“Presuming she’ll have me, but I think she will.”
“I don’t doubt it. Congratulations.” After a moment, Henry sat, gesturing for Oliver to join him. “I presume you will therefore be asking for your inheritance.”
“That’s not the reason I’m offering for her.”
“I never said it was,” Henry said mildly. “I have no objection to your marriage, or the lady herself. I like her, Oliver. More to the point, she is not a lady one marries for the sake of one’s inheritance.” He held up a hand as Oliver half rose from his chair. “By which I mean she is far too clever to be taken in by baseless flattery. She has even had the wisdom to refuse you once, which shows strength of character and good sense.”
“Of course it does,” Oliver muttered.
“If this is what she wants, then I give you my blessing, and I will get in touch with my lawyers. Louisa, too.”
“Thank you.” Oliver took a deep breath. Time for his second announcement, the far more nerve-wracking of the two. “I have another request.”
“Oh?” Henry rang for some brandy—an unusual occurrence. There had been a time when Henry had refused to drink a drop, all for the sake of never turning out like their father. Now, he had eased somewhat.
On occasion.
“About the inheritance. The property.” Oliver took a breath. “I would like to learn how to run an estate. In a practical sense. You see, I know there are books on the subject, but I have never found . . .” He cleared his throat, shame like a stone in his neck. “I have always struggled with reading. Letters, words. They just don’t make sense to me the way they ought. I have tried—as a boy, my tutors all despaired of ever getting me to learn. And I didn’t—or at least, I can, very slowly, if I put my mind to it. But it has never come easily to me, and frankly put, I don’t like doing it.”
There was a sternness in Henry’s eyes. “This has been the case since you were a boy?”
“Well,” Oliver admitted, “I never did pay much attention to my lessons before I went to school, so I don’t think I realisedquite the extent of my situation, but it became apparent once there.” He swallowed, rubbing his hands together as though for warmth, although the room was perfectly warm. His skin prickled. “It was easier playing the fool. But I’ve had enough of that. I would like to do things properly—and provide Emily with a home she can be proud of. She’ll help me,” he hastened to add. “She knows of my affliction, and I know she’d help with letters and the like. And if I need to, I’m sure she would read me books on estate management, but—”
Henry held up a hand, and Oliver stopped his rambling. “Do you truly believe I would refuse to help you?”
“I know it’s shameful.”
“You’re my brother. Why would I turn you away when you ask me for help? If I’d known—” He frowned, and Oliver finally realised it wasn’t judgement he saw in his brother; it was regret. “You ought to have told me. However, I know why you didn’t. I have been . . . exacting.” When the butler brought the brandy in, Henry poured two glasses and handed one to Oliver. “I suppose that’s my fault.”
“So you’ll help?”
“Oliver,” Henry said, and held up his glass in a toast. “I thought you would never ask.”
Emily sat in the bedchamber she’d been assigned, anxiously awaiting the sound of his footsteps outside the door. She brushed her fingers along the lace of her nightgown—the one that had been left out, and was quite as daring as the one Isabella had been wearing. Such garments felt unfamiliar against her skin, and so did her reflection in the mirror, but for once there was no self-consciousness marring her anticipation.
Oliver would like what he saw, she knew. He loved her—not because of her looks, but forher.
Everything else didn’t matter.
She chose this.
The door opened and although she had been expecting it—waiting impatiently for it—she still jumped at the sudden motion. He had changed, his crisp white shirt, flamboyant waistcoat, and intricately tied cravat made him look like a gentleman of fashion, despite the bandage on his face. Far more reminiscent of the man she had first met at gunpoint than the man he had grown to be.
Yet when she looked in his eyes, she saw a familiar smile. Yes, this was still her Oliver.
“You’ll wear the carpet down if you’re not careful, darling,” he said with those warm eyes laughing at her, and held out his hands. “Have you been waiting for me long?”
“Only this past half hour.” She joined him, putting her hands in his, no longer ashamed of the roughness of her skin. He kissed her healing knuckles tenderly.
“Then I’m sorry for keeping you.” The smile died from his eyes as he looked back at her, serious in a way that made her heart flutter. “My darling, I have a question for you, and—”
“Marry me.” The words burst from her lips in a way that would have made her embarrassed if it weren’t for the wonder dawning across his face. She adored everything about him—the humour that danced so often in his eyes; the way he disguised his selflessness as whimsy; the kindness that never failed to spark when there was something he could do for someone. She adored the freckles across his nose and the wickedness of his smile when he was teasing her—and how she loved the way he teased her.
For seven years, she had been existing, and he had taught her how to live again.
His smile was perfectly crooked. “You look even more beautiful when you’re asking me to marry you.”
“Is that a yes?”
