Page 26 of When the Rogue Returns
“You’re a man of wealth and high rank,” he pointed out. “She’d be a fool not to have you.”
Lochlaw shook his head. “She doesn’t care about all that.”
“Trust me,” Victor said cynically, “every woman cares about all that.”
“Nother.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve spent most of my life with a woman whodoescare. Mother rates flowers by their cost. Roses are ‘splendid’; daisies are ‘cheap.’ A man who drives a phaeton or a cabriolet is ‘important’; a man who drives a curricle is ‘unfashionable.’”
Which was probably why Lochlaw drove one.
“But Mrs. Franke rates flowers by color, which makes more sense. She likes hydrangeas and violets because they’re purple. She doesn’t care about carriages, because she likes to walk.”
Victor was growing annoyed that the lad knew so much about Isa’s likes. Though he hadn’t mentioned dahlias. Those were her favorites. Victor definitely remembered that.
Then Lochlaw added, “And she prefers red oxide of lead to white.”
“Red oxide ofwhat?”
“Lead. It’s a chemical she uses in her work. She says it’s very pretty.” Lochlaw sighed. “But when I brought her some as a gift, she merely said thank you and acted as if it meant nothing.”
“You brought her red oxide of lead instead of hydrangeas?” Victor said incredulously.
“Why would I bring her hydrangeas? They weren’t in season.” Lochlaw blinked. “Oh, Lord, should I have brought her hydrangeas? Or perhaps some walking shoes? I don’t know where to get walking shoes for ladies. I suppose at a cobbler, but—”
“Don’t bring her walking shoes,” Victor snapped. “Trust me on that one.”
That deflated poor Lochlaw. “I’m not good with women. They’re like foreign creatures to me, even Mother.”
“Ah, lad,” Victor said dryly, “every man the world over thinks the same. But we all muddle through somehow.”
Lochlaw gazed at him beseechingly. “You’re older and know more. Will you help me court Mrs. Franke?”
Victor’s reaction was instant, raw, and fierce. “Absolutely not.”
Lochlaw looked wounded. “Why?”
Because she’s mine!“Because every man has to find hisown way with a woman.” He choked down anger. “And I barely know her.”
That had begun to seem very true.
God, he couldn’t take another minute of this. He changed the subject, and as soon as he could politely make his escape, he did.
He spent that night in restless dreams, plagued by memories he’d banished years ago. Now he dredged through them, trying to find the Isa he used to know, before he’d erected a replica of her to throw stones at. As always, she eluded him.
So, the next morning he entered the shop on Princes Street as soon as it opened. Inside, it looked much like the one where he’d served as night guard, with glass cases flanking the sides and a door set in the back wall that probably led to the work areas.
But this shop had some feminine touches: paintings of laughing ladies dripping with gems, black velvet in the cases, a nicely upholstered settee. And vases of purple dahlias. He smiled. Clearly Isa had laid her hand on the place.
As he entered, he was greeted by a dapper old man wearing a natty wool coat, a waistcoat of figured silk, and a pair of trousers that Victor’s ducal cousin wouldn’t be ashamed to don.
Isa’s partner? He had to be.
“Good morning, sir,” the shopkeeper asked. “May I help you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Franke.”
