Silence.
Table conversation had switched to the Peterloo affair. Arabella couldn’t care less. She felt like she was having her own Peterloo disaster right here, right now.
“Your inventions?” Arabella asked. Never before had they conversed so stiffly.
He grimaced. “Declined.”
Arabella’s eyes flew to his face. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
He took a big gulp from his wine. “Don’t be. It looks like I’m a tad too late with the patenting. Someone else was faster. It’s called avelocipede. It’s not a bad name, actually. Better than Two-Wheeler.”
“Still, all the time and work you invested in it.”
He smiled suddenly, and she caught her breath. “I got another patent. For the mechanical pencil. It is odd. I never intended to patent it, but it got through in record time. The interest is immense. Strange how things work sometimes.”
“Yes, strange,” Arabella echoed.
Their eyes met. She was drowning in a sea of green. Someone had removed her plate, and she hadn’t even noticed that she was eating fish in aspic now.
“Morley?” Ashmore had to call him three times, before both snapped out of it.
Arabella said, “He means you.”
“Dash it.” Philip blinked as if aware of his surroundings only now. “I’ll never get used to this.”
“I was asking whether you agree that parliamentary representation needs to be reformed, Duke, but you seemed engaged.” Ashmore lifted an eyebrow.
“Engaged.” Philip sat up straight and gripped his fork. Then he blurted out: “Ashmore. I have the honour of asking for your sister’s hand in marriage.”
Dead silence fell over the table.
“Splendid. A marriage proposal in the middle of the third course. Haven’t had one of those in a while.” The Dowager Duchess Augusta looked from Philip to Arabella, clear enjoyment on her face.
Ashmore narrowed his eyes. “My dear fellow. This is neither the time nor place to talk about marriage to my sister.”
“I disagree.”
Ashmore was about to contradict when Lucy intervened. “But have you asked Arabella yet?”
“I am asking now.” His eyes bored into hers.
“Really, Morley, this is unorthodox. I must insist you choose a more circumspect environment for your marriage proposals.” Ashmore threw down his napkin.
“Is it plural, now?” The dowager cackled.
“I should very much like to marry you, Philip.” Arabella heard her own voice say quietly. She looked up with a bright red face from her wine glass, which she’d stared into the last few moments. Unbearable, this entire situation, unbearable. She heard her chair crash to the ground as she jumped up and fled. Up the stairs, to her room, and threw herself on to her bed. Where she cried.
Lucy joined her after a few minutes. She felt her hand on her hair, patting her gently. “You don’t have to marry him, if you’d rather not.”
Arabella looked up with a wet face, groping for a handkerchief. “Oh, but I do.” She fell around Lucy’s neck. “I really do. I am so happy, and I so very much want to marry him.”
Ashmore and Philiphad had their “talk” in the library, while the others had tea. It had been a short, blunt affair.
“I am not asking for your permission, Ashmore. I am placing you in front of an incontrovertible fact.” Philip jutted out his chin. He’d been ready to fight. But Ashmore surprised him.
He’d steepled his fingers and given him one of his steel looks. “What makes you think that?”
“I love her.” After a charged pause, he added. “I am certain she loves me, too.”
