She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. The man was a dolt of the first order.
“Lord Jeffcoat, if my answer were satisfactory, I would assume you would have champagne with me, not with your friends at your gentlemen’s club. But I believe you will find yourself in your study.”
He paused, apparently considering the ramifications of her words.
“Are you turning me down?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“No,” she said quickly. “I am not letting you ask.”
Silence met her response, and then, “Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to turn you down, but you are asking me prematurely, don’t you think?”
He frowned and reached for her mug. Surprised, she released it to him and watched him take a sip, then drain it completely. All the while, he continued to look concerned.
Handing the empty cup back to her, he sat upon the stool, something a gentleman in his right mind would never do, not while she remained standing. Clearly, she had bewildered him into discourteous behavior.
Running a hand through his hair, he stared at her, his deep blue eyes puzzled. “I thought it was the goal of all young women to be asked for their hand.”
She smiled wryly, setting the cup aside. “You think our goal is to be asked, not even the worthier goal of getting married?”
“Well, first the proposal, of course.”
“So a young woman wants simply to be asked,” she mused, “by anyone.”
His cheeks flushed a ruddy color. “I am not just anyone.”
Ah, the viscount had his pride, as she suspected. The nobility was a different breed of horse altogether. Not that she didn’t think every man had a dose of conceit, but these titled men would naturally consider themselves to be the choicest supplicants for a woman’s hand. And they would be right. Nevertheless, they couldn’t expect the instant devotion of every female, nor a positive response in every case.
“No, you are not just anyone. To me, you have been a good friend.”
He winced.
“And more than that,” she added quickly, thinking of the way he’d touched her and the exquisite sensation of his lips on hers. “We have had many pleasant hours together, and I hope more to come.” That was as honest as she could be without asking him if he thought he might fall hopelessly in love with her.
“I see,” he said.
Did he?
“Miss Rare-Foure—”
“Charlotte, please, at least when we’re alone.”
“Normally, we cannot be alone. I thought to come here and ... come to an agreement, and then it wouldn’t be so terribly irresponsible for us to be caught together. Although it could still damage your reputation.”
Abruptly, he reached out and took her hand and drew her into the space directly in front of him, between his outstretched legs. With him on the stool and her standing, her head was above his, and he had to look up to her.
“You are a puzzling female,” he said. “If I’d started my proposal to any other, I am certain she would have let me finish at the very least. You do like me, don’t you?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I do.”
“Then tell me what you want,” he implored.
It was an unusual view, looking down on a man. They always stood until one sat down and then they stood the moment one rose again. She’d always thought it was some sort of chivalric custom, but now, realizing how differently she felt seeing him below her, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering if men did it to maintain a perspective of power and authority. She must remember to ask her sisters what they thought of her notion.
Taking stock of his brown hair and eyebrows and the bridge of his fine nose, thinking it might be quite wonderful to gaze upon him every day for a lifetime, finally, she sighed.
“I want what anyone wants, and I think you can figure it out on your own.” She started to step back, but he kept hold of her hand.
