“I am not a commodity,” she told him, “to be bought and sold on the exchange. Have I used the right terminology? Do you not think you shouldhopeto marry me rather thanintendit? Do you not think you should work a little—no, that you should workhard—to win me? There must be all sorts of deals you have to work hard to achieve as a businessman. Should not I be at least as big a deal as any of them?”
She did not know quite what she was saying. But she had worked herself into a state of considerable agitation, rare for her. She was angry at the arrogance of this man, who had made a list, even if it was only in his head, found that she suited all his requirements, and decided without further ado that he would marry her. The presumption! How dared he?
Perhaps he might not have irked her so much if she did not find himappealing.And that fact infuriated her even more. Howcouldshe? Was she that shallow?
“You wish to be wooed, then, Lady Jessica?” he asked her.
Did she? She thought about it. “With a view to marriage?” she said. “That is the end for which a manwoosa woman, is it not? It is sometimes a necessary but rather tedious step a man must take in order to persuade her to say yes. As though she lacked the intelligence to demand more?”
He still had his hands clasped at his back. She was still rooted to the spot. She wished she had brought her parasol from the curricle. She could twirl it about her head and give her hands something to do.
“No,” she said before he could answer. “I do not want to bewooed, Mr. Thorne. I am not at all certain it would accomplish its desired aim anyway. Indeed, I am almost certain it would not. But if you want a chance with me, then you will . . . Oh.” She circled the air with her hand again. Where were the right words when one most needed them? “You willromanceme.”
His eyebrows rose. His eyes, darker than ever in the shade of his hat, were as intent upon hers as always. “Is it a verb?” he asked.“To romance?”
She stared at him, stupefied. “I have no idea,” she said. “I am no grammarian, Mr. Thorne. But it perfectly expresses what you must do if you wish to persuade me even to consider falling in with yourintention.”
“I must romance you,” he said. “How does it differ from wooing?”
She had no idea. Or, rather, she did, but how could she find the words to explain?
“Its end, its whole purpose, is not necessarily marriage,” she said. “It is about . . . oh, about persons. About feelings. About getting to know another person. Not just facts, but . . . getting to know the person behind the facts. And showing that person that you know and understand and like the whole person, regardless of imperfections. It is . . .”
“Falling in love?” he suggested when she struggled for further words. His eyebrows were still up.
“Oh,” she said, frustrated. “Not necessarily. It is about making the other person feel appreciated. It is about making her feel that she is a person, that she matters, that she is more precious than all the coldfactsin her favor. It is about making her understand that she is more precious in your sight than all other women. It is making her feel that she is . . .”
“Loved?” he said when she was lost for words again.
She sighed deeply and audibly. “There are really no words,” she said. “No, it is not about falling in love or about loving. How can one do or feel either of those things in advance? You do not know me, just as I do not know you, Mr. Thorne. It is about the possibility of love. The possibility of friendship and laughter and . . . oh, and something more. Something bright and beautiful. Something that will transform life and fill it with color and . . .”
This time he did not end the sentence for her. Not immediately, anyway. They stared at each other.
“Romance,” he said at last.
What a prize idiot she had just made of herself. And she hadno ideawhere it had all come from. Just an hour or two ago she had been planning a marriage for herself that was every bit as passionless and calculated as the one he proposed. And then she had got angry and . . . andthishad happened.
Romance?She was twenty-five years old. Any man looking at her and considering her as a wife would have everything but romantic love in mind. She was horribly, hideously eligible. How could she expect any man to look beyond the facts that she was the daughter and sister of a duke, that she was wealthy, and that she had the upbringing and education and accomplishments of her rank? Romance at her age? Or at any age? It was laughable. It was pathetic.
Except that she was not just Lady Jessica Archer. She was . . . She washer. She was the being that was inside her and far more meaningful to her than any of the outer trappings of birth and rank.
It was a strange time to be having all these thoughts, which she could not recall ever having before. Not consciously or coherently, anyway.
He turned to stroll onward, and she walked beside him, leaving two feet of space between them. She could see the curricle in the distance. Thank heaven. Though the ride home was going to seem endless.
But she was not sorry, she thought, lifting her chin. She wasnot. How dared he, or any man, decide that he wasgoing to marry her?
“Very well, Lady Jessica,” he said as they drew closer to the curricle. “I will romance you.Notwith a view to matrimony, but as an end in itself, to see where it leads.”
Jessica licked her lips. Oh goodness, what had she started now? “Thank you,” she said, her words cold and clipped.
“But I do hope,” he said as he offered his hand to help her up to her seat, “that you will not expect a bouquet quite as large as the one that was in your brother’s drawing room yesterday.”
He spoke the words in all seriousness. But . . . A joke from Mr. Thorne? Really?
She settled her skirts about her as he climbed to his place and took the ribbons from his young groom.
“Oh, I will not,” she assured him, raising her parasol and twirling it behind her head. “I shall expect a far larger one.”
