Francesca & Michaela ❤️‍🔥

Janet scanned the words, then looked up and said, “Cheshire.” Francesca gasped, “As in the Duke of?” “The very one.” Francesca actually placed her hand over her heart. “My word,” she breathed. “The Duke of Cheshire.”

“We should read the rest of the these cards,” she said, her brisk tone signaling that she’d like to move on, “and perhaps prepare ourselves for an onslaught of afternoon calls.” Francesca followed her as she sought out an enormous display of tulips and plucked the card free.

“I would like children,” Francesca said. Somehow she felt the need to explain it, to make sure that Janet understood that what she truly wanted was to be a mother, not necessarily a wife. Janet nodded, turning away as she dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips.

“I would never dishonor John’s memory,” Francesca assured her. “Of course not. If you were the sort who would, he’d never have married you in the first place. Or,” she added with a sly look, “I would never have allowed him to.”

“Do I wish you were still married to my son? Of course. Do I want you to spend the rest of your life married to his memory? Of course not.” She reached out and clasped one of Francesca’s hands in her own. “You are a daughter to me, Francesca. I want you to be happy.”

“Have you looked through all the cards?” “Not yet. But I imagine—” “That they’re more of the same?” Francesca nodded. “Does that bother you?” Janet smiled sadly, but her eyes were kind and wise.

She didn’t blush. She hadn’t even blushed during her first season, when she really had been an Incomparable. “I’m far too old for that,” she mumbled. “Apparently not,” Janet said. “There are more in the hall,” Priestley said. Janet turned to Francesca.

“My goodness,” Janet said, looking up. “You seem to be this season’s Incomparable.” “Oh, don’t be silly,” Francesca said, blushing. Blushing? Good God, what was wrong with her?

She handed Janet the two cards, then watched her carefully as her eyes scanned the neatly handwritten lines. Janet had lost her only child when John had died. How would she react to Francesca being wooed by other men?

The new viscount would have to marry someone wealthy. Or so everyone said. “Good heavens!” Francesca turned to see Janet behind her. “What is this?” she asked. “I do believe those were my exact words upon entering the room,” Francesca murmured.

From Shakespeare, if she remembered correctly. Signed by Viscount Trevelstam. Trevelstam? They’d only been introduced but once. He was young, very handsome, and it was rumored that his father had squandered away most of the family fortune.

Barely able to contain the oddly giddy feeling rising within her, she inched down toward an arrangement of roses and picked up the card, trying very hard not to appear too eager in front of the butler. “I wonder who this is from,” she said with studied casualness. A sonnet.

“I will just, ah, have a look at…” She turned to the nearest bouquet, a lovely and delicate arrangement of grape hyacinths and stephanotis. “A pale comparison to your eyes,” the card read. It was signed by the Marquess of Chester. “Oh!” Francesca gasped.

She was a widow, for heavens sake. Men weren’t supposed to bring her flowers. Were they? “My lady?” “I…I…” She turned to Priestley, straightening her spine as she forced her mind back to clarity. Or tried.

When Francesca didn’t reply, he suggested, “Perhaps you would like to remove yourself to your desk? I would be happy to bring you the cards.” “No, no,” she said, still feeling terribly distracted by all this.

She felt rather like a simpleton with her hand over her opened mouth, glancing back and forth at all the flowers. “If you’d like,” Priestley continued, “I could remove each card and note on the back which arrangement I took it from. Then you could read through them all at once.”

“Indeed. Would you care to read the cards? I have left them on the arrangements so that you would be able to identify each sender.” “Oh.” It seemed all she could say.

He gave the vase one last adjustment, twisting one pink stalk so that it faced away from the wall, then turned and walked toward her. “They are for you, my lady.” She blinked. “Me?”

“Priestley!” Francesca called out, spying her butler across the room, setting a tall vase of snapdragons on a table. “What are all these flowers?”

It was her nightmare come true. Had someone changed the rules of society and forgotten to tell her? Violets, irises, and daisies. Imported tulips. Hothouse orchids. And roses. Roses everywhere. Of every color. The smell was almost overwhelming.