Page 98 of From Unwanted to Duchess
“Did she?” Franklin hummed. “That does surprise me. I was certain that she loves you.”
“Perhaps she does, but she says she’s not a plaything to be picked up whenever it suits my fancy.”
“That I can understand. But Your Grace, you’re not telling me you’re giving up, are you?”
“What can I do?” James asked. “She has made it quite clear that she is not interested in any reconciliation.”
“She didn’t say that, did she? She said she could not see you. That is what you just told me.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word.
Franklin took a deep breath. “Your Grace, you are not typically one to give up so easily. You entered a sham marriage to solve your problem with Somerset Trust. Don’t you think that perhaps you could think of something that would soften her heart?”
“Like a gesture?” James asked.
“She does not strike me as the sort who puts much stock into grand gestures.”
James rubbed his chin. “What then?”
Franklin sighed. “Your Grace, it is not as though you are entirely unfamiliar with the world of women.”
“Not when it comes to romantic affiliations,” James protested. “I have known women, of course. I do meet women along the way. However, this is a different matter.”
“Right,” Franklin said. “Thus far, your relationship with Her Grace has been practical in nature. Nothing romantic about it. Don’t you think that she might be more inclined to reconciliation if you show her some romance?”
“Romance.” James got out of his chair. His mind was racing. “I ought to woo her. Ladies enjoy being wooed, do they not?”
Franklin chuckled. “I am told that they do.”
“Do not be coy with me, man. I have seen you more than once sneaking a young lady through the back stairs.”
“Very well,” Franklin relented. “Yes, they do enjoy it. What do you have in mind?”
James paced up and down, suddenly invigorated. He was going to win Frances back. He wasn’t going to let her go without a fight. He had spent two weeks building walls between them, and he was going to tear them down, brick by brick.
“Flowers,” he said. “Go to the florist and have flowers sent to her—to my godmother’s house, rather—every single day at breakfast. Along with a card. I will write the card myself.”
“What type of flowers, Your Grace?”
He thought for a moment. Had Frances ever told him about her favorite flowers? He wasn’t sure. Yet he had seen her admiring the flower fields on their drive to Somerset. She had leaned out of the carriage window, practically glowing with delight.
“Daffodils,” he said. “Cornflowers, poppies, daisies. The sort that grows in the fields in Somerset. Nothing formal. I want them to look like she could have picked them herself on a summer walk.”
“An excellent choice, Your Grace.”
“And hot cross buns. She loves hot cross buns. Have some sent to her for breakfast along with the flowers every morning.”
“We are not in the hot cross bun season anymore, Your Grace. It is not Easter.”
“I employ a cook, do I not?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And she is capable of making hot cross buns even when it is not Easter, correct?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Franklin said with a smile. “I will speak to the cook.”
“Good. Tomorrow, I will go to the bookstore. I will buy books on things that she enjoys. She has told me that she wishes to learn how to play the pianoforte. I will find her books on the history of the pianoforte. And I will—” James stopped and snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. It would perhaps fall into the category of grand gestures, but I think she will like it.”
He continued making his plan until it was dinner time. He thought of everything she had ever mentioned liking or having an interest in, and arranged for surprises based on her likes and dislikes.
By the time he went to bed, he felt much better. Everyone was right—his godmother, Franklin, Gideon, and most of all, Frances. He had to leave his father behind. He could not keep letting his father’s voice scream into his ear for all eternity, ruining everything he held dear.
Tomorrow, he would start making things right.
