He turned, smiling, to Susanna after the last notes had echoed through the high vaults. She was shivering.
“Are you cold?” he asked, setting a hand over one of her clenched ones—and it was indeed like ice.
“I must leave now,” she said, her teeth chattering. “The concert has gone on longer than I expected. Claudia will be wondering…” She turned her head, and Peter could hear her speaking to Lady Potford above the hubbub of voices that followed the ending of the recital. “I must leave now, ma’am. I am expected back at school. I do thank you for inviting me—and you for suggesting me, Miss Thompson.”
“Oh, but you must not rush away, my dear,” Lady Potford said. “Miss Martin will certainly understand, and I daresay there are no classes tomorrow. I was hoping you and Viscount Whitleaf would come back for some tea.”
But Susanna did not even wait for her to finish speaking. She was drawing her cloak about her and getting to her feet, though her shoulders were hunched over as she did so. She stepped past Peter and hurried along the aisle, her head down.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Thompson said, “whatever has happened to upset her? She appeared to be enj—”
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Peter said, getting to his feet. “I will follow and make sure she gets home safely. Lady Potford, please do take my carriage and instruct my coachman not to wait for me.”
He did not hear her reply. Susanna was already almost out of the Abbey. He hurried after her.
He caught up with her at the outer doors and took her by the elbow.
“Something has happened to upset you,” he said.
“No.” She lifted a smiling face to his. “But I am always anxious when I have been away from the school for any length of time. It does not seem fair. Do not let me take you away early, Lord Whitleaf. I shall walk back alone. I am used to doing so.”
“At night? You most certainly will not walk alone onthisnight,” he said. “Will you not wait for my carriage? It should be here soon.”
She shook her head.
“I must go back,” she said.
“Then I will escort you.” He drew her arm firmly through his.
“Thank you.”
It was all she said for a few minutes as they walked. Actually, he discovered, it was not a cold night, and what little wind there was was behind them.
He wondered what had happened to rob her of her joy in the evening’s entertainment. Perhaps, he thought as he walked beside her and looked down at her bowed head, she had started remembering—as he had earlier. For him the memories were uncomfortable and touched upon his honor. For her they must be far worse even than that.
He set one gloved hand over hers on his arm.
“Susanna,” he said, “I must ask you, much as it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie. Did I…hurtyou in any way at Barclay Court? Not just physically, I mean, though that too, I suppose. Did I?”
Foolish question. Could the answer be anything butyes? And could he expect her to say anything butno?
“No,” she said. “No, you did not.”
“I have felt dashed guilty,” he told her. “I have never done anything to compare with it in infamy either before or since, I swear. I am not a seducer—orwasnot.”
“You did not seduce me,” she said firmly as they turned to walk across the Pulteney Bridge. “What happened was by mutual consent.”
They were reassuring words, and of course he knew there was truth in them. But they were essentially meaningless words, nonetheless. What elsecouldshe say? He sighed aloud.
“But it is not good enough,” he said. “Dash it all, it just is not. Will you marry me, Susanna? Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”
The words seemed to come out of their own volition. And yet he felt an enormous relief that he had spoken them. They should have been spoken up on that hill. They should have been spoken the next day—he should have hurried over to Barclay Court before she left. He should have followed her to Bath instead of going first to London and then home and then to Alvesley. He should have spoken the words the day before yesterday in the Upper Assembly Rooms.
Will you marry me?
He knew suddenly that he had done the right thing at last, that he hadwantedto say those words for a long time. He knew that finally he had done the honorable thing, and the thing he wished to do—hewishedto protect this woman, who had somehow become his very dear friend, perhaps his dearest friend. The fact that she was not with child did not lessen his obligation to her.
She continued walking at his side, their footsteps echoing along the deserted Great Pulteney Street. He began to think she would not answer at all. He even began to wonder if he had asked the question out loud or only in his thoughts.
