She was. Though she would have been happy not to have to endure this.
“Have you been b-back?” he asked her.
She did not need to ask what he meant or, rather,wherehe meant.
“No,” she said. “I have painted at home. The weather has been chilly.”
Hadhe? Gone back, that was. But she would not ask him.
They proceeded on their way in silence. She would not break it, and neither, it seemed, would he—until, that was, they came within sight of the gates. The duke and Dora had already turned onto the village street.
Viscount Ponsonby came to a sudden halt, and Agnes of necessity stopped beside him. He stared broodingly at the ground a little way ahead of them before turning his head and looking at her.
“I think, Mrs. Keeping,” he said abruptly, “you had better marry me.”
She was so shocked that her mind stopped functioning. She stared back at him, and thought began to return only as she watched the unusual openness of his countenance revert to the heavy-lidded, mocking-mouthed expression with which she was more familiar. Almost as if he had pulled a mask back into place.
“That was p-poorly done of me, by Jove,” he said. “I ought at least to have g-gone down on one knee. And I ought to have l-looked s-soulful.DidI look soulful?”
“Lord Ponsonby,” she asked foolishly, “did you just make me a marriage proposal?”
“Itwaspoorly done,” he said, wincing theatrically. “I did not even m-make myself clear. F-Forgive me. Yes, I asked you to m-marry me. Or, rather, I told you, which w-was not at all the thing. A man of my age ought to know better than to b-behave with such g-gaucherie.Willyou m-marry me, Mrs. Keeping?”
He was stammering rather more than usual.
She slid her hand free of his arm and noticed for the first time the pallor of his face, the dark shadows beneath his eyes as though he had had a sleepless night or two.
“But why?” she asked.
“Why would you m-marry me?” He lifted one eyebrow. “Because I am h-handsome and charming and titled and w-wealthy and you have conceived at-tendrefor me, perhaps?”
She tutted. “Why doyouwish to marryme?”
He pursed his lips, and his eyes mocked her.
“Because you are a virtuous woman, Mrs. Keeping,” he said, “and marrying you may be the only w-way I can b-bed you.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot.
“How absolutely absurd,” she said.
“That you are virtuous?” he asked. “Or that I want to t-take you to bed?”
She clasped her hands, raised them to her mouth, and stared at the ground before her feet.
“What is this all about?” She looked up at him then and kept her eyes steady on him. “And, no, you will not get away with looking at me like that. Or with making a foolish reply, like saying you wish to... tobedme. Or with making me a marriage offer as though it were some sort of jest and then scurrying away to hide behind your mask of mockery and cynicism. That isinsulting. Did you intend to insult me?Doyou intend it?”
He had grown paler.
“I did not mean to offer you an insult,” he said stiffly. “I b-beg your p-pardon, m-ma’am, if it is insulting to b-be offered the p-position of V-Viscountess P-Ponsonby. I b-beg your p-p-pardon.”
“Oh,” she cried, “you are impossible. You have deliberately misunderstood me.”
But he was standing as straight as the military officer he had once been, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes hooded, his mouth in a straight line. He looked like a stranger.
“I am not insulted that you wish to marry me,” she said, “only that you will not tell me why. Whyshouldyou wish to marry me? I am a twenty-six-year-old widow with neither noble birth nor fortune to recommend me and no extraordinary beauty either. You scarcely know me or I you. The last time we met, you assured me that you would never offer marriage to any woman. Yet today, suddenly, after making no attempt to see me for a week, you blurt out a proposal, or what I take to be a proposal—I think you had better marry me.”
His posture relaxed slightly.
