The Proposal

He did not even particularly like Lady Muir. He had judged her to be an irresponsible, frivolous, arrogant, bored, spoiled aristocrat, albeit a beautiful one. Of course, the story she had told of her husband had added some depth to her character. She had undoubtedly suffered a difficult marriage, with which she had coped as best she was able. And she did, he admitted grudgingly, have a sense of humor and an infectious laugh.

All of which was no explanation at all for his sudden urge to kiss her after he had removed her dinner tray from her lap. Or an excuse for giving in to that urge.

And why, in the name of all that was wonderful, had she allowed it? He had done nothing to ingratiate himself with her. On the contrary, he had been downright surly. He had a tendency to be that way with the upper classes, members of the Survivors’ Club excepted. He had not been well received by his fellow officers in the military. The majority of them had treated him with disdain and condescension, a few with open hostility for his daring to break into their ranks just because his father could afford to purchase his commission. Their ladies had ignored him entirely, just as they ignored their servants. All of which had not particularly bothered Hugo. He had wanted to be an officer, not a member of any social club. He had wanted to distinguish himself on the battlefield, and he had done that.

But last night he had kissed a lady. For no reason at all except that she had set her hands over her flushed face and laughed helplessly after he talked about giving up whores when he married. And there had still been laughter in her voice when she had spoken—I am really quite, quite sure, that this has been the strangest day of my life, Lord Trentham. And now it has culminated in a short lecture on lust and middle-class morality.

Yes, that was what had made him want to kiss her.

He wished to God he had kept his wishes on a tighter rein.

He was going to have to avoid her as much as he possibly could for the rest of her stay here. It was going to be dashed awkward coming face to face with her again.

It was a resolve he kept until after luncheon. He spent the morning, while it rained outside, in the conservatory with Imogen. While she watered the plants and did magical things to them that made them look fresher and altogether more attractive, he read the letter from his half sister that had arrived with the morning post. Constance wrote to him at least twice a week. She was nineteen years old and basically a lively, pretty girl who was ready and eager for beaux and marriage. But her mother was a selfish, possessive woman who had used her delicate health and ailments real or imagined to manipulate those around her for as long as Hugo had known her. She kept her daughter a virtual prisoner at the house, always at her beck and call. Constance rarely went out except to run brief and specific errands. She had no friends, no social life, no beaux. Not that she complained openly to Hugo. Her letters were invariably cheerful—and almost empty of any real content because she really had nothing to say.

It was Hugo’s duty to set that all right. A duty impelled by love. And by the fact that he was her guardian. And by a promise to his father that he would secure a happy future for her as far as he was able.

She was one of the main reasons for his decision to marry. He did not have the slightest idea how to launch her onto middle-class society on his own or how to steer suitably eligible middle-class men in her direction. If he married … No, when he married, his wife would know how to introduce her sister-in-law to the sort of men who could offer her security and happiness for the rest of her life.

There was, of course, his other reason for deciding to marry. He was not a natural celibate, and his need for sex—regular, lusty sex—had been asserting itself all too painfully for the past while and warring against his contrasting inclination toward privacy and independence.

He had decided when he left Penderris three years ago that above all else he wanted a life of peace. He had sold out of the army and settled in a small country cottage in Hampshire. He had supported himself by growing a kitchen garden and keeping a few chickens and doing odd jobs for his neighbors. He was big and strong, after all. His services had been much in demand, especially among the elderly. He had kept quiet about his title.

He had been happy. Well, contented, anyway, despite all the warnings from his six friends here that he resembled an unexploded firecracker and was surely going to burst back to life again at some time in the future, perhaps when he least expected it.

Last year, after his father’s death, he had purchased Crosslands Park not far from the cottage and set up on a slightly grander scale there. Somehow word of his title had leaked out. He had proceeded to grow a somewhat larger garden and cultivate a few crops, to keep a few more chickens, and to add a few sheep and cows. He had hired a steward, who had in his turn hired some laborers to help with the farm work. Hugo had continued to do much of it himself, though. Idleness did not suit him. He still did odd jobs for his neighbors too, though he steadfastly refused to accept payment. His park was undeveloped, his house partly shut up since he used only three rooms with any regularity. He had a very small staff.

But he had been happy there for a year. Contented, anyway. His life was unexciting. It lacked challenge. It lacked any close companionship even though he remained on good terms with his neighbors. It was the life he wanted.

And now he was going to change everything by marrying—because really he had no choice.

The letter lay long forgotten in his lap. Imogen was still in the conservatory. She sat on one of the window ledges, her legs drawn up before her, a book propped against them. She was reading.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up, closing the book as she did so.

“It is time for luncheon,” she said. “Shall we go in?”

He got to his feet and offered his hand.

Lady Muir, he learned in the dining room, was in the morning room, George having judged it a more cozy place for her during the daytime. A footman had carried her down, and George himself and Ralph had taken breakfast in there with her. She had asked for paper and pen and ink afterward in order to write to her brother. Mrs. Parkinson was with her now and had been for the past few hours.

“Poor Lady Muir,” Flavian said. “One feels almost inclined to rush to her rescue like a knight in bright armor. But one might f-find oneself being coaxed into escorting her friend home, and the prospect is enough to make any knight turn tail and run and bedamned to chivalry.”

“It is all taken care of,” George assured him. “Before the lady arrived, I suggested to Lady Muir that in her weakened condition she might perhaps wish to rest this afternoon instead of facing the exertions of a prolonged visit. She understood me perfectly and agreed that yes, indeed, she expected to need a sleep after luncheon. My carriage will be at the door in forty-five minutes.”

The clouds had moved off and the sun was shining an hour later when Hugo was standing out on the terrace, trying to decide whether to take a long walk along the headland or to be more lazy and stroll in the nearer park. He decided upon the lazy alternative and spent an hour wandering alone about the park. It was not at all elaborately designed, but even so there were flower gardens and shady walks and tree-dotted lawns and a summerhouse in a dip that sheltered it from any wind blowing off the sea. The small structure offered a view along a tree-lined alley to a stone statue at the far end.

It all made Hugo think with some dissatisfaction about his own park at Crosslands. It was large and square and barren, and he had no idea how to make it attractive. One could not just stick alleys and arbors and wilderness walks any old where. And the house rather resembled a large barn from which all the animals had fled. It could be lovely. He had sensed that when he had decided to buy it.

But whereas he could appreciate beauty and effective design when he saw them, there was no creative corner of his mind in which original designs would pop to life. He needed to hire someone to plan it all for him, he supposed. There were such people, and he had the money with which to employ their services.

He wandered back to the house after an hour or so.

Was Lady Muir really sleeping, he wondered as he let himself in at the front door. Or had she simply been glad to avail herself of the excuse with which George had presented her to get rid of her tiresome friend? If she was alone in the morning room and not sleeping, of course, George would surely have arranged that someone bear her company. He was good at such niceties of hospitality.

Hugo did not need to go near her. And he certainly did not want to. He would be very happy never to see her again. It was difficult to explain, then, why he paused outside the morning room door and leaned his ear closer to it.

Silence.

She was either upstairs, resting, or she was in there, sleeping. Either way, he was quite free to proceed on his