The Proposal

The letter came a little after two weeks following his return to London from Dorsetshire.

Lady Muir was at Kilbourne House on Grosvenor Square, the letter announced, and would be pleased if Lord Trentham and Miss Emes would call upon her there at two o’clock in the afternoon two days hence.

Hugo foolishly turned the page over to make sure there was nothing else written on the back of it. It was just a formal little note with not a breath of anything personal in it.

What had he expected? A declaration of undying passion?

She had invited him to court her.

That was a thought that needed some examination. He was to court her. With no guarantee of success. He might try his damnedest all spring and then go down on one knee and offer her a perfect red rose and some flowery proposal of marriage only to be rejected.

Again.

Was he willing to expend that much energy only to end up making an ass of himself? Did he really want her to marry him? There was a lot else to marriage and to life than what happened between the sheets. And, as she herself had pointed out, one could not give marriage a try. One either married or one did not. Either way, one lived with the consequences.

It would probably … No, it would undoubtedly be better to err on the side of caution and not court her at all. Or ever again offer her marriage. But when had he ever been a cautious man? When had he ever resisted a challenge merely because he might fail? When had he ever entertained the possibility of failure?

He ought not to marry her—even assuming she gave him the chance. And if she helped Constance during the spring and took her to a couple of balls, and if by some miracle his sister met someone with whom she could be happy and secure, then he would not need to marry Gwendoline or anyone else. He could go home in the summer with a clear conscience to his three functioning rooms in a large mansion and his barren, spacious park and his own scintillating company.

Except that he had more or less promised his father that when the time came he would pass the business empire on to a son of his own. He needed to marry if that son were ever to be more than a figment of his imagination.

Arrgghh!

Constance had joined him at the breakfast table. She kissed his cheek, bade him a good morning, and sat down at her place.

He set the letter, open, beside his plate.

“I have heard from a friend,” he said. “She has just arrived in London and has invited me to call upon her and to bring you with me.”

“She?” Constance looked up from her toast, which she was spreading with marmalade, and smiled impishly at him.

“Lady Muir,” he said, “sister of the Earl of Kilbourne. I met her earlier in the year when I was staying in Cornwall. She is at Kilbourne House on Grosvenor Square.”

She was gazing at him, saucer-eyed.

“Lady Muir?” she said. “Grosvenor Square? And she wants me to call there with you?”

“That is what she says,” he said, picking up the letter and handing it to her.

She read it, her toast forgotten, her mouth slightly open, her eyes still wide with amazement. She read it again. And she looked up at him.

“Oh, Hugo,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Oh, Hugo.”

He guessed that she wanted to go.

Lauren was at Kilbourne House on the afternoon when Gwen had invited Lord Trentham to call with his sister. She had begged to be allowed to be there for the occasion. Gwen’s mother and Lily were at home too. They had wanted Gwen to accompany them on a visit to Elizabeth, Duchess of Portfrey, and she had felt obliged to admit that she was expecting callers. She could hardly then withhold the names of those visitors.

She would much rather have had only Lauren for company. Oh, and perhaps Lily too—Lily had been absurdly disappointed to hear that Gwen had refused Lord Trentham and that he had gone away without another word. She had seen him as a romantic as well as heroic figure and had hoped he would be the one to sweep Gwen off her feet.

Gwen’s mother looked puzzled and a little troubled when she learned who the visitors were. Lily, on the other hand, regarded her sister-in-law with bright, speculative eyes but made no comment.

“It was only civil to invite them to call, Mama,” Gwen explained. “Lord Trentham did save me from what could have been a very nasty fate when I was staying with Vera in Cornwall, after all.”

The four of them sat in the drawing room as the appointed hour approached, looking out upon bright sunshine, and Gwen wondered if her visitors would come or not—and whether she wanted them to come.

They came, almost exactly upon the dot of two.

“Lord Trentham and Miss Emes,” the butler announced, and they stepped into the room.

Miss Emes was as different from her brother as it was possible to be. She was of medium height but very slender. She was blond and fair-complexioned and had light blue eyes, which were as wide as saucers now. Poor girl, it must be a horrid shock to her to find herself confronting four ladies when she had expected one. She stood very close to her brother’s side and looked as if she would hide behind him if he had not had her arm very firmly tucked beneath his own.

Gwen’s eyes moved unwillingly to him. To Hugo. He was smartly dressed, as usual. But he still looked like a fierce, barbaric warrior masquerading as a gentleman. And he was scowling more than he was frowning. He must be equally shocked to discover that this was not to be a private audience just with her.

Well, she thought, if they wished to move in tonnish circles, they must grow accustomed to being in a room with more than one member of the ton at a time, and with more than one titled member. Though Hugo had, of course, had a taste of it at Newbury Abbey.

Her heart was thumping uncomfortably.

“Miss Emes,” she said, getting to her feet and stepping forward, “how delightful of you to come. I am Lady Muir.”

“My lady.” The girl slid her arm free of her brother’s and sank into a deep curtsy without removing her wide eyes from Gwen’s.

“This is my mother, the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne,” Gwen said, “and the countess, my sister-in-law. And Lady Ravensberg, my cousin. Lord Trentham, you have met everyone before.”

The girl curtsied again, and Lord Trentham inclined his head stiffly.

“Do have a seat,” Gwen said. “The tea tray will be here in a moment.”

Lord Trentham sat on a sofa, and his sister sat beside him, so close that she leaned against him from shoulder to hip. There was bright color high in her cheeks. If she had been a child, Gwen thought, she would surely have turned her head to hide her face against his sleeve. She had not taken her eyes from Gwen’s.

She was passably pretty, Gwen decided, even if not a raving beauty. And she was well enough dressed, though without flair.

Gwen smiled at her.

“I daresay, Miss Emes,” she said, “you are happy to have your brother in London.”

“I am, my lady,” the girl said, and there was a pause during which Gwen thought that making conversation might well prove to be very difficult indeed. How could she help a girl who would not help herself? But she was not finished. “He is a great hero. My papa was fit to bursting with pride before he died last year, and so was I. But more than that, I have adored Hugo all my life. I have been told that I cried for three days straight after he went off to war when I was still very young. I have longed and longed for him to come home ever since. And now at last he has, and he is going to stay at least until the summer.”

She had a light, pretty voice. It was slightly breathless, which was understandable under the circumstances. But her words lit up her face and made her several degrees prettier than Gwen had thought at first. And finally the girl looked away from Gwen in order to glance worshipfully at her brother.

He looked back at her with obvious affection.