neat and delectable baked good,” he reminded her. “You should take it as a compliment.”
She turned her face away to hide her smile. “I’ll consider it.”
They turned a corner, and he abruptly pulled her to a stop in front of a clump of greenery. “Behold. My mother’s irises, no longer in bloom.”
She looked at the plant’s lobed leaves. “That’s a peony. Those”—she pointed to some plants with sword-shaped leaves farther down the path—“are irises.”
“Really? Are you sure? How can you tell without the flowers?”
“By the shape of the leaves.”
“Amazing. It’s almost like divination.” He stared first at the peony and then the irises. “Don’t look like much without the flowers, do they?”
“Your mother did say they weren’t in bloom.”
“True,” he murmured, and turned them down a new path. “What other talents have you hidden from me? Do you sing like a lark? I’ve always wanted to marry a girl who could sing.”
“Then you should’ve asked about it before we wed,” she said practically. “My voice is only fair.”
“A disappointment I shall have to bear with fortitude.”
She glanced at him and wondered what he was about. He sought her out, almost as if he were courting her. The thought was disconcerting. Why court a wife? Perhaps she was seeing more than was there, and the possibility frightened her. If she hoped, if she let herself believe he actually might want her, then the fall when he turned away again would be even more terrible.
“Perhaps you can dance,” he was saying. “Can you dance?”
“Naturally.”
“I am reassured. What about the pianoforte? Can you play?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid.”
“My dreams of evening musicales by the fireplace are crushed. I’ Cre heive seen your embroidery, and that’s quite fine. Do you draw?”
“A little.”
“And paint?”
“Yes.”
