Georgie cleared her throat and tried to ignore the heat that spread through her limbs every time she recalled their almost-kiss. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wylde.” She glanced at the small bunch of flowers in his left hand, a posy of tiny dark purple violets and drooping snowdrops, the kind sold on street corners by ragged flower girls. They looked comical and fragile in his large masculine hands. She recalled those hands on her and her blood heated.

He offered them forward with a self-deprecating look. “What does one get for the girl who has everything?”

The men trying to court her usually sent great overblown bouquets, huge hothouse flowers that always made her a little sad. Everyone assumed she’d scorn something cheap, but she greatly preferred these hand-picked weeds. They had personality.

“Thank you. They’re lovely,” she said, and genuinely meant it.

Wylde glanced over at Simeon and Juliet. “So these are the star-crossed lovers, eh?”

“Mr. Pettigrew has impressed Mother with his ‘stalwart persistence.’ She’s decided to give him a second chance, although he’ll find it hard to convince her he’s a more acceptable match than someone with a title and a fortune.”

“It doesn’t look like his drenching did any lasting harm.”

“No.”

Juliet was perched delicately on the chaise longue nearest Simeon, one elbow resting on the scrolled arm as she gazed worshipfully at him. The morning sun haloed her dark hair and showed off the smooth perfection of her skin. She looked luminous and delicate, like one of the porcelain Meissen shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. Doubtless Wylde, a connoisseur of the female form, was enjoying the view.

“I think Simeon sees you as something as a threat for Juliet’s affections,” Georgie whispered.

He raised his brows. “There’s no danger of that.”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “Are you seriously telling me that you don’t find my sister attractive?”

He shrugged. “Oh, she’s beautiful, I grant you. A diamond of the first water. But not my type, at all. She’s too young, for starters. And too docile. I like my women with a little more spark.” His smile could have melted rock. “Someone who knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to stand up for herself.”

Georgie’s body warmed at his insinuation, then reminded herself that he was being paid to be attentive. His flippant charm meant nothing. It was as natural to him as breathing.

“Simeon is writing me a sonnet, Mr. Wylde.” Juliet sighed soulfully. “Isn’t that romantic?”

“I’m sure you think so, Miss Caversteed,” he said politely.