“If you truly believe that money is more important to me than you are, then I have a greater task ahead of me than I realized.”
He actually sounded disappointed in her. But how could she have believed otherwise? Her marriage had always been about securing the family’s future. Always.
“What is your decision?” he asked. “Am I to have three weeks, or are we to go on in the uncomfortable fashion we have today?”
She stopped, facing him from her new position near the window. “Will you answer me one question first?”
“Of course.”
Her courage nearly deserted her, but she rallied. “Do you truly want to marry me? I don’t mean do you want to marry in the general sense but do you want to marryme?”
He rose. Slowly, deliberately, and with measured step, he came toward her. No one would argue that he was still the gawky boy he’d once been. His movements had a masculine grace she could not ignore. He moved with purpose, with confidence, with a presence that filled any room he entered. And the way his gaze held hers without hesitation or uncertainty quickened her pulse with something bordering on nervousness but still leaning in the direction of anticipation.
“Caroline Downy,” he said once he’d reached her side. “I am not one to be forced into an arrangement not of my choosing—not by guilt or pity or intimidation. I asked for your hand because I very much wished to be grantedyourhand.”
“But why?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Three weeks, Caroline. Give me three weeks, and I sincerely hope that will be a question you no longer need answered.”
He looked at her once more. The concern that had hovered in his expression when he’d first stepped inside the library had been replaced by sheer, unmistakable determination. He raised her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles.
He’d never done that before. Not once. She would have remembered the tingling sensation and the way her breaths came in sudden spurts. She would have remembered wishing he would brush those same lips along her cheek. If he had ever done that before, she would have remembered feeling so entirely confused.
He held her hand a moment longer. “I will see you tomorrow.”
She nodded, unsure of what to say.
He’d already left the room when her eyes settled on the single white rose lying on the tray of food he’d brought for her. She knew the staff would not have placed it there. Her family certainly would not have.
He must have thought of the rose—a white one, her favorite. The thoughtful gesture was reassuring. Perhaps he was correct in believing the awkwardness would ease with time and a little patient effort. He had asked for three weeks. She did not want to give up on her happiness, ontheirhappiness. Three weeks seemed little enough to ask.
***
Caroline added another white rose to her growing collection in a vase beside her bed. The chambermaid had brought one in that morning. Another had been waiting for her in the breakfast room. She’d found another just now tied with a ribbon to a small, folded bit of fabric left on the bench at the foot of her bed. Including the rose she’d received with her dinner tray the night before, George had given her five.
He’d not told her the roses were from him, but she knew they were. The small tokens meant more than he likely knew. They served as reminders that he had a good heart, that she was fortunate to be marrying a man who was not unkind. He might not love her, but he was unlikely to mistreat her. That was more than many women could say of their spouses.
She returned to the ribbon-tied fabric on the bench, running her fingers along the silky length of it. The deep shade of blue was exquisite, shimmering with the slightest hint of purple. Tucked behind the ribbon was a calling card.Mr. George Carlton, it declared.
She pulled it loose, unsure why he’d placed one of his cards in the offering. A quick perusal, however, revealed a note scrawled across the back.
My dear Caroline,
I spied this in a shop in London, and its beauty immediately brought you to mind. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I believe you will. I further hope the weather this afternoon will prove mild enough for you to undertake your customary walk in the gardens, as I know being denied that pleasure is particularly painful for you.
~your George
“My George.” He had never before referred to himself in that manner. Neither had he spoken of her as beautiful.
She untied the ribbon and unfolded his offering. It was not, as she’d assumed, a length of fabric, but rather a shawl with intricate embroidery along its edges. She had seldom seen anything so elegant, and had certainly never owned anything that fell so firmly in that category. This was not a gift a gentleman bought for a lady with whom he was merely a friend or acquaintance.
And he had purchased it in London, long before their discussion the evening before. So he must have been thinking of her in more personal terms already. But if she was not thought of as merely a friend, how was she thought of? There were so many degrees between “friend” and “true love.” Where did she fit in his mind?
And where did he fit in hers?
She was indulging in dramatics again. She’d always prided herself on being focused and determined. How had she turned into this quivering mass of indecision so quickly? What was it about George’s offer of marriage that had overset her in a way she felt certain no one else’s would have?
Caroline wrapped the shawl around her shoulders as she sorted out her thoughts. If she could understand why she was struggling with this so much, she might know how to best move forward. When Father had left for London with his list of names, she had simply reconciled herself to the inevitability and formulated plans for making the best of her situation, for finding satisfaction in the usual, cold marriage of convenience. Discovering she’d been promised to a gentleman with whom she’d never had a cold or indifferent connection, had upset those plans entirely.
