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Luke stared into the bouquet of flowers he held. “I don’t know why she can’t care like Miss Cowan does.”
His heart beat a tad quicker at the mention of her name. “What do you mean?”
“Miss Cowan has a soft voice when she talks to me. She’s been teaching me how to write and read, tells me I’m a real smart lad.” He grinned, and with a start, Bartholomew realized it was one of the rare times he’d ever seen Luke smile. There was a gap in his upper right teeth where he’d apparently recently lost a tooth. “And she smells nice.”
“That she does.” Violets. Miss Cowan smelled like violets, a whole blanket of them like he sometimes saw in Hyde Park when the shade was prevalent. Before the conversation could go further, they’d reached the No. 12 townhouse in Grosvenor Square and the butler was swinging open the door. Bartholomew tamped on the urge to sigh. There’d be time enough for woolgathering later.
“What should I do with these, Captain?” Luke held up the flowers.
“Give them here.” He took the bouquet from him at the drawing room door. Lowering his voice, he said, “Go upstairs and put on clothes more suitable for adventure. You may wander the garden until Mother calls for you. No doubt she has plans.”
“You ain’t got to tell me twice.” The boy dashed off and was soon taking the stairs at a run before Bartholomew could correct his grammar.
Lucky lad. Not quite tamping down a sigh, Bartholomew entered the room. His gaze alighted on his mother, and he swooped down on her, presenting her with a flower bouquet with a bit of theatrics. “I thought you might enjoy this, Mother.”
“What did you do?” she immediately asked as she bounced her suspicious gaze between him and the flowers. “You’re not going back to sea, are you?”
“Of course not. Merely attempting to do something nice.” As if it didn’t matter much to him, he casually glanced about the room until he spotted Miss Cowan in the corner, scribbling notes at the small secretary. “And since I procured flowers for you, Luke and I thought your companion might like some too.” He crossed the room and then held out the delicate paper-wrapped bouquet to her. “Enjoy, Miss Cowan.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “How nice. Thank you, Captain Grayson.” When she took the flowers from him, her fingers brushed his. Heat danced up his arm to his elbow and a wave of awareness slammed into him. “I do so adore flowers.” Then she lowered her face to the blooms, her lips caressing the nearest petals.
Dear God. He couldn’t tear his attention away. Why the devil did he want to steal another kiss, merely to see if those two pieces of flesh were as soft as he’d remembered? “It was my pleasure,” he managed to choke out and quickly retreated to the fireplace.
“Harumph. It’s a waste of coin, that’s what. Flowers will die.” His mother laid her bouquet down beside a folded copy of The Times. “Where’s the boy?” She held a look of expectation as though he’d pop out of the air to attend her.
“He’s upstairs. Needed a bit of time to himself.” When he glanced again at Miss Cowan, his chest tightened. She touched a finger to one or two flowers, stroking the petals as if they were the most valuable thing anyone had ever presented her. Had no one ever given her flowers before? It was merely one of the questions he had regarding her. “Why?” He transferred his attention back to his parent.
His mother’s forehead creased. Speculation lined her wrinkled face. “I require his attention this afternoon. I’ve a tutor coming to work with him.”
“Why?” He sounded like a particularly dull parrot. “I thought Miss Cowan was having the teaching of him until he goes off to school.”
“She can supplement his education, of course. He can’t be a waif and a ragamuffin forever, you know.” She shook her head and set the lace on the edge of her cap bobbing. “You’re a father now and have a responsibility to the child.”
A father. It was the first time he’d thought of himself as such. “Oh.” He collapsed into a chair. “That’s quite a responsibility, isn’t it?” he asked faintly, not directing it to anyone in particular.
“Of course it is. He’s not going to rear himself.” His mother cackled with laughter.
Bartholomew shook his head. “Right.” Again, he cast a glance at Miss Cowan. “Is that what she’ll be doing this afternoon?”
“No.” When his mother looked at her companion, Miss Cowan rose from the secretary and approached the grouping of furniture. “I need her for the errands I don’t wish to run today.” His mother waved a hand as if the conversation didn’t matter.
“To do what?” There went the hope he might have another private conversation with her.
“I have a list here of things I still need in preparation for the Christmas Eve festivities, as well as a few gifts for the staff.” So saying, she withdrew a folded piece of paper from beneath one of the pillows on her sofa and then waved it about in the air like a victory flag. “Since there’s quite a lot, you can accompany Miss Cowan to the shops.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Mrs. Grayson,” Miss Cowan said with a faint blush tinging her cheeks as she studiously refused to glance his way. “I can take a footman or even a maid.”
“Nonsense.” His mother shook her head. “They’re all busy enough as it is.” She gave her companion the paper. “Bartholomew has nothing else to do.” Her eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that right?”
The high-handed manipulation didn’t sit well. Annoyance blossomed behind his breastbone, but knowing he’d have the opportunity to be with Miss Cowan away from his mother’s presence tempered his ire. “I suppose not…”
“Good.” His mother nodded as if it settled things. “Afterward, visit one of the tea shops. I’m sure Miss Cowan would enjoy that.”
The outing sounded too much like a couple doing holiday things. “Yes, but—”
“But what?” she asked and sent him a sharp glance. “Are you and my companion not friends now?”
It was his turn to fight the urge not to peer at Miss Cowan. “We are, but—”
