The Proposal

“But they are so dull, Hugo,” she said. “So staid.”

“Our cousins, you mean?” he said. “And so successful.”

“Dull and successful and very dear as cousins,” she said. “But all the men they know are bound to be the same way. As husbands they would not be dear at all. I do not want dullness, Hugo. Or even success if stuffy, sober respectability must go with it. I want some … oh, some dash. Some adventure. Is it wrong of me?”

It was not wrong, he thought with an inward sigh. He supposed all girls dreamed of marrying a prince before they actually married someone altogether more ordinary who could support them and care for their daily needs. The difference between Constance and most other girls was that she saw a way of realizing her dream or at least of getting close enough to a prince to gaze upon him.

“And you think upper-class gentlemen will offer you dash and adventure and respectability and happiness?” he asked.

She laughed up at him.

“A girl can dream,” she said, “and it is your job to see that no shocking rake runs off with me for my fortune.”

“I would flatten his nose level with the rest of his face if the thought even flitted across his mind,” he said.

She laughed merrily, and he joined in.

“You must know some gentlemen,” she said. “Even other titled gentlemen. Is it possible to wangle an invitation? Oh, it must be.

If you take me to a ton ball, Hugo, I will love you forever and ever. Not that I will not do that anyway. Can you arrange it?”

It was time to put his foot down quite firmly.

“I daresay it might be possible,” he said.

She stopped abruptly on the path, squealed with exuberance, and flung both arms about his neck. It was a good thing there were only trees and dew-wet grass looking on.

“Oh, it will be,” she cried. “You can do anything, Hugo. Oh, thank you, thank you. I knew all would be well once you came home. I love you, I love you.”

“Sheer cupboard love,” he grumbled, patting her back. He wondered what words might have issued from his lips if he had decided not to set down a firm foot.

Whatever had he just promised—or as good as promised? As they strolled onward, he felt as though he had broken out in a cold sweat.

And his mind was brought back to the whole gloomy question of marrying. He probably could get hold of an invitation if he made a little effort, and he probably could take Constance with him and hope a few gentlemen would offer to partner her on the dance floor. He probably could muddle through an evening, much as he would hate every moment. But would she be satisfied with one ball, or would it merely whet her appetite for more? And what if she met someone who showed more than a passing interest in dancing with her? He would not know what to do about it beyond planting the man a facer, which would not be either a wise or a sensible thing to do.

A wife could help him do it all right.

Not one from the middle classes, though.

He would not marry an upper-class wife merely for the sake of a sister who was not yet willing to settle for her rightful place in society.

Would he?

He could feel a headache coming on. Not that he ever suffered from headaches. But this was an exceptional occasion.

He allowed Constance to chatter happily at his side for the rest of their walk. He was vaguely aware of hearing that she had simply nothing to wear.

He waited impatiently for the post every morning for those two weeks and shuffled through it all twice as though he thought each day that the letter he looked for had somehow got lost in the pile.

He dreaded seeing it and was disappointed every time he did not.

He had not said anything to her after having sex with her on the beach. And like a gauche schoolboy, he had avoided her the next day and almost missed saying goodbye to her. And when he had said goodbye, he had said something truly profound, like have a good journey or some such thing.

He had started to say something to her in the gig on the way back from the cove, it was true, but she had stopped him and persuaded him that it had all been quite pleasant, thank you very much, but it would be as well to leave it at that.

Had she meant it? He had thought so at the time, but really, could women— ladies—be so blase about sexual encounters? Men could. But women? Had he been too ready to take her at her word?

What if she was with child and would not write to him?

And why could he not stop thinking of her day or night, no matter how busy he was with other things and other people? He was busy. He was spending part of each day with Richardson, and he was beginning to understand his businesses more fully, and ideas were beginning to pour into his head and even excite him.

But always she was there at the back of his mind—and sometimes not so far back.

Gwendoline.

He would be an idiot to marry her.

But she would save him from idiocy. She would not marry him even if he asked. She had made it very clear that she did not want him to ask.

But had she meant it?

He wished he understood women better. It was a well-known fact that they did not mean half of what they said.

But which half did they mean?

He would be an idiot.

Easter was almost upon them. It was rather late this year. After Easter she would be in London for the Season.

He did not want to wait that long.

She had not written, but what if …

He would be an idiot. He was an idiot.

“I have to go into the country,” he announced one morning at breakfast.

Constance set down her toast and gazed at him with open dismay. Fiona was still in bed.

“Just for a few days,” he said. “I’ll be back within the week. And the Season will not begin until after Easter, you know. There will be no chance of a ball or any other party before then.”

She brightened a little.

“You will take me, then?” she asked. “To a ball?”

“It is a promise,” he said rashly.

By noon he was on his way to Dorsetshire. To Newbury Abbey in Dorsetshire, to be more precise.

Chapter 11

Hugo arrived in the village of Upper Newbury in the middle of a gray, blustery afternoon and took a room at the village inn. He was not sure he was going to need it. It was altogether possible that before dark he would be happy to put as much distance between Newbury and himself as was humanly possible. But he did not want to give the impression that he expected to be offered hospitality at Newbury Abbey.

He walked up to the abbey, expecting at every moment to be rained upon, though the clouds clung on to their moisture long enough to save him from getting wet. Soon after passing through the gates of the park he saw what