Eliza could feel her cheeks redden with heat as she curtsied. “Good evening, Mr. Kingston,” she said, rushing to where he held out his arms.
He kissed her on both cheeks and inhaled sharply. “You smell divine, you look divine, and… well, rather than wait until the dessert course, I think I shall like to ask you something rather important right now,” he said, once he had pulled away to stare into her eyes.
Eliza froze, worried he was about to ask that she be his mistress. “Oh?” She dipped her head. “Then I suppose I will tell you my answer right now, as well.”
“Which is?” he prompted.
“Yes. If you’re asking me to marry you,” she replied carefully.
“I am. Be my wife, Eliza?”
She nodded, relief bringing tears to the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Mr, Kingston.”
“Cornelius,” he countered. “When we’re alone, of course.”
“Cornelius,” she repeated in a whisper.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her on the lips. Although Eliza would have allowed it to go on should he wish it, he broke it off first. He left his forehead pressed to hers, though. “I know there is much to discuss—”
“Over dinner,” she suggested.
“—given Catherine and how she will take the news.”
Eliza stiffened. “So… you haven’t told her?” she asked in surprise.
“No,” he admitted. “I only thought to ask you when I wrote the note earlier today.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you are right. I have no reason to expect she’ll be anything more than pleased by our announcement.” He lifted a shoulder. “She’ll be free of me,” he added, pretending sorrow.
Eliza allowed a wan grin. “I rather doubt she wishes to be,” she murmured.
“Shall we?” Offering his arm, the two took their leave of the parlor and of Buxton House.
After enjoying their dinner at Rules Restaurant in Covent Garden, it was during the dessert course when Cornelius remembered to give Eliza the betrothal ring.
By the time they stepped into the Kingston town coach at nearly eleven o’clock, Eliza had asked that he spend the night at Buxton House.
Cornelius didn’t turn her down.
At her insistence, the driver had parked the coach in the mews behind her townhouse and was spending the night in one of the servants’ quarters up on the third floor.
They never made it to the theatre.
Chapter Four
No Position, One Proposition
November 5, 1816, Kingston Publishing, Paternoster Row, London, England
Catherine regarded theexterior of her father’s book publishing company and wrinkled her nose. North of St. Paul’s Churchyard on Paternoster Row, the dingy house was one of many involved in the book trade. Other houses in the neighborhood were home to bead makers and stationers, businesses that did well near a church.
“Is your father expecting you?” Eliza asked, her arm entwined with Catherine’s. The slightly older matron glanced back nervously, as if to ensure the Kingston town coach was still parked on the narrow lane, a continuation of the wider Union Street.
The odors of ink and paper, the faint scent of coffee from a nearby coffee house, and coal smoke combined to create an acrid smell in the chilly air.
“No, but I always stop if I’m in the area,” Catherine explained. “As you know, I am determined to learn as much about what goes on at Kingston Publishing as I can.” She led Eliza to the door and entered as if she owned the place.
She hoped someday she would.
Besides, she knew Eliza was anxious to wed again and had asked after her father’s situation on more than one occasion.
