“Indeed.”
She had been caught in a rosebush the night he’d first made love to her. Had that been fate, or just an ironic coincidence?
“But also, one might say, universally appreciated,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He searched his brain to figure out exactly what he’d meant.
“Although its beauty is rivaled by other blossoms, it is never mistaken for anything other than a rose. It is always identifiable, always recognized, and always valued.”
She dropped his arm and stepped off the path to examine a shrub covered in small pink roses. “Like a sunset,” she said.
“Or a beautiful woman.” His eyes held hers. “Do the different colors have different meanings?” Mantis flicked his gaze to the miniature blossoms she’d been admiring.
“Oh, yes. In fact, the meanings even change depending on the stage of the blossom, the shade, and whether or not it has thorns.”
She picked a cluster of the pinks. “These buds represent an innocent heart.” She moved to point out the more mature blossoms. “These are a bright color, so… happiness. If I were to offer them to you as a gift, I’d be saying that I appreciate your gentle nature and grace.”
She held them out, and feeling self-conscious, Mantis accepted the small cluster.
“Careful of the thorns,” she warned.
He examined them and then followed her between other clusters of blossoms.
“Red roses with ivy,” he announced his decision.
“For the centerpieces?” She sounded surprised.
“Unless you prefer something else. Perhaps…” He waved his hands in the air as he tried to remember the name of any other flower than roses. “Geraniums.”
She laughed. “Red roses will be fine.”
“What’s wrong with geraniums?”
“Aside from the fact they will not blooming? They signify folly.”
“I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back, still holding the pink flowers but with the fingers of his free hand wound around his opposite wrist.
“Hyacinths?”
“Acting rashly.” She grinned. “And those will have already blossomed.”
She was walking backward, watching him, while he followed her slowly. Holding her gaze, he reconciled this flirtatious lady with the one he’d danced with at Vauxhall.
Red roses were the perfect flower for her. Classic. Stunning. But with all the passion of life’s sustaining force.
Even determined to properly court her this afternoon, he couldn’t stop imagining… remembering.
And the look in her eyes revealed that she was remembering as well.
“Did you feel guilty? After?” He lowered his voice.
Before, she might have blushed and told him ladies didn’t speak of such things. Before, he hadn’t even begun to learn what she liked… and what drove her to the edge.
“Should I have?” she teased.
“Not at all. Should I?”
