Her slight shrug said that was of no consequence. “Families lie to one another. It’s those closest who often harbour the darkest secrets.”
He pondered her words. “Is that why you’re hidinghere? Because of a disagreement over inheritance? I was told you keep your heirlooms somewhere safe and anticipated the robbery at your previous lodging house.” The thought of any man laying a hand on her set his blood alight.
“Robberies occur frequently in London,” she replied dismissively, taking a quick nip of port.
“Rarely to the same person twice. Are you here because of family troubles?”
“I have no family.”
“Dead or estranged?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He held her gaze. “Because you’re afraid, and I need to know whose neck to wring. Give me a name, and they shall trouble you no more.”
Her laugh held no mirth, only deflection. “And why would you wish to protect me? We’ve only ever exchanged pleasantries.”
“Some would say talk of graveyards and death is hardly pleasant.”
“We see things differently than most.”
“Which is exactly why I’m here.”
“To pry into a lady’s personal affairs?” She set her empty glass on the table. “To scare me half out of my wits at night?”
“To help you.” And in the process he might help himself. With his closest friends married, what was left but to use his privilege for the greater good? “Because I know how it feels to tackle problems alone.” Loneliness was a foe he knew too well.
“There’s safety in solitude.” She turned from him, takingthe open book from the chair and snapping it shut. “I’ve learned to rely on myself. I’m not your responsibility.”
“We can change that.”
She didn’t ask how. The shutters were already drawn, barring his entry. “It’s late. I appreciate your concern, but I think you should go.” She glanced towards the window as if she’d heard the sudden creak of the gate. “A horse of that calibre is bound to draw attention on the open road.”
He almost laughed at the irony. He could buy a stable of fine Arabians, own any house of his choosing, have any woman he desired—except this one, and the one his father denied him a decade ago. He was a marquess with blood bluer than the King’s. Yet here he was, practically pleading for Miss Woolf’s attention. Perhaps this sudden need to help her was nothing more than proof the past had not beaten him.
The thought was sobering.
He straightened to his full height.
Despite the plan, he’d not sacrifice his dignity. “If I leave now, I’ll not approach you again. This is the last time I shall ask. If you want my help, demand it now, and you shall have my proposal.”
She gripped her book of morbid poetry, hugging it to her chest. Uncertainty clouded her cornflower eyes. “Your proposal? I warrant you’re an astute man, but how can you help me without knowing the problem?”
“By offering a solution that will restore the balance of power.” His tone carried the kind of certainty that brooked no argument. “No sane man in Christendom would dare challenge you if you accept.”
Her brow furrowed. She tightened her hold on the book, her fingers fretting at the edge of the pages. “Why? What are you proposing?”
He allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to make her uneasy. Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “Marriage, Miss Woolf.”
Chapter Two
Olivia stared at the formidable man who towered above her in the modest cottage, his shoulders broad beneath the sweep of his coat, his presence impossible to ignore. “I beg your pardon. I thought you said marriage.”
“I did. A convenient arrangement to suit us both.”
