“My goodness, that does sound intriguing. But for the moment, I have something else in mind.”
“Yes?”
He grinned at her. “Fashion.”
She gaped at him. She could hardly believe he had just said such a thing to her. And as she stared at him, he burst out laughing.
“My word, but you should see your face.”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks and was hard put not to curl them into fists. Of all the nerve. To think that he could laugh at her—
“Don’t be upset, Lady Gwen. Perhaps I was teasing you a little, but only a little. My fashion question has to do with our daffodils. I wished to ask you about colors. Our flowers are yellow upon yellow, meaning yellow petals—”
“And a yellow trumpet,” she finished for him. “Of the exact same color. Or nearly the same.”
“Exactly. But there are a few different varieties it seems, some blooming later than others.”
She nodded. She had gleaned that much from her studies. Daffodils did come in a variety of colors, but she thought the Lincolnshire daffodils were the brightest of the lot.
“I had thought to order a silk in pale yellow for you. As if your gown was a further expansion of the flower, but I begin to think that so much yellow would be overpowering.”
“And horrifying,” she said. “No matter how beautiful the fabric, it cannot compete with the natural beauty of a living thing.” She tilted her head. “What time of day did you find the flowers most beautiful?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When you were a boy with your mother. Did she never speak of her favorite time to wander in her garden? Was it at dawn? The heat of the afternoon? Anything like that?”
He looked off to the side as he searched his memory. “Once, when was I boy, I wanted to hunt ghosts.” His lips curved into a smile. “One of the village boys told me that the woods near our home were haunted. I thought it was his older brother making scary noises.”
She had no trouble imagining him running around the woods in search of larger, scarier boys. He seemed completely fearless to her. “Was it one of the older boys?”
He laughed. “I have no idea. My mother caught me outside. It was a beautiful night, and she was walking.”
“So she enjoyed the moonlight?”
“That night she did, and we walked together through the daffodils. It was like they glowed. The moonlight made it seem as if the sun had settled in her flowerbed and we walked upon its surface.”
“How old were you?”
He shook his head. “Eight, maybe? I’m not sure. It was before I went away to school and before she got sick.” There was a moment when his expression turned sad, but it quickly passed. Then he focused on her. “You have the right of it,” he said firmly. “A dark dress, say midnight blue, will truly show the flower. And every time I look at you, I shall think of walking at midnight through the blossoms.”
She smiled. “I hadn’t been thinking so poetically. But it sounds good to me.”
He echoed her expression. “I suppose you have brought out the poet in me.” Then he leaned back onto the squabs. “Now it is your turn.”
“What?”
“Come come, I wager you have sketched the transport boxes in several different designs. Don’t you want to discuss them with me? I’m afraid I have been too scattered to give them proper attention. But we have the sunlight and a very long trip ahead of us.” He made a grasping gesture with his near hand. “Hand them over.”
He had the right of it. She had wanted to discuss her thoughts with him from the beginning, but she hadn’t expected him to want to see her sketches. “They’re not a finished design.”
“Of course not. We haven’t discussed them yet.”
She nodded and opened her sketchbook. She knew from experience to only show the best design. People got bored afterwards. So she opened to the appropriate page and turned it to him.
“I think that will be best for carrying cut blooms to London.”
She watched as his face tightened and he studied the design from all angles. “Is this the only design?”