But she couldn’t do it.
Well, not exactly. Jackson had challenged her to answer honestly but in a positive way. She lowered her voice and drew the woman forward.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Nora Moss,” she said as she dipped in a quick curtsey.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Moss. I’m–”
“We know who you are Lady Gwen. Weallknow your name.”
That was disconcerting, but she didn’t want to focus on something that might upset her. She had to sell the flowers. “Come look at these blooms,” she urged as she pulled one from the vase. “See how there are two sets of petals? These outside ones are a little pale, I think, but that’s because they open first. It’s the inside–the trumpet—that looks like the sun to me. Like a bright light bursting forth. But then if you look very close at the center—”
“The stamen and the stigma.”
Miss Moss knew her flower parts. “Yes. That’s where the fascinating things begin.”
They discussed the plant for a while longer, but Gwen got the feeling that the woman didn’t have a true love of botany. She seemed to want something else, and it wasn’t hard to discover what.
“You were hoping for magic, weren’t you?”
Miss Moss looked away. “I like the idea of magic. I like imagining fairies and leprechauns. Something that takes the ordinary and makes it special.”
Gwen nodded. “A month ago, I wouldn’t have understood that,” she confessed. “But then I met someone who saw that I was special in my own strange way. These are his flowers, and every time I look at them, I remember…”That he loves me.“That I am special just as I am.”
“That’s what men tell women when they want…” Miss Moss cut off her words but the blush that stained her cheeks told Gwen everything she needed to know about how that sentence ended. And it was worse because Gwen’s cheeks heated in memory. Yes, she had explored that as well, but it had been her choice.
“The difference is I feel special now as I am. It doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen. I am perfect as I am.” She never would have realized that without him, but now that it was part of her, it would always be part of her.
“That is magic,” Miss Moss said softly.
“It definitely is.” Then she looked at the girl wondering what had brought her to this desperate need. “Do you know,” she said, “I find you quite interesting and intelligent. I would like to further our acquaintance, if you’d like to as well.”
Miss Moss’s eyes widened. “I would, too.” Then her gaze dropped to her hands. “But my mother thinks you’ve been debauched.”
“What?”
“By Lord Satyr.”
Ah. So that was why everyone knew her name. “I can tell you it’s absolutely not true.” If anyone did the debauching, it was her. But she knew better than to say that. “Shall I prove it to you?”
“How?”
“A debauched woman is ashamed, afraid, and…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Less than everyone else somehow. Do I seem like less to you? Like someone who—”
“No,” Miss Moss said quickly. “You seem confident. And happy?”
“So happy it’s magical.” Her gaze went back to the flowers. “Do you understand now where the magic of these blooms come from?”
“From you,” she stated firmly.
“No, silly. From you.”
Miss Moss shook her head. “No, it’s you. And I—”
“I think you should wear them yourself and find out. Can these blooms make you feel magical? Or can they just remind you that you have magic inside?”
So saying, she pulled the vase pin off her bodice, set the bloom inside, and clipped it onto Miss Moss’s dress.