I had never given it much thought when he was getting me these flowers, mostly because I despised the sight of them every morning, but I am shocked to find his dedication in having them delivered to me at such an early hour that no matter when I was to wake they, would be there.
Something is different about the vase of flowers this morning. I see a small piece of parchment sitting next to it, with the corner tucked under the bottom rim of the glass vase.
I leap to my feet, thinking it must be a letter from Phillip. His response letters come in sporadically, which I can only assume is because Braxton hoards them when I’ve pissed him off beyond a reasonable amount. Recently, it’s felt like ages since I’ve received one.
I snatch the paper up from under the vase, my eyes eagerly eating the words on the paper.
Good morning, Wildflower,
Upon realizing the letter is from Braxton, I drop it back on the table as if it scalded me. Braxton has never delivered a handwritten note for me with the flowers before.
Feeling childish for my reaction to a silly note, I pick it back up and continue reading.
Good morning, Wildflower,
I thought we could take that stroll in the gardens, and you could ask me your next three questions that I know you must be practically thrumming to ask.
Be at my study by noon.
Your,
Prince Braxton Carter
“Your?” I scoff at the letter closing.
Not his.I think vehemently shaking my head.Never will be his.
I hate the way his words always weasel themselves into the crevices of my brain. There was nothing sweet or caring about how he decided to sign that letter. It was strategic. He’s playing a game of psychological warfare, and if he thinks he can best me in it, he is sorely mistaken.
I decide I need a distraction. Rhoden won’t be in to get me ready for the day for another few hours, so I flick Braxton’s letter back on the table before getting comfortable at my desk to write Phillip another letter.
Groaning, I realize that if I ask Braxton about whether Phillip has sent any letters through, it will count as one of my three questions for the day. Moreso, I can’t very well go asking the man I’m fake courting about my very real fiancé. I find myself sitting with my pen hovering over the paper, and my bottom lip tucking between my teeth before I mentally shake myself.
Clearing my mind of Braxton, I close my eyes and imagine Phillip. The feeling of his hands on my waist, his lips on my neck, his body pressed against mine, and his deep brown eyes—
Wait no.My eyes shoot open, and the wrinkles on my forehead deepen.Phillip doesn’t have brown eyes. Right?How can I not remember my own fiancé’s eyes? I know the ones that infiltratedmy mind were far too familiar though. They were eyes I had seen recently. Staring across from me at dinner.
Perhaps Braxton was better at psychological warfare than I gave him credit for.
I smooth the wrinkles in my dress as I wait outside of Braxton’s study. It’s about 15 minutes past noon, but I didn’t want to seem too eager and show up on time.
I have my curls pulled back and out of my face today since we’ll be walking around outside. I also decided to go with a more practical dress for this kind of activity. Many would call the dress a provincial dress. It has an A-line structure that complements my figure, and it’s embellished with an assortment of beaded yellow flowers along the bodice and skirt.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my fist and knock on the door. The knob turns immediately, and I can’t help the smug lift of my lips at thinking that he had been waiting for me.
However, when Braxton opens the door, his features rumple with confusion before his almond eyes widen, and my overexuberant confidence is snuffed out.
“The gardens.” He puffs his cheeks out before slowly releasing a strained breath. Looking back at the pendulum clock sitting on top of his desk, he rubs the back of his neck stiffly. “I thought you were Gravesley,” he provides as an explanation, though it does nothing to answer any of the questions I have about his current behavior.
“Is Gravesley joining us in the gardens?” I question, catching his confusion like a virus.
“I can’t join you in the gardens today.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic as he delivers this news.
“This was your idea,” I say incredulously, feeling foolish. I can’t help but wonder if this is some game he’s playing at. Of course he would call on me, making me seem desperate for his attention, only to shut me down.
“Yes, and I’m canceling them.”
I blink at him, completely at a loss for words. Clamping my mouth shut, I finally find my voice again, and with it the scraps of dignity I am still clinging to.
