Perhaps they’d agreed to set it aside and never speak of it.
But that didn’t mean Clio had stopped thinking of it. Dreaming of it. Wishing, against all logic or sense, that it could happen again. It was like this wanting had been inside her all along, just years of it building and growing . . . and now she felt the force of it hitting her all at once.
This was lust, and she understood the power of it now. Every part of her body thrummed with desire.
She knew nothing more could come of it, and yet somehow that knowledge did little to quell her imaginings. Quite the reverse.
“I can’t imagine what your great secret could be. We’ve already decided on the venue, met with the vicar, and planned the breakfast for this imaginary wedding that’s never going to take place. We’ve discussed bunting, bagpipes, peacocks in the garden . . .”
“Precisely. We’ve been wasting time on inanity. I decided to take matters into my own hands. This morning, we’re going to have this done. The two of us. Alone.”
“Alone?”
Oh, Lord.
He threw open the doors to the music room. Clio was relieved to see at a glance that it was full of people. They weren’t too terribly alone.
“Pianoforte,” he announced, indicating the grand instrument lodged in one corner of the room. The pianist seated at it poured out a stream of flawless, sparkling Handel.
“Harp,” he said, pivoting them both.
In the center of the room, a serene-looking woman set her fingers to the harp strings, skipping up and down them in an intricate melody and finishing with a majestic glissande.
“String quartet.”
In the far corner, a violinist nodded to his associates. The rich, warm harmonies of Haydn soon filled the room, delivered to her ears with unparalleled skill and in perfect tune. It felt like sipping chocolate through the eardrum, if one could do such a thing.
When final chord ended, Clio blinked, overwhelmed. Then she applauded them. “That was lovely. Thank you.”
“So?” Rafe turned to her. “Choose one for the wedding. Or take all three.”
“I . . .”
“Think on it,” he said. “We can have them play more selections afterward.”
“After what?”
He said, “There’s more.”
He led her through the connecting door, into the next chamber—the morning room. A heady perfume engulfed her at once.
“Oh, my.”
Orchids. Lilies. Irises. Hydrangea. Roses in every color she knew, and some she didn’t know could exist. Not only cut flowers, but aromatic herbs and potted bulbs that would bloom just this one day, then wilt. They covered every available surface.
Her morning room had been transformed into a hothouse conservatory.
“Oh, Rafe.”
“I just told them to send everything best,” Rafe said. “I don’t know a damn thing about that language of flowers.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Clio didn’t care about Daphne’s floral ciphers, either. Nor Phoebe’s botanical explanations. As far as Clio was concerned, flowers of any sort had just one message to convey.
They said, I care.
And this room was screaming it.
I care, I care, I care. Bouquets of consideration over here, pots of solicitousness over there. Thoughtfulness, blooming in every color of Nature’s rainbow.
No wonder he’d been flashing that boyish, hand-in-the-biscuit-tin smile. Rafe had put so much effort into this display.
And it would be the best thing anyone ever did for her—if indeed it was done for her. But was it Clio he cared for, or merely his career?
Whatever it was, she was afraid it might be working. For the first time since the idea of wedding planning had been hatched, she found herself feeling a touch of bridal excitement. To walk down the chapel aisle before all her friends and family, floating on a glistening cloud of harp strings and clutching two dozen perfect hothouse blooms . . . ?
That would be something.
“Surely there must be a flower or two here that appeals to you,” he said.