He swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Evie, I want to marry you.”
Her indrawn breath was loud in the still room.
“I am not asking now,” he said swiftly. “I know your reasons against marriage, and I would never try to pressure you into answering immediately. I can only swear on my life that it would be nothing like before.”
She was quiet for a long minute, then asked, softly, “Why?”
“Because I cannot stand to be apart from you. Because I want everyone to know, not that you are mine, but thatIamyours. I have been for years now. How dare these London matrons, most of whom are no paragons of virtue themselves, cow us into hiding, when any one of them would give her right arm to be as adored as you are?” He felt her gather breath to speak, and he squeezed her hand again. “I came tonight to see you, but also to prove to each of them that I am not ashamed of our relationship. I would shout my devotion from the rooftops or print it in theTimesfor all the world to read.”
She stepped back and he let her go at once. She clasped her hands together and paced a short path away, then back. “Are you not happy with how things are?”
“Iamhappy,” he said. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck; his palms felt damp inside his gloves. “I only want more. I want to share a home with you. I want to breakfast with you without needing to arrive at dawn. I want to walk into every ball or soirée or theater box with you on my arm, and I want to take you home with me at the end of every evening, without secrecy or sneaking.”
“Has it been so terrible?” she asked hesitantly.
He couldn’t help a rueful smile. “No. Nothing with you could be terrible, to me.”
Slowly she came back up to him, and laid her hand on his chest. “You want to marry me,” she said, as if she weren’t sure that’s what he had said. “You.”
“I do.”
Her fingers stroked small circles. “I never thought to marry again...”
“All I am asking tonight,” he said quietly, “is that you consider it. Marryingme,not anyone else—who would most certainly not deserve you.”
She smiled at that, and his heart took a leap. “Very well,” she said after a taut moment. “I will... consider it.”
He inhaled and warmth flushed through him. “Thank you, my love.” He bent to touch his forehead to hers, and for a moment they simply stood, breathing in each other, a small cocoon of happiness.
“How long do you think is a good length of time to consider?” she whispered.
His pulse leapt. “A fortnight? Or perhaps a month or two,” he added quickly, not wanting to seem hasty. He had waited years to ask her this; he could wait another year to hear her answer.
She took her time replying. “Yes, I think a fortnight sounds a reasonable time for considering,” she said at last. “Should I expect to receive any... persuasion in that time?”
“Only,” he replied, “the sort of persuasion I would exert on any ordinary Wednesday.”
She laughed. Richard smiled, as he always did when she laughed. “I remember one Wednesday when we only left the bed to eat and soak in the bathhouse.”
“As I said,” he agreed.
She laughed again, then went up on her toes to kiss him once more, tenderly this time. “Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you had wanted this forever.” She waved one hand. “Why ask now?”
Richard let out his breath slowly. “For the first time I have been deprived of your company—not by ill health, or by travel, or even by your desire or my own, but by the narrow minds of people I do not care about. You did nothing to earn their scorn. My love for you is not a sordid secret.”
She rolled her lip between her teeth at that. “No, it is not sordid... or secret.”
Something in her voice made him frown. “What is it?”
She sighed. “Lady Brentwood... Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Evie.”
She gave him a look of reproach. “Nevermind, Richard.”
