“Oh, you mean Miss Carnie’s singing overwhelmed you with emotion? You needed a quiet place to contemplate its beauty?”
Her lips twitched. “Perhaps I was slightly overcome.”
“I don’t blame you, though I should warn you—if she continues much longer, the apocalypse will commence.”
She laughed. Actually laughed. The sound went straight to his chest and lodged there. He’d missed that laugh. Even after three weeks of seeing her daily, he’d missed hearing her laugh like she did in the countryside.
“We’re being terrible,” she managed. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“I’m sure she’s delightful when she’s not murdering Mozart.” He gestured to the bench. “May I?”
“Please.”
The bench was large enough to maintain proper distance. He sat close instead, close enough that their thighs almost touched.
She shivered.
“Cold?”
“A little. I forgot my wrap.”
He shrugged out of his coat and settled it over her shoulders. Their hands touched as she pulled the lapels close.
Three weeks of touches like this. Brief. Proper. Never enough. He was going mad. He deserved a medal for his restraint.
“I’ve been trying to find a moment alone with you all day,” he said.
“Have you?” Her voice had gone soft. Breathless.
“Every moment since we arrived.” He turned to her. “Margaret, I need to know—are you happy here? Could you see yourself living here?”
Her breath caught. “I don’t know.”
“Is it the house? The title? My aunts?” He ran his free hand through his hair. “Because I can’t change the first two, but I can absolutely do something about the third.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “You can’t exile your aunts.”
“Watch me.”
“Henry—”
“I’m serious. Since we arrived, I’ve barely seen you alone. Every time I try to talk to you, someone appears. It’s like breaching a fortress.”
“They’re protecting you.”
“From happiness?” The word came out sharp as a blade. “Because that’s what you are. Three weeks, Margaret. We’ve had three weeks of proper courtship. Of sitting across from each other at breakfast and not being able to touch. Of chaperoned drives and stolen glances. Now we’re here, it’s worse than ever because my aunts are determined to keep us apart.”
Her thumb stroked across his knuckles. Small. Deliberate. Devastating.
“You’re right,” she said. “I have been uncomfortable. Not because of the house. Because I keep waiting for someone to point out that I don’t belong here.”
“You belong with me.” He lifted her chin and made her look at him. “Three weeks, Margaret, and I’m still certain. I’ve been certain since that morning in your kitchen. So tell me—what do you need? What will it take for you to believe this?”
“Henry—”
“I have the special license. It’s sitting in my desk. Ready whenever you are.” His voice went rough. “But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending that sitting three feet away from you at dinner is enough. That stolen glances are sufficient. That I’m not going out of my mind wanting you.”
“I want you, too,” she whispered.
