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How dreadful. After such a lovely hour—”
    “Don’t worry about it, dear. These things happen.” His mother bent to rub a hand over Delaney’s shoulder before she moved to the door. However, he knew that if any of his sisters had said blast within his mother’s hearing—which was any room in the house—she wouldn’t look nearly so cheerful. “I’ll see if I can find a damp cloth for the cream.”
    Griffin stared after his mother’s retreating figure, curious as to why she wouldn’t simply summon a maid as she’d done for the entirety of his life, especially since mishaps like this happened every day.
    When he lifted the bowl and saw a mound of cream on the carpet, he was at a loss for what to do. The best thing, he supposed, was to put the cream back into the bowl. He scooped up as much as he could with his hand, but it began to liquefy almost instantly.
    “Your hands must be too warm,” Miss McFarland said at the same time the thought occurred to him. “Perhaps the serving fork . . .”
    They reached for it at the same time, his hand on the tines and hers on the hilt. Their gazes collided, and the shock of it tore through him like a bolt of lightning striking the ground at his feet. He was suddenly quite aware of the hole left behind.
    He’d always thought Miss McFarland’s eyes were a darker shade of blue, but he’d been wrong. They were violet, dark and lush like the petals of the same flower. And her hair wasn’t what he’d supposed either. He thought it merely auburn, but now he saw that the wildly curling tendrils varied from a pale gold flame, to bright sunburst, to robust red, and then to dark, rich brown.
    “Your eyes are blue and brown, swirled together like . . . lake water,” she said, before her eyes widened with shock, as if only now realizing she’d spoken aloud. Abruptly, she released the fork and returned to arranging the flowers. He missed the contact immediately. “I thought they were either one or the other. I couldn’t tell from a distance.” Her tone was matter-of-fact now, and it made him grin. Perhaps she was just as shaken as he.
    “Lake water . . .” He couldn’t let it go, not when he saw the palest pink tinge her cheeks to the same hue of her lips. “That’s rather poetic. I suppose you’d compare my hair to a chestnut mane?”
    She was thoroughly engrossed in her task, plucking one flower from the front of the vase and placing into the center. “More like freshly turned earth, if you must know. The color is darker toward the roots with streaks of sun bleached brown at the tips.”
    Another jolt tore through him at the elemental undertone of her description. His mind conjured an image of fire cleansing freshly turned earth in preparation for planting—flames licking, like tendrils of hair caught in the wind; consuming, like eager, ravenous mouths; undulating, like bare limbs in the throes of ecstasy, while violet eyes stared up at him . . .
    Griffin was suddenly aware of a growing arousal.
    Just then, Tess bounded into the room and immediately rectified that situation. “Mother sent me to ask if you’d like Cook to bake another gingerbread . . . since it’s your birthday, after all. She also wanted to know if you’d like to invite a guest for supper this evening before the musicale. Oh, hullo, Delaney.”
    Miss McFarland offered a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Tess. That yellow frock is quite becoming on you.” Then as his sister beamed and plucked at the ruffles on her skirt, Miss McFarland turned her focus on him, her violet gaze round with unease. “My errors in coming here seem to be increasing by the moment. We ate your special cake.”
    That she should worry he was now in want of gingerbread stirred a pleasant warmth within him. “Mrs. Shortingham will make another.”
    She pressed her lips together. “I made a mess of the parlor.”
    “Only the center,” he teased but found his gaze returning to her small pink mouth, as