“No,” she said at last. “No, of course I will not.”
“Why not?” he asked after another short silence while they continued on past Lady Potford’s house.
“A better question might bewhy,” she said. “You cannot marry someone simply because you feel guilty.”
Wasthat his reason? If he had not dishonored her at Barclay Court, would the idea of marrying her ever have crossed his mind? It was a foolish question, of course. The point was that hehaddishonored her. And it was surely more than guilt that had impelled him to ask the question.
As they turned into Sutton Street, she laughed softly.
“When you say your prayers tonight, Lord Whitleaf,” she said, “you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.”
“You still believe, then,” he said, curling his fingers around hers, “that I am incapable of any deep emotion?”
“I know you arenot,” she said. “But I know that kindness is one of your most dominant attributes—that and gallantry to ladies. You cannot—or ought not to—contract a marriage on such things alone. You need to look deeper into your own heart. You need to learn to like yourself too.”
Her words smote him deeply. Despite her denials she had looked at him and seen a man incapable of any deeper feeling than kindness. She did not believe that the offer of his heart was a significant enough gift. But did he believe it? He had not offered his heart, had he?
He had lost all confidence in love several years ago. He had given all the love of his eager young heart to Bertha Grantham and had made a prize idiot of himself as a result.
Was the real problem that he had lost confidence in himself? In his ability to love or be loved? Had he stopped liking himself? Hehadfelt like an idiot—a gullible, naïve fool. But did that mean he had stoppedlikinghimself?
It was such a novel—and disturbing—thought that he said nothing as they approached the school and their footsteps slowed.
“You must not think you owe me marriage,” she said, her voice gentle now, as ifhewere the one who needed consolation, “just because you believe I was hurt in the summer and imagine that I am lonely and unhappy with my life as it is. Even if all those things were true—which they are not—they are no reason for a marriage. Not on either side. You owe me nothing.”
“I see,” he said as they stopped walking. His mind was paralyzed. He could think of nothing else to say to her. It was actually a relief when the door opened even before he could knock upon it, and the ever-present porter peered out at them.
But he could not let her go this way. He could not say good-bye like this.
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “There are no classes, are there?”
“Except the usual games class in the morning,” she said. “I always supervise it out in the meadows unless it is raining.”
“May I see you tomorrow afternoon, then?” he asked her. “We can go walking—perhaps in Sydney Gardens if the weather permits. And perhaps we can go somewhere for tea afterward—somewhere public, of course, so that the proprieties may be observed.”
It would be altogether better, he thought—for both of them—if she said no. But he willed her not to refuse him. He did not want this to be good-bye. He wanted the chance to laugh with her once again before they went their separate ways forever.
She had drawn her hand free of his arm. She took him completely by surprise now when she drew off one of her gloves and set her fingertips gently against his cheek.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”
He swallowed and turned his head to brush his lips against her palm. But only for a moment. That porter had not moved back out of sight. Peter half expected that he would growl at any moment—or open his mouth and spew out a stream of fire.
“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” he said, stepping back. “Good night.”
“Good night. And thank you for walking back with me,” she said, before turning and hurrying inside.
The door closed with a click behind her.
…you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.
He ought to agree with her. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction and his sisters’ if he had proceeded to present Susanna Osbourne to them as his chosen bride. They wouldnotbe happy.
But dash it all, he couldnotagree.
And devil take it, if this was what being in love felt like, he had been wise to guard his heart for the past several years.
With a deep sigh he turned to begin the long walk back to his hotel.
