“Very well. Speak.”
Rosalie took a deep breath. “Thomas didn’t plan to propose that night. He’d been trying to find the courage for weeks, actually. He was terrified you’d refuse him.”
“Refuse him? I barely know the boy.”
“Exactly. You’ve barely spoken to him beyond pleasantries, but every time he’s called, you’ve watched him like you expected him to seduce me in the drawing room.”
I was being cautious. Protective.
“A father has the right to evaluate his daughter’s suitors.”
“Evaluate, yes. Intimidate, no.” Rosalie moved closer. “Papa, do you know what Thomas told me the first time we really spoke? At Lady Pemberton’s garden party last month?”
Hugo remained silent.
“He said he’d noticed me at several events but was too intimidated to approach because he was afraid of upsetting you. He spent weeks asking his friends about your interests, trying to figure out how to win your approval.”
All that nervousness… because he cared what I thought?
“When he finally did work up the courage to call, you barely gave him five minutes of conversation before dismissing him.”
“I had estate business?—”
“You always have estate business when my suitors call. Even the ones you might actually approve of if you gave them a chance.”
The accusation stung because it held truth.
“Thomas spent the entire ride home convinced he’d ruined his chances because he’d mentioned his interest in botany, and you’d looked bored.”
“Botany is a perfectly respectable interest?—”
“But you didn’t notice that, did you? Because you’d already decided he was too young, too eager, too interested in your daughter.”
Hugo found himself with no ready response.
“Papa, he loves me. Not my dowry, not my connections—me. He knows I have terrible handwriting and that I can’t play the pianoforte to save my life. He knows I’d rather read about exotic plants than embroider cushions. And he thinks all of that makes me more wonderful, not less.”
There was something in her voice—a warmth, a certainty—that Hugo recognized with uncomfortable clarity.
“He makes me laugh, Papa. He listens when I talk about books or ideas, even the ones that are probably too radical for a proper young lady. He doesn’t try to change me or manage me—he just loves me as I am.”
As she is. When was the last time I told Rosalie I loved her exactly as she was?
“The night he proposed, we were walking in the garden, talking about his father’s greenhouse plans. He was so animated, so passionate about this project he wants to undertake. And suddenly, he stopped talking and just looked at me.”
Hugo found himself leaning forward, caught despite himself.
“He said, ‘Rosalie, I can’t imagine sharing this with anyone else. I can’t imagine sharing anything with anyone else.’ And then he got down on one knee right there among the roses and asked me to marry him.”
“I was so shocked, so happy, that I said yes before I could think. And then I was so excited that I kissed him.” Rosalie’s cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t planned or improper or compromising. It was just joy.”
“He was going to ask your permission after the ball. He had it all planned—a formal request, references from his father, even a list of his financial prospects—but I was so obviously happy that he couldn’t bear to wait.”
Hugo stared at his daughter, seeing her with new eyes. This wasn’t the child he’d been trying to protect—this was a young woman who’d found love and been brave enough to embrace it.
“Papa, do you want to know who helped me understand all this? Who taught me that love requires courage and trust?”
Hugo had a sinking feeling he already knew.
