Olivia nodded. “But what am I todo, Izzy? Must I marry him?ShouldI marry him? I have wanted this for so many years, yet now that the moment has come, I cannot decide. Whatever decision I reach will affect my whole life… decades and decades to regret my choice, perhaps. How do I know that I will be happy with him… or not?”
“Sister,” Izzy said gently, “all I can tell you is that I chose Ian for largely pragmatic reasons, and I never regretted it. Marriage to a good, honourable man brought me great contentment, and whatever unhappiness I felt was within myself, and nothing to do with Ian. But I did not know true happiness until he showed me the passion within him, the love that he had kept swathed in secrecy for five years. If Lord Embleton can show you that sort of passion, then you may be sure that he can bring you happiness.”
“But he cannot express it!” Olivia cried. “Words are so difficult for him.”
“Love does not need words,” Izzy said firmly. “Love is in the way he smiles at you, the fire in his eyes, the ardour with which he kisses you.” She paused with a little sigh, and a faraway look in her eyes. “And if he does not even kiss you… then you have your answer.”
***
Olivia eventually tracked down Lord Embleton in the sewing room, a tiny apartment high in one of the castle’s many towers. The two Miss Plowmans were there, both with stitchery in their hands, and one of the elderly Lochmaben cousins acting as chaperon, reading a book beside the fire. She and the younger Miss Plowman were silent and industrious, but Lord Embleton and Miss Plowman had their heads close together, laughing — laughing! Olivia could not recall seeing the marquess so lighthearted before.
The scene was so intimate that she cried out, “Oh, forgive me for intruding!” before remembering with a spear of resentment that she was engaged to Lord Embleton and need never apologise for claiming a little of his time.
He looked up at her, the laughter dying away, leaving his usual imperturbable expression. He rose and bowed politely. “Lady Ol… Olivia.”
There was no pleasure in her arrival, no expression of delight to see his future wife, not even so much as a smile. Almost she had her answer on the spot, but she owed it to him to give him the chance to explain himself fully.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, my lord. In private. If Miss Plowman can spare you.”
“Of c-c-…” A huff of annoyance, then he took a deep breath. “Of… course.”
“Well done, Ralph!” Miss Plowman trilled. “Remember, deep breaths, speak slowly. We’ll leave you two to have a coze. Come on, Marian. Lady Sophia.”
Ralph!They were on first name terms, then.
The ladies left, and only Lord Embleton remained, his expression wary. Olivia took the seat vacated by Miss Plowman, right beside the marquess, so that if he should wish to hold her hand or press impassioned kisses on her lips, he would not have to do more than lean forwards a short distance. She was notsure she wanted him to do either of those things, but she felt she ought to give him the opportunity.
“Lord Embleton, I believe we should talk seriously about… well, about ourselves. We never have, and I know you are not a great one for talking but it is a conversation we need to have, I believe.”
He nodded. “Indeed. I have… written… to… my… father… telling… him… about you, but… he… will… not… dis… approve.”
“No, no! That is not what I mean. I suppose what I am saying is that I should like to know why you so obligingly offered for me.”
He looked at her blankly, a little puzzled. “I…” He stopped, frowning.
How could she explain it to him? It was awkward, for she could hardly say,‘Are you in love with me?’She had no wish to push him into a corner where he might feel obliged, by some obscure gentlemanly rule of honour, to declare an affection for her that he did not feel. And he could hardly say,‘I do not love you, but I am quite prepared to marry you anyway.’It was not exactly chivalrous, even if true.
But she needed toknowbeyond all doubt what was in his heart, and perhaps the most honest way to approach the problem was to tell him what she herself felt.
“Well, let me explain my position first,” she said. “When my older sisters married, both of them to viscounts, I determined that I would outdo them. For my husband, I decided, nothing would do for me but a duke. Or the heir to one." His eyebrows lowered alarmingly, but he said nothing. “So I set myself the task of identifying the most likely prospects. There are not very many of them, as I am sure you are aware. Once I had eliminated all those who were married, too young or too old, or lived in Scotland, I—”
The eyebrows rose again. “Scotland! Wh-what is… wrong… with… Scotland?”
“Nothing at all, in fact, I like Scotland very well, but you must acknowledge that it is a very great way from London. Or from almost everything except mountains and bogs. In any event, I decided that I would prefer to live further south, within easy reach of the Metropolis. And yours was the name I settled upon.” Down came the eyebrows again. “For several years now I have followed your exploits in the newspapers and journals, so you may imagine that when I had an opportunity to meet you… to know you as a real person and not merely a name in a newspaper, I grabbed it with both hands.”
He said nothing, merely looking dazed, so she hastily continued.
“Now, you must not be imagining that I planned to trick you into marrying me, for I despise stratagems of that nature. I heard that you offered for Bea Franklyn after she kissed you, so I thought I might try to kiss you, too. Nothing more than that, I assure you. And I confess, I went into Leicestershire because I knew you would be there, and I wanted to get to know you better. It worked very well, in fact, for I did indeed get to know you better and I liked you very well. I liked you well enough to be content to follow you to Scotland. Indeed, I liked you well enough to accept your proposal.”
She licked her lips, wondering if he wished to say anything, but he seemed stunned by her confession.
“However, I must be honest with you, Lord Embleton. I am not in love with you. I am not quite sure what I feel for you, to be perfectly truthful. More than liking, perhaps, but definitely not love. It is important that you understand exactly what sort of a bargain you will be making, if we marry. We must be totally candid with each other, do you not agree? There should be nothing withheld regarding our feelings and expectations.”
“N-n-nothing w-w—” He gave an exclamation, then jumped to his feet, stamping agitatedly around the room, saying nothing but throwing her sideways glances.
She waited, having said all she wished to say. Now it was for him to decide how to answer her, although the glowering countenance did not betoken a sympathetic hearing.
After some minutes of silence, while he continued to prowl about restlessly, she rose to her feet. “Very well. I shall see you at dinner, Lord Embleton.”
