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After that, I headed to the door.
“Daphne?”
I stopped and turned back.
“Dad orchestrated tonight. He wanted me, you, Danny, Mum and Portia uncomfortable. He also put Chelsea in that position. Mary. Michael. Michael is his closest friend.”
And there was the reason for his earlier Mr. Broody.
“I know,” I said gently.
“And then came you, making me end the night smiling.”
“Don’t get soppy on me, Lord Alcott.”
“Never.”
I stopped bantering and said, “Sleep well, honey.”
“You too, Daphne.”
I shot him a smile. Then I went to my room.
I was still feeling woozy.
I was also feeling warm. I was feeling happy. I was feeling confused at both. I was trying not to feel worried about the fact I was beginning to feel a lot for the very-soon-to-be Earl Alcott.
What I was not feeling was, after I checked in on Lou (who was thankfully sound asleep), when I hit the Rose Room and saw how fabulous it was when the girls had prepared it for me to relax for the evening, another bridal bouquet being placed on the turned-back fold of the sheets.
And this one I knew wasn’t right.
But it was sending a message.
I just didn’t understand what that message was.
Because it wasn’t roses.
It was an exact replica of the one I left in the bathroom down the hall.
But bigger.
And it was carnations.
Fourteen
THE HAWTHORN SUITE
I sat in bed, Kindle in hand, unsure if this was the right thing to do.
That bouquet.
The story of Joan.
I did it.
I opened Steve Clifton’s book, The Woman in the Orange Dress, on my e-reader.
He’d dedicated it to, Aunt Dorothy, for all the talent you weren’t given the time to share.
