“Come in,” Jane called.

He pushed open the door and strode inside. She was sitting up in bed wearing a new white night rail, still of the grandmama variety, but her hair was down around her shoulders. It was splendid and lush and dark brown with a slight curl to it. His mouth went dry. He licked his lips.

Her spectacles were back, perched upon her nose. The book he’d given her was propped upon her lap, but as soon as she saw him she pushed it aside.

“Upton,” she said, and blushed—actually blushed. Jane!—and then more softly, “Garrett.”

He strode to stand before the chair that still sat next to her bed. “These are for you.” He held out the flowers at a ninety-degree angle.

A small smile wiggled its way onto her lips. She took the bouquet and hugged them to her. “Lilacs are my favorite.”

“Mine too,” he murmured.

“I find it difficult to believe you have a favorite flower.” She pressed the blooms to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

“Likewise.”

She opened her eyes again and blinked at him. “I suppose that’s fair.”

They both laughed.

“I’m beginning to wonder about you,” she continued. “You know my favorite food is teacake and my favorite author is Mary Wollstonecraft, and now you know my favorite flower is a lilac. If I didn’t know better, Upton”—she paused for a moment and he could have sworn that she blushed again—“I mean, Garrett, I’d say we were becoming … friends.”

Friends? Being a friend was a far cry from being in love. He took a seat and leaned back in the chair next to the bed. “You didn’t even mention the fact that I’ve been sneaking into your bedchamber to get a glimpse of you in your unmentionables.”

“That is quite friendly,” she agreed, studying her night rail that covered her more decently than any gown she’d worn at the house party so far.

“What would you say if I told you I also know your favorite color is blue?” he asked.

Jane’s eyes widened. “Now, that is much too personal. Seeing me in my grandmotherly night rail is one thing, but knowing my favorite color is altogether indecent.”

He grinned at her. “But it is, isn’t it? Blue?”

“Yes,” she replied, setting the flowers on the coverlet next to her. “Appropriate for a bluestocking, is it not? Now that you know so much about me, it’s only sporting if you tell me something about you.”

“Really?” He arched a brow. “Like what?”

“The obvious things, of course, like what is your favorite food?”

“Beefsteak.”

She nodded. “A bit predictable, but very well.”

“Predictable?”

“I was hoping you’d name something outlandish like turtle soup.”

He grimaced. “I abhor turtle soup.”