He had owed her at least that, she thought—he owed her at least the courtesy of an explanation, he had owed her the courtesy of accepting responsibility for his actions, sparing her the humiliation of his desertion.
In the intervening years, she had salvaged her social position, she thought. Immediately following Adrian’s elopement, she had been popular indeed—as an object of curiosity and some pity. But the invitations had kept coming long after the furor had died down. She had striven to make herself an amiable guest, a scintillating conversationalist. But she had rebuffed any potential suitors, and eventually they had stopped calling altogether.
“Jilly?”
She gave a start at the softly-spoken inquiry. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was woolgathering, I suppose.”
“So I saw,” Eleanora said. “I haven’t seen you so set adrift since…well, you know.” She gave a hesitant shrug. “It’s about time someone came and shook you loose of your moorings.”
“I like my moorings just as they are, thank you,” Jilly said, with a delicate shudder. “I will thank you to cease your matchmaking efforts on my behalf. It is entirely unnecessary. I’m quite happy with my life as it is.”
“Are you?” Eleanora’s dark eyes softened, and she clasped Jilly’s arm in an affectionate squeeze. “Are you truly happy?”
“Of course I am,” Jilly said, lifting her glass for another bracing swallow of champagne. The words lacked conviction, falling flat from her lips. She was content, at least. Sometimes she managed genuine enjoyment. But happiness? It seemed lost to her, as if she had misplaced it somewhere, and it had gotten shoved into some dark corner, never to be unearthed again.
Instead she watched as her acquaintances experienced it for themselves. She attended their engagement parties, their weddings, christenings for their chubby-cheeked infants. Each time she experienced a flutter of vicarious satisfaction, and it was almost—but not quite—as good as the real thing.
But it also posed no danger to her heart. She would never again be wounded as she had been before. And if she suffered the occasional pang of loneliness, it was worlds better than heartbreak. It was far easier to be dead inside than broken.

∞∞∞

The flower arrangement arrived at noon the next day. It was the first thing Jilly saw as she descended the stairs after a leisurely breakfast in bed, the fresh, fragrant blooms resting in their vase atop the table in the foyer. For a moment she stared at them, entirely bewildered by their presence. It had been so long—years, certainly—since anyone had sent flowers.
She crossed the foyer to the table, casting a hesitant glance around her to see if any servants lurked nearby. The arrangement was unique, quite unlike anything that had ever been sent to her before. Adrian had sent her roses and orchids, the sort of flower that a man of little imagination would send to a woman he was courting. Although she had found them lovely, they had been uninspired. In contrast, this bouquet was interesting in its choices. Without conscious thought she extended her hand to touch the silky petals of a chrysanthemum. Fidelity, they were said to represent, though she’d seen little enough of that in her life. The blue hyacinth, that was for sincerity. The amaryllis, determination. Her fingers slipped over a bunch of lilacs—for new love—and then onto the ruffled petals of a peony—for a happy marriage.
The feathery stalks of astilbe neatly inserted into the arrangement gave her pause. She couldn’t recall having seen it in a bouquet before, and she wracked her brain for the meaning. A note tucked into the blooms caught her eye; she snagged it and experienced a sliver of astonishment to find her name scrawled upon it. It was folded over and sealed with a dollop of bright red wax with the imprint of the Duke of Rushton’s crest.
She edged her fingertip beneath the fold, worked free the wax seal, and unfolded the paper. The elegant, masculine script sent a frisson of shock through her.
The meaning of astilbe, which had yet eluded her grasp, was inscribed upon it. I will wait for you.