Jane sobered. She pressed her lips together, contemplating his words for a moment. It was true. Her opinion of him had changed.

She took a deep breath. “I suppose I must grudgingly admit it, Upton, yes.”

His voice was even. “I never thought I’d see the day you admitted that.”

“There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” To her chagrin, her tone was a bit breathy and confused. Why couldn’t she stop plucking at the bedsheet? Upton was turning her into a plucker.

“Might I further hope that you don’t dislike me as much as you pretend to?” he asked.

She allowed the hint of a smile to play across her lips. “That entirely depends.”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether you’re willing to admit you don’t dislike me as much as you pretend to.”

He grinned at her, she knew even without her spectacles. She felt it in her knees.

“With pleasure,” he replied.

“Very well, then I admit it. And I must thank you, also,” she said.

“For what?”

“For your help today. You quite came to my rescue.”

“Any time, my lady. I ask for only one small favor in return.”

Her fingers stilled against the sheets. Her heart fluttered in her chest. A favor? “What’s that?”

“Call me Garrett.”

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Yesterday, he’d brought her a book. Today he brought her … flowers. Bloody flowers. Textbook, poetry-inducing flowers. Would she mock him? Would she laugh? Damn it. Garrett didn’t know how she would react. The lilacs had bloomed early this year and he’d gone out into the gardens and gathered them himself. Daphne Swift had helped him find a matching lavender ribbon to tie around the stems and here he was on his way back to Jane’s bedchamber to deliver them. He shook his head. Flowers? He was turning into a walking verse of bad poetry.

Garrett stood outside Jane’s door and thought for a moment. The odds were quite high that she would mock the flowers. She was a mocker, after all, and they were flowers. Daphne had assured him, however, that all ladies enjoyed flowers, even Miss Lowndes.

He took a deep breath. There was more to discover behind that door than whether Jane would enjoy the flowers.

Did she love him?

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about that? Despite Cassandra’s insistence, nothing in Jane’s demeanor up till now indicated it. Yesterday, they’d got on well enough. Admitting she didn’t dislike him and asking him to admit he didn’t dislike her was still a far cry from love. So here he stood, bloody gullible fool that he was, outside her bedchamber door, clutching a bouquet tied with a bow. That’s right, a bow.

He couldn’t linger in the corridor all morning and risk someone seeing him pay a call to her bedchamber. It was a precarious thing to do as it was.

He knocked.