“Begging your pardon, m’lord, Miss Hambleton is not taking visitors today.”
Damnation! She was still refusing to speak with him. Perhaps her father would be more understanding. “Reverend Hambleton?”
“In his study preparing for the Christmas service, m’lord, and not wishing to be disturbed by anyone until the service is over.”
“Aah, of course.” He would be fully occupied on Christmas morning. Sebastian set his hat back in place. “I’ll speak with the Reverend after the service.” If he couldn’t get Violet to listen to him.
The door closed with a solid clunck, leaving him alone and disappointed on the doorstep. All right, that idea hadn’t worked. He needed a way to smooth things over with her before she had the chance to cold-shoulder him in church.
All he had to offer were hothouse flowers and another verse.
That might work.
Now he had a plan, Sebastian’s fuzzy head miraculously cleared. He strode back along the garden path to the cottage gate where Hector nibbled the frost-nipped parsley beside the gatepost. He mounted and urged the horse into action. There was no time to waste.
Soon they were hurrying back to Whitton Grange. Hector snorted in disgust as Sebastian demanded a faster pace than he preferred. He delivered Hector into the charge of the stable boy. “I’m going out again in a hurry.”
“You’ll be wanting Satan this time?” The boy’s grin of anticipation was no surprise.
“No, my curricle.”
The boy’s face blanked to neutral. “Right, m’lord.”
Sebastian strode to the head gardener’s cottage. Within minutes he had apologized for disturbing the man on Christmas morn and explained that he needed a bouquet of hothouse flowers immediately. He named the ones he wanted. “I would cut them myself, if I didn’t think I’d earn your everlasting ire for the damage done.”
“No matter, m’lord. I’ll fetch ’em now,” the middle-aged man said. His weathered face told of his lifetime working outdoors.
“Bring it to the kitchen, please. I’ll collect it there.”
“Right ye are, young master.” The man tugged his wispy forelock in acknowledgement.
Sebastian thanked the man and headed back to the house to write his missive. He wished he had some ability to write in poetic meter, but years of trying had proven his failure. There was nothing for it but another ditty. At least Violet would recognize it was from him.
Within half an hour, Sebastian had halted at the Parsonage gate again. He jumped from the curricle and collected the precious bundle that had travelled protected in a timber box at his feet. This was it—his best chance to make amends. His stomach churned. He inhaled a lungful of frigid air to calm it.
Sebastian knocked at the door and delivered his gift into the maid’s arms. “For your mistress. Please see she receives it immediately, preferably without telling her that it’s from me.” Sebastian pressed a silver coin into the girl’s hand.
He considered waiting to see whether Violet would come outside and speak with him, but decided she needed time to realize that his intentions had never been anything but sincere. His stomach still queasy, he climbed into his curricle and set off for Whitton Grange.
Now he must wait until the Christmas service to discover whether Violet could find it in her heart to forgive him for his deception and the unintended hurt he had caused.
Chapter Eight
“A delivery for you, miss,” Mary-Anne said, holding out a large bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper.
From one of her suitors? Violet barely bit back a groan. Another painful scene loomed ahead when she had to let him down gently again. Her temples already pounded after her restless night reliving the horror of the supper room revelation.
Was it a sick game or had Sebastian told her the truth? She needed more time alone to think.
She took the bouquet and peered inside its wrapping. Hothouse flowers! There was only one man of her acquaintance who had access to such flowers. She dropped them onto the table as though they had seared her hands.
Even so, her gaze strayed back to the arrangement, automatically reading their floral message: red roses for love, oak-leaved geraniums for true friendship, and Christmas roses meaning “relieve my anxiety”.
“Um, miss. There’s a note as well.” Mary-Anne placed it on Violet’s lap, bobbed a curtsy, her face imitating that of a scared mouse, and hurried from the room.
Violet recognized the handwriting and snorted. Sebastian’s. How had he disguised his hand for his previous verses? She broke the seal and unfolded the stiff sheets. Inside was another verse. Her stomach sank at the sight of more of his terrible doggerel.
Roses are red
