“Oh, I think it very unlikely I will get lost,” the marchioness said, taking Snowball from Harry’s arms and laughing as the dog first yipped at her and then licked her hand and tried to do the same to her chin. “No, little dog. Manners, please. I like you well enough, but I do draw the line at having my face washed.”
And she stepped past Lydia, made her way through the kitchen, and let herself out into the garden. She shut the door behind her with an audible click.
Lydia turned a frowning face upon Harry. “What—?”
“She has deliberately left us alone,” he explained.
Her frown deepened.
“Lydia,” Harry said, “this is all absurd and bizarre and a number of other things. But it has happened. I walked over to Tom Corning’s earlier this morning, and he told me that Mrs. Piper has had some success in whipping up indignation in that segment of the population that believes you are not entitled to a life of your own but ought to commit the whole of it to grieving for your husband. They are the people who followed him with fervent devotion while he lived and have revered him as a martyr since his passing. They set you on a pedestal along with him when he was vicar here and elevated you even higher after he was gone. You became to them the model of the perfectly devout and virtuous widow. Your behavior in the year or so following his passing confirmed them in that opinion. They may not have appeared to pay you much attention, but your quiet modesty was a comfort to them, I suppose. They did not expect that the time would come when you would wish to start living again.”
Lydia sighed and went to stand behind the sofa so she could cling to the back of it and put some distance between them. That was one way of explaining what was happening, she supposed. Her own interpretation was another. It all amounted to the same thing.
“I thought that by remaining invisible to all but a few close acquaintances, I would be shielded until I found myself,” she said. “I made the conscious decision to become fully myself in time for the assembly. I wore a pink gown that I suppose some are now describing as garish, even vulgar. I danced and talked with almost everyone and smiled and laughed. I was proud of myself, and everyone seemed to be kind. And then the Wickends sent for the Reverend Bailey and you offered to take Mrs. Bailey and me home in your carriage. Jeremy Piper came after us with the plate I had left behind with cakes for Mrs. Piper to take home for her children. And finally—disaster. I invited you over the threshold out of the rain while I fetched your scarf, and you—” She stopped and sighed again. “As you just observed, it is all utterly absurd and bizarre and I intend simply to ignore it all. People will forget eventually. They always do. And I do not supposeeveryonewill treat me as a pariah.”
“I think you had better marry me, Lydia,” he said.
She laughed softly but entirely without humor as she turned her head to look into his face. He was still looking grim. Also very pale. He appeared as if he had slept as little as she had.
“That was not the best of proposals, was it?” he said, taking a step toward her. “And there is no excuse. I have been practicing a speech since last night. I cannot recall a single word of it. Though yes, I can. The wordardentwas in there somewhere. Oh, and the phrasethe happiest of men.”
Incredibly, they both laughed. And seemingly with genuine amusement. But only for a moment.
“Lydia,” he said. “It is the only thing that will silence the gossip. A man walks home with the woman he is courting. He chops wood for her. He can be excused for calling upon her in the evenings, even if it is not quite the thing if she lives all alone. He dances with her at a village assembly. He kisses her good night when he brings her home. The gossip will turn to understanding and congratulation from most people once our betrothal is announced.”
“No, Harry.” Lydia grabbed one of the cushions from the sofa and held it to her with both arms. “I will not be bullied—”
“I am very fond of you, Lydia,” he said. “I understand your fear of giving up your freedom to yet another possessive man just when you have begun to enjoy it. But I beg you to believe that it would never occur to me to try to exert dominance over you based upon the single fact that I am a man and you are a woman. Or upon any other fact, for that matter. As my wife you would be my equal. I believe we would be able to offer each other companionship and affection. I would certainly offer them to you, and I am in hope that you would give them in return. You would always be free to be yourself just as I would be free to be myself. But there could be an added sense of togetherness that perhaps we both crave even though both of us have been a bit afraid to risk giving up our single state. Dash it—all this is mere verbiage. I am massively bungling the whole thing, am I not? I am not bullying you, but I really think you should marry me. Will you?”
Itwasa strange marriage proposal and obviously not the one he had rehearsed. That very fact touched her. She felt tears well in her eyes and blinked them determinedly away.
“I did not meanyouwere bullying me,” she said. “I meant that if I were to agree to marry you, I would have been bullied into it by public opinion. Oh, Harry, you are very kind. Indeed you are. But, no. It would be wrong—for you, for me, for the situation in which we find ourselves. Why should we be forced into marriage simply because of a spying child, a hysterically pious mother, and a segment of the community, albeit a rather large and vocal one, that is all too ready to believe the worst of me? We shouldnotgive in to it. Does your mother know you are offering me marriage? But of course she must. Why else would she have decided that she wanted to see the back garden—alone?”
“She does know,” he said. “Lydia, was it so very bad that night?”
“It?”She felt her cheeks heating even as she asked the question.
“You dreamed of a lover,” he said. “Of me. You had both. Was it so very bad?”
“Oh, Harry.” The tears sprang again, and his face blurred before her eyes. “Youknowit was not.”
“Well, then?” he asked.
“I cannot marry you just forthat,” she said. “I cannot marry. I will not.”
“But circumstances have changed,” he said, “as we knew they would if word got out that we were seeing each other privately. Damage has been done to your reputation and your ability to go on living in peace here. You must allow me to make amends. No, scrap that, please. There is nomustabout it, of course. But …” He paused and sighed deeply. “Dash it all, Lydia. Please marry me.”
Ah, did he not see that it was the verylastthing she could do? Not because she did not like him. She did. Not because she did notlovehim. She did, God help her.Certainlynot because she had not enjoyed making love with him. Not even entirely because of her coveted freedom and independence. She could not marry him just because a village was gossiping about her and making a loose woman out of her. Shewouldnot. It would be a terrible basis for a marriage.
“You do not trust me,” he said.
She blinked back her tears so she could see him clearly.
It would be easy to voice an instant denial. But really that was at the root of everything upon which she had based her life and her plans for the past year and a half, was it not? She could trust herself. But could she trust someone—a man—to have legal ownership of her again, to do with her as he chose? For that was what being married meant. She had loved and trusted Isaiah with her whole heart. Who could have been more apparently trustworthy than he?
“You cannot answer,” Harry said. “Because you do not want to lie, I suppose, and hurt me. Your life will be difficult from now on.”
“Only if I allow it to be,” she said.
