“You? Are you interested in such things?”
He should perhaps have made some bland answer, but the tears staining her cheeks tugged forcefully at his heart and made him recklessly honest. He ran one finger gently down her face to wipe away the traces. “I am interested in everything about you, Sophie.”
“Oh!” She gave a rueful laugh, with a slight shrug of one shoulder. “If only Lord Daniel had been interested in everything about me.”
“He is a fool to walk away from you, but you will find a husband, never fear.”
She shook her head, the little curls on either side of her face bouncing in emphasis. “No. Not at my age. Who would have me now?”
“I would if I could.” It was madness to say such things, but he no longer cared. He wanted her above all to understand that she was a lovely, fascinating woman and by no means without admirers.
“Oh.” She gazed at him wide-eyed, her face troubled. “Why can you not?”
“I have no money,” he said. “No estate, no allowance from my father, no fortune in the funds. Even my profession brings in nothing.”
“But I have money… ten thousand pounds.”
“It is for the man to provide for his wife,” he said. “Your brother would quite rightly send me packing if I were to approach him for your hand.”
“Yet you want to.”
“I should love to!” he cried. “You would make any man a wonderful wife, but for me it is impossible. I only want you to understand that… you are admired… valued…” He stopped, suddenly struggling for words. His heart wanted to add‘loved’, but that was a declaration too far. Even in the throes of this madness of openness, he would not use that word.
“You said something like this once before,” she said reflectively, snuggling against his chest once more. “That there might be people who admired me but could not speak because of disparities of rank or wealth. You meant yourself, I assume.”
He nodded, quite unable to speak. She sighed, but he could not tell, in the confusion of wild emotions swirling inside him, whether it made her happy or sad. For a while, they sat thus, his arms still tight around her, while her head rested against his waistcoat and one hand crept upwards to his shoulder. The tears had stopped and she seemed content. He was content, too. This was where he belonged, with his Sophie snuggled trustingly against him. If he could never be more to her than a friend to comfort her distress, that would be enough for him.
After a while, with another sigh, she lifted her face to gaze up at him. “This is so pleasant, is it not?”
“It is, yes. Very pleasant. Do you feel better now, Sophie?”
“Much better, thank you. Why do you call me Sophie?”
“I beg your pardon. That was forward of me, Miss Merrington.”
“No, no, I do not mind! But why Sophie, rather than Sophia?”
“I have no idea. It just… felt right. I cannot explain it.”
“It does feel right! Mama and Papa used to do that — have different names for each other. She used to call him Roly, and he called her Aggy, or Aggy-dear, if he were feeling very affectionate, such as when she had ordered a veal kidney pie for dinner. Papa loved a veal kidney pie. I like that you have a special name for me, too. But what may I call you? There is nothing one can do with Simon, is there?”
“My second name is Harold.”
“Oh, that has possibilities! Harry… or Hal! Yes, I think you are a Hal. But only when we are alone.”
His conscience began to prickle at this innocent remark. “I am not sure we should be alone, Sophie. Today is somewhat unusual, but it is not at all proper.”
She smiled up at him — such a warm and utterly beguiling smile that he melted instantly. “I believe it is quite proper, under the circumstances.”
With trepidation, he had to ask the obvious question. “What circumstances are those?”
“That we are as good as engaged… Hal.”
“Sophie—”
“You said you wanted to marry me, which is as good as an offer, is it not?”
“Sophie, I do not think—”
