by Dayna Quince
Rigsby rolled his eyes heavenward. “Have you tried telling her your true feelings?”
Draven frowned. “She knows my intentions are honorable.”
“Don’t be thick, Draven. Have you told her you loved her? It’s bloody obvious you do.”
Draven blinked. “Beg pardon.”
Rigsby covered his face with his hands in exasperation. “Are you blind? For weeks, you’ve been panting after her like a dog. You stalk her at engagements. You’ve been stealing her away for dalliance. You haven’t been yourself at all. You’ve gone mad for her. If that isn’t the insanity of love, I don’t know what is. You’ve never been this way over a woman. You are in love, Draven. You are one of the many men rogues like me pity and desperately hope we never become.”
Draven was silent. His first instinct was to vehemently deny everything, but then it started to sink in. He was in love… with Anabelle… He didn’t recognize this emotion. Lust he knew—passion, desire, want—those were emotions he was comfortable with when dealing with women. But love? Was this love?
“I’ve completely flummoxed you, haven’t I? I told you I was the smarter of us. I doubt I’m the only who’s noticed.”
Draven shook his head. He wasn’t following what Rigsby was saying anymore. His mind was completely occupied by one word. Love. He was in love. A curious feeling spread through him. A tingling, almost frightening reaction in his body. A crazed giddiness followed. He actually felt like laughing aloud. He was mad, he was mad for Anabelle, and apparently, that madness was the result of love. He stood abruptly. “I have to go.”
“Go. Tell your woman you love her. Get married, have babies, kiss your bachelor ways goodbye.”
Draven just turned and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going, but he sure as hell didn’t want to explore this terrifying and enlightening new knowledge in Whites. He had a lot of thinking to do and drinking. He needed the solace of his study. He needed absolute quiet to understand what he was feeling, because ultimately, he needed to express it to Anabelle and he had no bloody idea how to do it.
Anabelle had received a letter from Draven’s mother. It said far more than she would ever have dared to ask about Draven and his relationship with his father and confirmed what she already suspected. Draven’s home had been filled with love, and that love had centered on a man that must have been truly amazing to know. A father, a friend. Ethan, as his mother referred to him in the letter, had been hit hardest by his death. She wrote of her own grief, of her inability to go on without the man who had taken her heart when he died, but it was Ethan who kept her alive, Ethan who locked away his own grief in order to save her from her own. She regrets having given so much of herself to her grief that she did not notice how he was managing his, how he locked away his smiles and laughter, how he built a wall around his heart, and only bitterness and cynicism were allowed through. She almost thought it was too late to save him, until one day he started talking of new acquaintances, his words unconsciously returning to Lady Anabelle time and time again. When a son begins talking of a woman, a mother knows to listen.
Anabelle was at first uncomfortable reading the letter. She didn’t feel she had the right to know such personal things about him and his family, but she kept reading, and by the end, she was crying, and she was hurting for Draven and his mother. She was hurting for little Felicity, who never had the opportunity to know her wonderful father, and she was hurting for poor Mary, who did know him, but still lost him so young. She wept for all of them, and then she cried for herself because she didn’t know what to do.
Her emotions were a jumble, but she finally understood all that Draven was. What he displayed was only a fraction of his true self, and it appeared she brought out his better side. His mother was crediting her with his growing happiness and Anabelle wasn’t sure she deserved such credit. She had fought so hard not to like him, not to know anything about him. She had not wanted to care for him in any way, but somehow, over the few months since she first met him, she did care. She cared a great deal and that frightened her.
It was one thing to enjoy his expert touches. She accepted that as part of her own baser nature, but now she cared for him, truly cared for him. In a way that she had never cared for anyone before. She didn’t know what to do with these feelings. They frightened her in their intensity. She didn’t know where to begin to understand them. She thought about telling Hazel all but couldn’t find the courage. She cried off from their evening plans and stayed in her room. She read the letter again and again, hoping for some clarity, but in the end, she fell asleep as confused as before, though not as frightened, by the responsibility of the information she now had of Draven.
Chapter 22
That afternoon, after returning from afternoon calls, Anabelle arrived home with her mother and sister to find a package awaiting her. She took it to her room to open it as well as change. Hazel followed her. She helped Anabelle out of her dress and then sat on her bed and waited patiently while Anabelle put on her dressing gown.
“What is it?” Anabelle asked. She knew what her sister wanted, but wanted to goad her anyway.
“Open it. This mystery has gone on long enough.”
“Mystery?” Anabelle turned away and pretended to look for something in a dresser drawer.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Hazel snatched the package off the table and ripped open the paper.
“Hazel that is mine.”
“It’s a book,” Hazel said disappointedly.
“So it is.” Anabelle snatched it from her sister’s hand and looked at the cover. “The Dictionary of Flowers.” Anabelle read aloud. The book was French and recently published.
Hazel sat up straighter. “Flowers to convey messages! Draven said that!”
“You don’t know it is from him,” Anabelle returned. Of course, it was from him. There was no accompanying note to indicate him, or anyone for that matter, but she knew it was from him.
“Of course, it’s from Draven. No other man would completely ignore proprietary rules like him.”
Anabelle ignored her sister. Her eyes caught on the box of dried flowers by her window. Sweet Pea and White Clover. Anabelle paged through the book until she found their meanings. Sweet Pea meant pleasures and White Clover meant think of me. Think of me and pleasures. Her cheeks felt warm— in fact, her whole body felt warm. She turned her back to Hazel and closed her eyes.
“Well?” Hazel said behind her.
Anabelle held the book out behind her. “Look for yourself.”
Hazel took the book and did precisely that. There was a moment of silence and then a gasp. “That scoundrel!” Hazel laughed delightedly.
Anabelle turned to her sister in astonishment. “You find this amusing?”
“It’s more than amusing, sister.” Hazel plopped on the bed and began paging through the book. “I wonder how many other arrangements we’ve received have special meaning.”
“I don’t wish to know.” Anabelle cringed. She waited for Hazel to say more, to ask uncomfortable questions, and analyze her answers like a suspicious governess, but all Hazel did was continue to turn pages in the book contentedly.
“I have a headache, do you mind going to your own room? You may take the book if you wish.” Anabelle sighed wearily. She had a stomach full of knots and wished to lie down.
“Certainly.” Hazel barely spared her a glance and left her in peace.
Anabelle was grateful, but then again, her own turbulent mind was no solace. She snuggled into her pillows and closed her eyes. She wasn’t surprised the flowers were from Draven anymore, nor by what they said. They had shared many intimacies now and it no longer shocked her. But why give her the book now? What did it mean? Her head did hurt. The confusion and guessing made her temples throb painfully.
The season was ending, and soon she and her family would return to their country seat and enjoy the summer. Would she see him at all? Did she want to? She thought of their last kiss, of the way her body had
ached with need and longing. She had missed him, she realized. She wanted to be near him, she wanted to be close to him, she even wanted to hear his voice. She was surprised by this revelation. There was a time not long ago when she dreaded the sight of him and now…? She wanted him. She’d never felt like this before, not with a man. Was this what she had been looking for? Was this the beginning of love? She never would have imagined feeling this way for him, but here she was. When had she changed her mind? Was it the letter, or the gradual way they came to know each other? She sat up, unable to find any rest while her mind whirled with these thoughts.
It was time to really consider everything she was feeling and if it was enough to mean marriage. Not just any marriage, but the kind of marriage she wanted. Could she love Draven? And was Draven capable of love? She agonized for hours over this thought until she was out of time and she had to prepare for the evening’s festivities. Everything she knew about him had changed, except the way she felt in his arms. Perhaps if she saw him tonight, with this new view of him, she would finally know. Her stomach fluttered with invisible butterflies at the thought.
The following afternoon, Anabelle sat at her vanity and admitted to disappointment. Draven was not at the ball last night, and she had no idea why. Didn’t he understand how little time they had left? How was she to know if she could marry him if he was absent from every avenue in which they could meet? Sullen and petulant, she ignored the knock on her door.
Her maid entered anyway and informed her that her presence was requested in the drawing room. Lucy and Thea were coming for tea, and they had also planned a short walk to the park. Anabelle mustered an amiable attitude and went downstairs. Hazel was already there, chatting loudly with Lucy about some sort of club.
“I have no idea of what you speak. Afternoon, Anabelle!” Lucy rose and kissed her cheek.
“Good afternoon, Lucy and Thea. Sorry that I’m late to tea.”
“It’s perfectly fine.” Lucy took her seat and poured Anabelle a cup.
“I was reminding Lucy of our idea we had of forming a club. Do you remember?”
“A club?” Anabelle frowned. “I can’t say that I do.”
“I remember, but we couldn’t decide on a name,” Thea added.
“Well, Anabelle has this book, a dictionary of the meaning of flowers. It’s quite interesting and it struck me that our club name could be a secret name by using the name of a flower symbolically.”
Lucy’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I follow. How did you come about this book?”
Hazel shared a quick glance with Anabelle. “We bought it. I find it fascinating.”
“Interesting. Shall we have a look?”
Hazel fetched the book from her room and the four girls squished together on the sofa to look at it. Anabelle fetched a pencil and paper to write down names they liked.
“I still don’t understand why we need a club,” Lucy mused.
“For fun. Men have their clubs. We can have our own. We can send post to each other under the club name. It will all be very cloak and dagger,” Hazel said excitedly.
“And what about the other members of our club. Rose, Charlotte, and Heather are not in town.”
“We will write to them. I’m sure if we come up with something meaningful and clever, they will like it.”
There was silence as they flipped through the pages. Occasional flowers were said aloud with their meanings and Anabelle made note of them.
“Cactus: endurance, my heart burns with love,” Thea announced.
Anabelle, Hazel, and Lucy grimaced.
“Sounds prickly,” Lucy quipped.
Thea scowled. “Cactus are prickly. What would you suggest?”
“Columbine: resolved to win,” Lucy said confidently.
Thea rolled her eyes.
“How about Corchorus? It means impatience of happiness,” Hazel recommended
The others shook their head in the negative.
“Hollyhock: female ambition,” Lucy tried.
“It suits you very well, but certainly not me,” Thea returned.
Lucy shrugged. “Exactly. You should be more ambitious on the marriage mart. We all should.”
“Lilac: beauty and pride,” Anabelle interceded. “We all have that in spades.”
“I’ve got it,” Hazel said triumphantly. She took the book from Lucy’s hands. “I saw it last night. It’s more sentimental, but I think it sums up our mutual desires perfectly. It’s everywhere, so we can send pressed leaves to each other in our letters to boost morale.”
“Well, what is it?” Lucy said impatiently.
Hazel found the page and tapped her finger under the name.
The other three leaned closer to look.
“Ivy?” Thea said with uncertainty.
“The Ivy Society,” Hazel announced. “Wedded love, fidelity, friendship, and affection.”
The three others leaned back.
“I like it,” Anabelle said.
“So do I.” Thea nodded.
Lucy tilted her head to the side and squinted. “I think I like it, too. It’s not ostentatious, and Ivy is quite common. I was partial to Rhododendron: danger, beware, I am dangerous.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Thea sighed, and then broke into laughter. Anabelle and Hazel followed suit.
Lucy laughed as well. “I thought it quite fitting, but The Ivy Society it is.” She raised her teacup. “To wedded love, fidelity to ourselves, each other, and the men destined to wed us—God bless them, and to friendship and affection.”
The ladies laughed and raised their tea cups. Rogers interrupted them, carrying yet another mysterious box.
“This arrived for Lady Anabelle.”
“Thank you, Rogers.” Anabelle took the box.
Hazel leaned into her side nosily. “Who is it from?”
Anabelle looked over the box. “It doesn’t say,” Anabelle said casually. She didn’t want to open it in front of everyone, but three pairs of eyes were watching her curiously. She sighed and untied the ribbon. She had a very good guess as to whom it was from, but didn’t know what she would find inside. She held her breath as she opened the box, turning her body to block their view.
“Well?” Lucy said demandingly.
Anabelle looked down at the vibrant red tulips tied with a ribbon. She couldn’t speak. They were gorgeous and certain to have some sort of cold meaning behind them.
Hazel lurched from the sofa and came around her to stare down at the box. She was silent for a moment. “Hand me the book, please.” She held out her hand. Lucy and Thea bolted to their feet to look in the box. Lucy handed the book to Hazel.
“Red tulips?” Thea said curiously.
Hazel frantically flipped through the pages and froze as she skimmed the page. Anabelle didn’t bother to look up. She stared at the tulips, her lungs begging for her to take a breath. She inhaled slowly, her heart ticking like passing seconds.
Hazel wasn’t speaking. Lucy looked over her shoulder at the book impatiently. “Tulips: red… declaration of love?” She gasped. “Who are these from?” She covered her mouth. “Never mind, I know exactly who they are from. Oh, Anabelle!”
Anabelle’s head snapped up. “You don’t know who they are from any more than I do,” she demurred.
Lucy put her hands on her hips. “Don’t pretend to be daft. They’re from Draven, the man who is openly courting you, the man who has never courted a woman in his life. The same man who taunts society’s rules, called the Earl of Clive, a pompous ass to his face, and told Lady Jersey she was queen of the dragons. He is sending you messages through flowers, for which you already have a book to decode with,” she tossed a glare at Hazel, “and that message is that he loves you. I think I might faint.” Lucy turned and sat on the sofa. “If a frog hopped up to me and sang a jaunty tune, I would be less shocked.”
“It’s so romantic!” Thea said dreamily.
Hazel still hadn’t spoken. Anabelle looked up at her. “What do you think?”
Hazel shrugged weakly. “Does it matter what I think?”
“Yes,” Anabelle said imploringly.
Hazel resumed her seat, as did Thea. Hazel took her sisters hand. “I think that despite his rather callous ways and words, he wants to make it clear that he feels very strongly for you. He has changed a lot since we first met him.”
“I don’t think he’s changed, I think he has let us see who he really is,” Anabelle confided.
“I believe he cares for you, Anabelle,” Hazel said.
“Are you going to marry him?” Thea asked.
Anabelle twisted her lips. “I don’t know yet.”
“Well, take your time deciding. See what else he does to convince you. It’s rather entertaining to see such a man fall so hard.” Lucy smiled encouragingly.
Anabelle sighed and relented to confessing a small measure of her reservations. “But, do you think it’s real? Or is he manipulating me into giving in? I want to believe that the part of himself he is revealing now is really him, a gentler, kinder side, but what if it isn’t? What if he is pretending just to get what he wants?”
Lucy considered her words. “I’ve known Draven for quite some time, so I will say this. Draven doesn’t bother to pretend for the sake of others. He really is who he is. That means that yes, he can be cold and arrogant, but if he is showing a softer side, then that is what he is capable of.”
Anabelle nodded though she was still uncertain.
Shortly after, Lucy and Thea left. Anabelle kept her tulips in the back of her mind but resisted the urge to retreat to her room and wallow in her emotions. The next day, however, at the exact same time in the afternoon, more flowers arrived. They had just returned from shopping and Hazel spotted the arrangement in the foyer first, elbowing Anabelle. Anabelle saw the arrangement and panicked. Hazel grabbed their mother and practically pulled her up the stairs. Anabelle grabbed the small vase of red Camellia and thrust it behind her back. She followed her mother and sister slowly and fled up the stairs once they entered the drawing room. In her room, she set the vase down and stared at it. Hazel joined her after a minute.