Mr. Johnson’s brows rose. “Pardon?”
“You say you adore me, but I wish to know precisely why you long to spend the rest of your days by my side.” She punctuated that with a challenging raise of her brows.
Sliding to his knees, Mr. Johnson drew closer, and Felicity fought back a groan. It was so much easier when the gentlemen held onto their dignity and refrained from such ridiculous overtures.
“You are a goddess among men, and you question why I love you?” he asked.
“I am asking for specifics. What is it about me that you love?”
Mr. Johnson inched closer, taking Felicity’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. While his attention was occupied, she raised her eyes to the heavens, begging for patience, and dropped them once again when he turned his gaze to meet hers.
“I have never seen a lovelier creature than you, Miss Barrows. You are beauty personified,” he murmured. “With titian tresses that glow in the sunlight and the fairest eyes in all creation.”
Felicity covered a laugh with a cough. For all that gentlemen claimed honor was paramount, the fellow had just spouted several blatant falsehoods all in a row. Her hair could not be called titian any more than a mule could be called a horse. Though it did glow in the sunlight, it was less a burnished copper and more a blaring orange with disobedient curls that her lady’s maid cursed daily. And Felicity had no delusions concerning her eyes; though a decent shade of brown, there was nothing remarkable or particularly fine about them.
Unconsciously, she brushed a touch across the rough bumps that followed the edge of her jaw. She was long past the age of fretting over her complexion, but neither was she one of those ladies who wrapped themselves in the false confidence that claimed such imperfections were lovely. The scars and bumps marring her skin were simply a part of who she was, and Felicity was secure enough to know that whether considered ugly or beautiful, her appearance was of no importance. Even if so many others believed otherwise.
Mr. Johnson rambled on about her various features and their relative loveliness, embellishing them to the point of absurdity, and though there was still humor to be found in his attempts at romance, Felicity’s heart gave a sad little shudder. Did every gentleman think her so vain and silly that she would believe such obvious lies? That she would fall into his arms because he cobbled together false compliments about her face and figure?
Perhaps another spinster might cling to the fantasy they presented; Felicity did not miss the fact that the compliments all mirrored each other, blending into a generic mass.
“Mr. Johnson,” she said, but before she could interject further, he launched into a bout of poetry.
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
“I would rather you not.”
“‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”
“Mr. Johnson, please desist,” she said, but the fellow continued, giving line after line of the sonnet with growing affectedness, his gaze holding hers in a manner that had her inching backward, though the back of the chair kept her from traveling too far. When she gave another protest, he halted mid-line and watched her with a furrowed brow.
But before she could say another word, he launched into another. “‘Love is not love which alters in its alteration finds…’”
“Enough, Mr. Johnson,” said Felicity, nudging him aside so she could get to her feet and move to the desk. “I thank you for your kind words, but I fear I must decline your offer.”
“Decline?” Mr. Johnson blinked at her, and she held her breath. How the next few moments would unfold varied greatly from gentleman to gentleman, and she hoped Mr. Johnson had enough sense to behave with dignity.
“But, Miss Barrows, I am offering to marry you.”
“I am fully aware of what you are offering, Mr. Johnson, but I have no desire to marry for the sake of marrying. I do hope you are not too disappointed,” she said, adding a few more trite words of consolation as she rose to her feet.
Mr. Johnson did the same, though his gaze remained unfocused, his brows pulled together in such a tight bunch that Felicity didn’t know whether to be offended or amused by his utter confusion. She chose the latter.
With a nudge here and there, she had him out the study door and shut it firmly behind him. Giving a heavy sigh, she leaned against the door and stared upwards as though patience might pour down from the heavens.
Chapter 2
Why did so many proposals include soppy verses?
True, love was not love if it altered with the slightest whim, and every young lady hoped for a beau who believed her more lovely and temperate than a summer’s day, but such poetry bespoke a romance that was more fantasy than reality.
Of Shakespeare’s sonnets, there was none to compare with One Hundred and Thirty, which spoke of true love that was not falsely compared to objects of inordinate beauty; it was written by a lover who recognized his lady’s flaws and adored her all the same. Surely that was far more endearing and heartfelt than blind adoration that sees perfection where there is none.
Pushing off the door, Felicity abandoned such thoughts and turned her attention back to her wretched work. She collapsed onto the armchair, staring at the physical evidence of all she needed to do, and felt her stomach sink. Would it ever end? Or was her life to be a constant stream of uninteresting tasks?
“Oh, Uncle,” she murmured, not for the first time. Likely the fellow had more pressing matters to attend to during his eternal rest than to watch his niece flounder, but Felicity wished he were seated beside her.
Another knock sounded at the door, and Felicity bade the visitor enter, grateful for yet another distraction from her business. Before she could right herself, Bethany Beaumont swept into the study.
