She stared ahead with forced interest at a cluster of swans drifting near the far bank.
Anything to keep from thinking about Nicholas’s mouth.Or the warmth of his hands.Or the spark low in her belly that she refused outright to acknowledge.Or the fact that she was now thinking of him as Nicholas in her head.
Focus,she told herself sternly.There were political gains to be made.Secrets to overhear.Foes to confuse.And Nicholas—with his maddening charm and dangerously appealing shoulders—might very well be the key to all of it.
But heavens, she needed to stop thinking about how his coat fit or how his eyes softened when he looked at her.
She needed to think about strategy.
Not his lips.Not his hands.Not his voice saying her name.
Strategy.
She drew a steadying breath.Say something, Bea.Anything!
“What exactly,” she blurted, “is the meaning of peonies?”
His brows drew together.“Peonies?”
“Yes,” she said crisply.“A fortnight ago…you sent me a bouquet of peonies.What sort of message are peonies meant to convey?”
A beat.Then, very quietly but with that maddening confidence, he said, “I thought it would be obvious.Unexpected.Beautiful.Riotous.Unconventional.”His gaze slid to hers.“Much like their intended recipient.”
Her breath caught—an unforgivable reaction—and she looked ahead, schooling her expression.“Oh,” was all she could mutter.
