Chapter Twenty-five
Grace rubbed the sore area of her arm that Lord Westhouse had just released. Anger burning, she spun to face him, ready to give him a large piece of her mind when she noted the way he held his fingers to his lips. She wouldn’t have heeded him, but the whole situation was so absurd, she paused just long enough for him to whisper. “I’d watch that devil’s tongue you’ve got, Miss Grace. If you make too much noise, people will hear and if they find you here, alone with me, you’ll be ruined.” He paused for effect. “You don’t want that, do you?”
She wanted to let him know that she was already quite ruined. Or at least ruined enough, but she thought better of it. Her heart pinched at the idea, because Lord Sterling, Ramsey, hadn’t come to the ball. At least he wasn’t thereyet. Hope sprang eternal and all.
But he wouldn’t be looking for her in the garden.
And she suddenly felt quite alone. She rubbed her arms, trying to think clearly through her rather undesirable situation. The horrible man had a point, and if people found them alone in the garden, she would be forced to marry him. It would be a scandal, and she didn’t want that type of attention. No. She simply wanted to get away from Lord Westhouse and sneak back into the ball without anyone the wiser.
How had she thought she loved him? Or at least was falling in love with him? It was so obvious now that she wasn’t in love with him. She studied him in the flickering torchlight and moonlight of the garden. He was still handsome, that was undeniable, but there was something hard in his eyes, in his expression. Gone was that tenderness that she’d thought he had for her. Did that mean it was an act? Had his intentions toward her been a ruse? If so, why?
And why in thehelldid she not notice it? How had she been so blind? It was infuriating, frustrating, and she blamed herself.
When she knew she should be blaming him.
But guilt was never rational.
She gave her head a slight shake and took a small step back.
“Is that an answer?” he asked, tipping his head just slightly.
“To what question?” She responded softly, glancing about to make sure they were alone.
“Your glancing about is answer enough. You don’t wish to be caught with me. And one has to wonder . . .” He took a step to the side, then snapped a flower from its stem. It was a sprig of lavender, and he lifted the fragrant purple buds to his nose and inhaled, sighing softly. “Why.”
She watched him offer her the flower, and she took it, thankful to have something to occupy her hands. Or else she would certainly do something foolish, like slap him. But that would only create a bigger problem. No, she needed simply to escape, not get into a fistfight, one she would certainly lose, in more ways than one.
She twisted the flower in her fingers, the rich scent of lavender a comfort in the middle of the terrible situation. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rephrase your question.”
He let out a low chuckle and glanced toward the garden entrance. He turned back to her and answered. “The question was quite simple. A week ago, you were quite eager for my attention; tonight you are not. I can only surmise that some sort of catalyst has caused so elemental a change. Unless you are like the other debutantes with shifting fancies. But I rather thought you were different.”
An urge to defend herself bubbled to her lips, and she spoke without thinking through her words. “I am different. Whether that is a good or bad thing is left to be decided. However, I must say that a week ago I would never have imagined that you’d behave in such an ungentlemanly manner as this,” she scolded, hoping that her remarks would hit some chivalrous mark.
His chuckle proved otherwise. “Is that so?”
Well, that didn’t work,she mused. “Do you have some purpose in mind to keep me out here against my will?” she asked plainly, resisting the urge to place her hands on her hips.
“I do, indeed,” he answered, his brows raised as if surprised by her frank question.
“So, then you’re saying I’m not free to leave,” she tested, quite certain he would say no, but wanting the confirmation.
“You’re free to leave, but it will be at a price.”
“That’s not freedom.”
He shrugged as if such a detail was of little consequence.
She took a step toward the path.
He moved to block her.
“What is the price?” she asked softly, not wanting to hear the answer, but a lack of knowledge wouldn’t help either.
“Marry me.”
She blinked, tipped her head, and then waited for him to add to the small but profound phrase. He stepped closer, and she took an answering step back. “Pardon?”
“Marry me.” He shrugged. As if he had commented about the traffic on Bond Street, or the amount of boat traffic on the Thames. Not as if he’d asked the single most important question in her life.
