She looked at the patches of flowers grouped at the edges of the small clearing. “Yes, they’re lovely. And they match my dress, don’t they?” Amelia giggled. “I’m so glad I didn’t wear my pink gown, because then the effect would have been less.”
“I would have taken you to a rose garden, then,” Tristan answered, snapping the blanket out flat and letting it settle onto the grass. “Have a seat.”
Gracefully she sank down, her skirt billowing out around her so artfully he wondered whether she practiced the motion. Probably. He hadn’t noticed that she did anything poorly.
“I hope you like roast pheasant and peaches,” he said, opening the basket and pulling out glasses and Madeira.
“I would like anything you chose, Tristan.”
She agreed with everything he said, which was a nice change from Georgiana. He could say the sky was blue and Georgie would inform him that the color was some sort of illusion caused by refracted sunlight. Yes, an afternoon with Amelia was a definite change for the better.
“Mama let me arrange all of the flowers downstairs today,” she said, accepting a napkin and a glass from him. “She says I have quite the talent for flower arranging.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Who arranges your flowers?”
“My flowers?” He thought about it for a moment. “I have no idea. One of the maids, I suppose, or Mrs. Goodwin, the housekeeper.”
She looked dismayed. “Oh, you should always have someone very skilled do your arranging. It’s very important.”
Tristan took a sip of wine. “And why is that?”
“A well-done flower arrangement is the sign of a well-managed household. Mama always says that.”
“That makes sense.” It also explained why he really didn’t care who arranged his posies, and why he didn’t think twice about dumping them into wastebaskets to put out fires he’d started. “Well-managed” and “Carroway” weren’t precisely synonyms.
“Do you use roses, or irises, or daisies as your main theme?”
Blinking, Tristan took another swallow, then realized that he’d emptied his glass. “Lilies,” he said absently, refilling it. Georgiana had once told him she preferred lilies over any other bloom. Her taste and sense of fashion were impeccable, so it seemed a safe answer.
Amelia pouted, probably to bring his attention to her mouth. He’d learned about that trick during his trip to Emma Brakenridge’s girls’ school last year, and he had no difficulty deciphering what she was up to.
“Not daisies?” she said, fluttering her lashes at him.
Another trick, well-done, but obvious. “Well, you did ask.”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
That caught his attention. “Beg pardon?” he asked, trying not to choke. Another glassful of the sweet wine had vanished.
“I would let you, if you wanted to kiss me.”
Surprisingly enough, he hadn’t ever thought about kissing her. Once they were married, he would have to do it on occasion, he supposed, along with other, more intimate acts, but…He looked at her for a long moment. Sex had always been a pleasurable act, with whomever he chose to indulge. Lately, however, he’d been craving a particular, rare dish—one he’d tasted only once before. And it wasn’t Amelia. “Kissing you wouldn’t be proper.”
“But I want you to like me, Tristan.”
“I do like you, Amelia. Kissing isn’t necessary. Just enjoy your pheasant.”
“But I would if you wanted me to. You’re very handsome, you know, and a viscount.”
Good God, Georgiana had never been this naive, even at eighteen. If he wanted to secure a marriage with Amelia, he could probably topple her over and lift her skirts right there in the middle of Regent’s Park, and she wouldn’t even complain. Georgiana would gut him with the carving knife and pitch his remains into the duck pond.
He chuckled, then cleared his throat when Amelia looked at him. “Apologies. And thank you. You’re exceptionally lovely, my dear.”
“I always try to look my best.”
“And why is that?”
