Chapter Text
The bell above the florist shop door usually gave a soft, welcoming jangle, but today, it sounded like a death knell. The florist had been dreading this moment since receiving the first weather reports about the tulip fields earlier in the year.
“Lord Bridgerton.”
The viscount gave a curt nod. “Good day. I think four dozen today. Any color. No, make it six dozen.”
“I am afraid there are none remaining, my Lord.” The florist swallowed.
He had seen Anthony Bridgerton grow from the enthusiastic, untroubled boy who delighted in helping his father choose bouquets for his mama, into the haunted 18-year-old mutely choosing floral arrangements for his Edmund Bridgerton’s funeral, into the gruff man who demanded discretion when sending the largest and most expensive arrangements to a townhouse in a less reputable part of town without even giving them a second look.
And, most recently, into a man utterly besotted with his wife.
A wife whom he frequently lavished with the finest tulips the florist had on offer.
Usually had on offer.
The viscount raised an eyebrow. “When do you expect the next delivery?”
“I mean to say, my lord…there are no tulips left in all of London. This winter’s extended freeze decimated the fields. Every florist in the city has exhausted their limited supply.”
The vein on Lord Bridgerton’s forehead twitched the same way it had the day the florist had told him that the deep blue roses his sister Hyacinth wanted for her birthday did not actually exist. While he had certainly appeared less troubled since his wedding, the viscount had never been known for his even temper.
The florist steeled himself for an outburst, but instead, to his surprise, Lord Bridgerton let out an incredulous laugh. “That infernal woman,” he muttered, but his tone betrayed his affection.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The viscountess,” he clarified. “She has been saying with certainty since the prolonged winter that this would occur. I thought her mad, and we made a wager on it. It appears that she has once again won.”