The butler made his stately way across the room and held the door open while Harry winked at Gil and waggled his eyebrows at his sister before stepping out of the room. The butler followed him out and shut the door firmly behind them.
“When he chooses to be,” Miss Westcott said, “Harry is every bit as obnoxious as he used to be when he was a boy. More so. Oh, a hundred times more. I am so mortified I could... scream.”
Fortunately she did not do so.
“Miss Westcott,” Gil said, still on his feet, “willyou marry me?”
“Oh.” She set her letter down beside her plate, paused to line it up parallel with the edge of the table, and leanedback in her chair as though to put more distance between herself and him. “Has it really come to this, then?”
“I do not for the life of me know,” he said. “Hasit?”
“It would be madness,” she said.
“It would,” he agreed. He gripped the back of his chair and looked down at his own letter. “Willyou?”
She did not answer for so long that he thought she might remain forever silent. And who could blame her? He stole a glance at her and saw that she was staring into space, a slight frown between her brows. It really would be madness. He took his cup and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself more coffee. Then he stood with his back against the sideboard, his cup cradled in hands turned suddenly cold. He heard the echo of her words—Has it really come to this, then? It would be madness.And “this,” he realized, was one of those pivotal moments in life that would forever change it regardless of what they decided.
They were damned either way.
There was a bone-deep, well nigh debilitating fear just before a battle, something bordering upon panic. He would defy any military man, of whatever rank, to claim that he had never, not even once, considered running. Deserting. Some poor sods actually did it and found themselves tied to a whipping triangle for a lashing or even facing a hanging as a result. It was a fear that disappeared once the action started, to be replaced by the mad bloodlust that was sometimes called courage.
He felt a similar sort of fear now and could not understand why he had just poured himself more coffee. Just to warm his hands maybe? Or to enable him to put more distance between them? Would the fear disappear if she said yes? But to be replaced by what?
She was looking directly at him, he realized, and they locked eyes.
“I think we had better do it,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, gripping his cup more tightly.
Unexpectedly she laughed. And good God she was pretty. He did not believe she was really amused, though.
“What would be in it for you?” he asked her. “It is perfectly obvious what would be in it for me.”
She broke eye contact with him in order to look down at her plate. “I have been thinking since we spoke several days ago,” she said. “I have been waiting for six years. Not entirely passively, it is true. I have spent the time... exploring who I am, deciding what I want of life and what I do not want. I have found myself glad that circumstances prevented me from moving blindly forward with the life I had been brought up from birth to expect. It was so mindless, that life, so devoid of any real understanding, of any realchoice.But those expectations need to be replaced with something else, or I will live the rest of my life waiting for I know not what and trying to persuade myself that I am contented with the way things are.”
“Is marriage to me that something else, then?” he asked.
Her eyes came back to his. “I do not know,” she said. “But I do not suppose it is ever possible to be absolutely, perfectly sure of anything that is in the future, is it? One can only do what feels right.”
He considered taking a drink of his coffee. But he could not be certain his hands would be steady.
“And the idea of marrying me feels right?” he asked.
“Nothing has before now, you see,” she said. “And it is not just because I want to help you retrieve your daughter. That would feel—oh, like a good reason in a way, perhaps, but not therightreason. It is also because I want you.”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes returned to her letter while he froze.
I want you.
Just what Caroline had said every time they met, until they lay together against all his better instincts. But Miss Westcott was not Caroline. Not even close.
“Why?” he asked her.
“I do not know,” she said again. “I mean, with my head I do not know. I cannot give a rational explanation. Even with my heart I do not know, for I do not believe I am in love with you. It is just that... I think you are worth knowing, though I cannot be sure. And I think I want to live with you, tobewith you. I am sorry. This sounds like utter nonsense. Only I have never even been tempted to marry before, you see, and now I am, and I think I would be sorry if I convinced myself that marrying you would be madness and let you go. I think I would miss you after you were gone. I know I would. I think I would be unhappy.”
Good God. He wanted to run a million miles. Desert the field.
“What if,” he said, “when you get to know me, you discover that I am not at all what you want?” As Caroline had.
