The Proposal

way to the library, where he planned to write to Constance and to William Richardson, the very capable manager of his father’s businesses, now his own.

His hand went to the handle of the door instead. He turned it as silently as he could and pushed the door ajar.

She was there. She was lying on a chaise longue, which had been turned so that she would have a view out through the window to the flower garden beyond. It already sported a few spring flowers and a whole lot of green shoots and buds, unlike Hugo’s flower garden at Crosslands, of which he had been very proud last summer. He had planted all summer flowers and had had a glorious show of blooms for a few months and then … nothing. And they had all, he had learned later, been annuals and would not bloom again this summer.

He had much to learn. He had grown up in London and had then gone off to fight wars.

Either she had not heard the door open or she was asleep. It was impossible to tell which from where he stood. He stepped inside, shut the door as quietly as he had opened it, and walked around the chaise until he could look down at her.

She was asleep.

He frowned.

Her face looked pale and drawn.

He should leave before she awoke.

Gwen had nodded off to sleep, lulled by the blissful silence after Vera left and by the dose of medicine the Duke of Stanbrook had coaxed her into taking when he had discerned from the paleness of her face that she was in more pain than she could easily endure.

She had not seen Lord Trentham all morning. It was a great relief, for she had awoken remembering his kiss and had found the memory hard to shake. Why ever had he wanted to kiss her, since he had given no indication that he either liked her or was attracted to her? And why on earth had she consented to the kiss?

She certainly could not claim that he had stolen it before she could protest.

Neither could she claim that it had been an unpleasant experience.

It most decidedly had not been.

And that fact was perhaps the most disturbing of all.

She had endured Vera’s visit for several hours before the duke himself came to the room, as promised, and very courteously yet very firmly escorted her out to his waiting carriage after assuring her that he would send it for her again tomorrow morning.

Vera had been quite vocally put out at being left alone with Gwen throughout her visit. When their luncheon had been brought to the morning room, delicious though it was, she had protested at the discourtesy of His Grace’s not having invited her to join the rest of his guests at the dining room table. She was chagrined at the arrangements that had been made for her return home—and its early hour. She had assured His Grace on her arrival, she had told Gwen, that she would be happy to walk home and save him the trouble of calling out his carriage again if one of the gentlemen would only be kind enough to escort her at least part of the way. He had ignored her generous offer.

But what could one expect of a man who had killed his own wife?

How she hoped, Gwen thought as she drifted off to sleep, that Neville would not delay in sending the carriage for her once he received her letter. She had assured him that she was quite well enough to travel.

Would she see Lord Trentham today? It was perhaps too much to expect that she would not, but she did hope that he would keep his distance and that the duke would not appoint him to take dinner with her again this evening. She had embarrassed herself enough with regard to him yesterday to last her for the next lifetime or two.

He was the last person she thought of as she fell asleep. And he was the first person she saw when she woke up again some indeterminate time later. He was standing a short distance from the chaise longue upon which she lay, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, frowning. He looked very much like a military officer even though he was dressed in a form-fitting coat of green superfine and buff-colored pantaloons with highly polished Hessian boots. He was frowning down at her. His habitual expression, it seemed.

She felt at a huge disadvantage, stretched out for sleep as she was.

“Most people,” he said, “snore when they sleep on their back.”

Trust him to say something totally unexpected.

Gwen raised her eyebrows. “And I do not?”

“Not on this occasion,” he said, “though you do sleep with your mouth partway open.”

“Oh.”

How dare he stand there watching her while she slept. There was something uncomfortably intimate about it.

“How is your ankle today?” he asked.

“I thought it would be better, but annoyingly it is not,” she said. “It is only a sprained ankle, after all. I feel embarrassed at all the fuss it is causing. You need not feel obliged to keep talking about it or asking me about it. Or to continue keeping me company.”

Or watching me while I sleep.

“You ought to have some fresh air,” he said. “Your face is pale. It is fashionable for ladies to look pale, I gather, though I doubt any wish to look pasty.”

Wonderful! He had just informed her that she looked pasty.

“It is a chilly day,” he said, “but the wind has gone down and the sun is shining, and you may enjoy sitting in the flower garden for a while. I’ll fetch your cloak if you wish to go.”

All she had to do was say no. He would surely go away and stay away.

“How would I get out there?” she asked instead and then could have bitten out her tongue since the answer was obvious.

“You could crawl on your hands and knees,” he said, “if you wished to be as stubborn as you were yesterday. Or you could send for a burly footman—I believe one of them carried you down this morning. Or I could carry you if you trust me not to become overfamiliar again.”

Gwen felt herself blushing.

“I hope,” she said, “you have not been blaming yourself for last evening, Lord Trentham. We were equally to blame for that kiss, if blame is the right word. Why should we not have kissed, after all, if we both wished to do so? Neither of us is married or betrothed to someone else.”

She had the feeling that her attempt at nonchalance was failing miserably.

“I may take it, then,” he said, “that you do not wish to crawl out on your hands and knees?”

“You may,” she said.

No more was said about the burly footman.

He turned and strode from the room without another word, presumably to go and fetch her cloak.

That had been nicely done of her, Gwen thought with considerable irony.

But the prospect of some fresh air was not to be resisted.

And the prospect of Lord Trentham’s company?

Chapter 6

It was chilly. But the sun was shining, and they were surrounded by primroses and crocuses and even a few daffodils. It had not occurred to Gwen before now to wonder why so many spring flowers were varying shades of yellow. Was it nature’s way of adding a little sunshine to the season that came after the dreariness of winter but before the brightness of summer?

“This is so very lovely,” she said, breathing in the fresh, slightly salty air. “Spring is my favorite season.”

She drew her red cloak more snugly about her as Lord Trentham set her down along a wooden seat beneath