An Unexpected Gentleman by Alissa Johnson

over the last year. “Her mother was Italian.”
    “But the best part of you is British.”
    She smiled at that. “My father liked to think so. He liked to say so as well, but only to nettle my mother.”
    His tone and expression turned gentle. “They didn’t get on.”
    “Oh, they did,” she assured him. “Very much. They liked to tease, that’s all.”
    “A common way to show affection.” He reached behind him, plucked a bright yellow flower, and held it out to her. “I believe this is another.”
    Flattered, she extended her hand to take the offering. “Thank you—”
    He drew the token out of reach. “Do you know what it is?”
    “Yes. It’s Helenium , brought from the Americas.” It was also known as sneezeweed, which she didn’t see the benefit of mentioning.
    “Do you have a favorite?”
    “Flower?” She shook her head. “No, though I’ve a fondness for poppies.”
    “Poppies. I’ll remember that and buy you a dozen.”
    She blushed with pleasure at the thought. She’d never received flowers from a gentleman, not even Sir Robert. “You can’t. Buy them, I mean.”
    “Everything can be bought.”
    “But they won’t last. They wither as soon as you cut them.” For her, that was part of their appeal. Poppies couldn’t be tamed in a vase or lost in a bouquet. “They have to be appreciated in the garden, just as they are.”
    He twirled the flower between long, elegant fingers. “Will this last?”
    “For a time. Without the proper nutrients, everything will wither eventually.”
    “Until then,” he said and handed her the bloom.
    Their fingers met on the stem, and she remembered how those fingers had felt trailing across her cheek. The memory made her blush and pull the flower free with more force than she intended.
    “Isobel paints them,” she blurted out before remembering that Isobel no longer painted because they had long since run out of funds for supplies. “She has a tremendous talent for it. My father used to say that when I gardened, I created beauty for a season, and when my sister painted, she captured an essence of that beauty for eternity. He was a hopeless poet.”
    “Do poets come any other way?”
    “Not that I’m aware of,” she replied with a smile. She was glad she’d chosen to stay. It was so pleasant to sit with a man and make interesting conversation. She’d forgotten just how pleasant.
    With Sir Robert, she listened. Or tried to listen, if one wished to be precise. The man wasn’t a bore, exactly, but he was predictable and more than a little redundant. Always he spoke of his most recent acquisition for his stable, then his most recent purchase from the tailor, and finally his most recently acquired tidbit of gossip, which generally concerned an individual she had never met and knew nothing about. If she were very lucky, he would vary his routine with a complaint or two about his staff. Her contributions were limited to “oh, my” or “oh, yes” or “what a pity” at the appropriate pauses in conversation.
    Sir Robert never asked her questions. He knew nothing of her family, her past, her likes or dislikes. She very much doubted he was aware of her interest in horticulture, or her sister’s gift for art.
    It was different with Connor. He made her laugh, made her think, made her feel. He had learned more about her in less than twelve hours than Sir Robert had in four months.
    The exchange reminded her of the lively debates and long, rambling talks she’d once shared with her father. He’d encouraged her to think for herself, to be an active participant in the conversation. She missed that, missed having a man speak with her rather than at her.
    “Where are you?”
    Connor’s murmured question pulled her from her musings. She shook her head. She didn’t want to think or talk about Sir Robert. Not this morning. Not just this minute. She didn’t want to think about the years of mindless interaction ahead of her.
    “I was woolgathering. Tell me