“It is not so very far,” he said. “Is it? Nine miles is the distance between Brambledean and Withington. It can be traveled just to take tea. Nine years are all that separate us. They are surely not an insurmountable barrier. Unless I appear so young and gauche to you that I am quite beneath your notice.”
“Colin.” She patted her hand against his chest and looked into his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat and by the umbrella and the heavy clouds. They gazed steadily back into her own. And she was horribly tempted. She was weary and wanted to lay her cheek against his shoulder and…surrender.
It felt almost like a death wish. A giving up of herself because she was weary to the very depths. Weary of living, of struggling, of hoping, of making dreadful mistakes, of losing hope. And trust. Somewhere, however, she found a shred of strength.
“I will not allow you to do this,” she said. “Something this…monumental would need long and careful consideration even if it should be considered at all. It cannot be done just because you are a gentle, kind, and conscientious man.”
“My God, Elizabeth,” he said, and suddenly his eyes were blazing at her and his voice was sharp with anger. “You do not understand, do you? You do not know me at all. Youdothink I am an insecure, untried little boy. You think I must be protected from my own weakness and frailty. I may be nine years younger than you, but I am a man.”
And his free arm came hard about her waist and hauled her against him. Even as her hands splayed over his chest to brace herself he lowered his head and kissed her—urgently, ungently, and openmouthed, with all the passion with which he had kissed her on Christmas Day, except that this one did not end after a few brief seconds. Rather, it gentled and deepened as her hands slid up between them to grip his shoulders, and her mouth opened to admit his tongue. She leaned into him, feeling hard thigh muscles against her own as well as the firmness of his man’s body pressed to hers. All was heat in contrast to the chill of the weather. And yearning. And a desire too painful for pleasure.
They must be in full view of the carriage drive, she realized when rational thought began to return and she felt rain on her face. He still held the umbrella, but it had dipped to one side, the lower edge of it almost touching the ground. But she could not hear much traffic, only the distant clopping of a single set of hooves.
He was gazing into her eyes then, his arm still about her waist, the umbrella over their heads again. He still looked a bit hard-jawed and angry. Older than usual, the open, youthful eagerness missing from his face. She had never seen him like this before. She had offended him, it seemed, by holding his youth and good nature against him. Though she had not intended to belittle him, only to point out that she was a totally unsuitable choice of bride for him. Especially when that choice was being forced upon him by circumstances—or so he seemed to believe. It was horribly unfair.
He had been smiling and happy last evening as he danced with Miss Dunmore. They had looked stunningly attractive together.
She patted her hands against his chest.
“I did not ask on the spur of the moment, Elizabeth,” he said. “I have asked you more than once before.”
“Ah,” she said, “but always as a joke.”
“Perhaps to you,” he said. “Not to me.”
She tipped her head slightly to one side. Was it true? But no, he was deceiving himself. He was fond of her as she was of him, but he had never seriously considered her as a wife. Even that kiss at Christmas…Ah, that kiss. She relived it sometimes in her dreams when she could not control the memory and—yes, she might as well be honest—she relived it all too often in her daydreams too, when she was in control. And now he had kissed her again with real passion. Passion, though, was not love. Indeed, it had seemed to proceed more from anger.
She could not bear…“Colin—”
“We could replace all of today’s vile gossip with something even more sensational but altogether brighter,” he said. “We could marry tomorrow, Elizabeth. Or we could announce our betrothal tomorrow and plan our wedding with more care. We could marry at Roxingley if you wished or at Brambledean or at Riddings Park. Or here. Let us do it. Perhaps that ghastly incident last evening happened for a purpose. For this very purpose. Are we going to continue not even to consider each other with any seriousness just because of the matter of nine years?”
It was more than that. Oh, surely it was. He had come to London looking for a bride, and he had been looking—among the very young ladies who had only recently left the schoolroom. He was a great favorite with them. He could have almost any one he chose. And they were all at least fifteen years younger than she. That was a staggering fact.
But as she gazed into his eyes, she was horribly tempted not to overthink this decision, not to bring common sense to bear upon it. Common sense had never worked very well in any of the important decisions of her life. Perhaps it was time to give impulsiveness a try. It was a horribly dangerous and irresponsible way of making a huge, life-changing decision, of course, but…Perhaps it was time to do what she wanted to do rather than what she ought to do.
She had spent all last summer and winter and early spring thinking through her very wise, sensible decision to marry Geoffrey.
But perhaps she was still off balance after their kiss. Perhaps if she gave herself a few more minutes to recover and think clearly…
“No,” she said. “No, Colin. I do thank you and I do appreciate what you are trying to do. But I cannot allow it. I care too much for you.”
His jaw hardened again and he gazed at her for a long while without speaking. “You care for me,” he said at last, “but not enough to marry me.”
“I care for you too much to marry you,” she said.
“That is nonsense,” he told her. “It is such nonsense, Elizabeth. You accepted the offer of a man you did not care for at all, but you have rejected mine.”
There was no answer that would not simply take them in circles. She drew a slow breath.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I thought,” he said, “you would trust me.”
As if trust could solve everything. Or anything. As if it could mend a breaking heart. Only love could do that. Perhaps.
Rain—not drizzle any longer—drummed on the umbrella. A gust of cold wind blew and cut through them.
•••
