Again the Magic (Wallflowers 0.5)(77)

Picturing how such a missive would be received by her starchy cousin Georgina, or Great-Aunt Maude, Aline stifled a grin.

Her brother’s voice came from the doorway, providing a welcome interruption. “Good God. You must be at a complete loss for something to do, if you’ve resorted to writing letters.”

She glanced up at Marcus with a teasing smile. “Spoken by the one person on earth who is more abominable at correspondence than I.”

“I despise every aspect of it,” Marcus admitted. “In fact, the only thing worse than writing a letter is receiving one—God knows why anyone would think I would be interested in the minutiae of his or her life.”

Continuing to smile, Aline set down her pen and glanced at a tiny smudge of ink on the tip of her finger. “Is there something you want, dear? I beg you, do something to rescue me from this unbearable tedium.”

“No need to beg. Rescue is at hand…or at least a convenient distraction.” He showed her the sealed letter in his hand, while an odd expression crossed his face. “A delivery has arrived from London. This came with it.”

“All the way from London? If it’s the oysters we sent for, they’re two days early—”

“It’s not oysters.” Marcus strode to the doorway and gestured to her. “The delivery is for you. Come to the entrance hall.”

“Very well.” Methodically Aline stoppered the cut-glass bottle of glue that she used to seal the envelopes, and closed a box of red wax wafers. When all was in order, she rose from the desk and followed Marcus to the entrance hall. The air was steeped with the heady fragrance of roses, as if the entire hall had been rinsed with expensive perfume.

“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, stopping short at the sight of massive bunches of flowers being brought in from a cart outside. Mountains of white roses, some of them tightly furled buds, some in glorious full bloom. Two footmen had been recruited to assist the driver of the cart, and the three of them kept going outside to fetch bouquet after bouquet wrapped in stiff white lace paper.

“Fifteen dozen of them,” Marcus said brusquely. “I doubt there’s a single white rose left in London.”

Aline could not believe how fast her heart was beating. Slowly she moved forward and drew a single rose from one of the bouquets. Cupping the delicate bowl of the blossom with her fingers, she bent her head to inhale its lavish perfume. Its petals were a cool brush of silk against her cheek.

“There’s something else,” Marcus said.

Following his gaze, Aline saw the butler directing yet another footman to pry open a huge wooden crate filled with brick-sized parcels wrapped in brown paper. “What are they, Salter?”

“With your permission, my lady, I will find out.” The elderly butler unwrapped one of the parcels with great care. He spread the waxed brown paper open to reveal a damply fragrant loaf of gingerbread, its spice adding a pungent note to the smell of the roses.

Aline put her hand over her mouth to contain a bubbling laugh, while some unidentifiable emotion caused her entire body to tremble. The offering worried her terribly, and at the same time, she was insanely pleased by the extravagance of it.

“Gingerbread?” Marcus asked incredulously. “Why the hell would McKenna send you an entire crate of gingerbread?”

“Because I like it,” came Aline’s breathless reply. “How do you know this is from McKenna?”

Marcus gave her a speaking look, as if only an imbecile would suppose otherwise.

Fumbling a little with the envelope, Aline extracted a folded sheet of paper. It was covered in a bold scrawl, the penmanship serviceable and without flourishes:

No miles of level desert, no jagged mountain heights, no sea of endless blue

Neither words nor tears, nor silent fears

will keep me from coming back to you.

There was no signature…none was necessary. Aline closed her eyes, while her nose stung and hot tears squeezed from beneath her lashes. She pressed her lips briefly to the letter, not caring what Marcus thought.

“It’s a poem,” she said unsteadily. “A terrible one.” It was the loveliest thing she had ever read. She held it to her cheek, then used her sleeve to blot her eyes.

“Let me see it.”

Immediately Aline tucked the poem into her bodice. “No, it’s private.” She swallowed against the tightness of her throat, willing the surge of unruly emotion to recede. “McKenna,” she whispered, “how you devastate me.”

Sighing tautly, Marcus gave her a handkerchief. “What can I do?” he muttered, unraveled by the sight of a woman’s tears.

The only reply that Aline could make was the one he most hated to hear. “There’s nothing you can do.”

She thought that he was about to put his arms around her in a comforting hug, but they were both distracted by the appearance of a visitor who entered the hall in the wake of the busy footmen. Strolling in with his hands thrust in his jacket pockets, Adam, Lord Sandridge, gazed at the proliferation of white roses with a bemused expression.

“I presume those are for you,” he said to Aline, removing his hands from his pockets as he approached.

“Good afternoon, Sandridge,” Marcus said, his manner turning businesslike as they shook hands. “Your arrival is well timed, as I believe Lady Aline is in need of some pleasant distraction.”