The Proposal

bubbled over with excitement as she spoke. The girl knew nothing about fashionable ennui, Gwen thought—thank goodness. There was nothing more ridiculous than a young girl, fresh from the schoolroom and the country, decked out in virginal white, and looking bored and world-weary at yet another ball and yet another partner.

The Earl of Berwick joined them, and Miss Emes eyed his facial scar.

“You were an officer, my lord?” she asked. “And you knew Hugo in the Peninsula?”

“Alas, not, Miss Emes,” he said, “though I did know of him. There was not a soldier in the allied armies, from the generals on down to the newest recruit in the ranks, who did not know of Captain Emes, later Major Lord Trentham. He was what we all aspired to be and failed to become. We might all have hated him with a passion had he not been so dashed modest. I met him at Penderris Hall in Cornwall while we were both recovering from our war experiences, and I stood in speechless awe of him until he invited me not to be so daft. He did mention the existence of a sister. I am sure he must have. But he did not, the rogue, mention the fact that she was—and is—one of the loveliest ladies in the land.”

He had struck just the right tone with her. She gazed worshipfully at her brother for a few moments and then —with blushes—at Lord Berwick. How wonderful still to be so innocent, Gwen thought. He had spoken in such a way that the flattery appeared more kindly than flirtatious. His manner was almost avuncular, in fact, though he was surely only in his middle twenties.

He must have left his youth behind on a battleground in Spain or Portugal.

Lord Trentham was a silent member of the group, and he had still not even glanced Gwen’s way. She might have been exasperated had she not begun to understand him rather well. Ferocious and dour as he looked on the outside—and he looked both at this moment despite the fondness in his eyes when they rested upon his sister—he was very unsure of himself in a social situation. At a ton event, anyway. He might protest that he was middle-class and proud of it, and that might even be true. It probably was, in fact. But it was nevertheless true also that he was intimidated by the ton.

Even by her.

She had an unbidden memory of him wading out of the sea with unconscious grace in that cove at Penderris, water streaming from his almost naked body, his drawers clinging to his hips and thighs. And of his shedding those drawers later after he had carried her into the sea. He had not been intimidated by her then.

Couples were gathering on the ballroom floor for the waltz, and Lord Berwick bowed to Constance and extended a hand for hers.

“Shall we go in search of a glass of lemonade and a comfortable sofa from which we may observe the dancing?” he suggested. “Though it is probable that I will have eyes only for a certain nondancer.”

“Silly,” Constance said with a laugh as she set her own hand along the top of his.

Gwen watched them make their way toward the refreshment room and waited. She felt rather amused—and almost breathless with anticipation.

“I have waltzed on one occasion in my life,” Lord Trentham said abruptly, his eyes on the departing figure of his sister. “I did not squash my partner’s toes, and I did not go prancing off in one direction while she wafted gracefully in another. But my performance did incite laughter as well as derisive applause from everyone else present at that particular assembly.”

Oh, goodness. Gwen laughed and unfurled her fan.

“They must have been very fond of you,” she said.

His eyes snapped to hers and he frowned in incomprehension.

“Polite people,” she said, “do not laugh at someone or applaud him derisively unless they know he will understand their affection and join in their laughter. Did you laugh?”

He continued to frown at her.

“I believe I did,” he said. “Yes, I must have. What else could I do?”

She fanned her face and fell a little more deeply in love with him. How she would love to have seen that.

“And so,” she said, “you are now brimful of dread.”

“If you were to look down,” he said, “you would see that my knees are knocking. If there was not so much noise in the room, you would hear them too.”

She laughed again.

“I have danced three vigorous sets in a row,” she said, “and though my ankle is not aching, it will be if I do not use some common sense and rest it. I trust the Earl of Berwick. Do you?”

“With my life,” he said. “And with my sister’s life and virtue.”

“There is a balcony beyond the French windows,” she told him, “and a pretty garden below. It is not a very chilly evening. Walk out there with me?”

“I am probably depriving you of the pleasure of performing your favorite dance,” he said.

He was.

“I believe,” she said, “I will enjoy strolling with you more than I would waltzing with someone else, Lord Trentham.”

Unwise words indeed. She had not planned them. She was not a flirt. Or never had been, anyway. She had spoken the simple truth. But sometimes truths, even simple ones, were best kept to oneself.

He offered his arm and she slipped her hand through it. He led her across the floor and out onto the deserted balcony and down the steep steps to the equally deserted garden below. It was not totally dark, however. Small colored lanterns swung from tree branches and lit the graveled walks that meandered through flower beds bordered by low box hedges.

From the ballroom above came the strains of a lilting waltz.

“I must thank you,” he said stiffly, “for what you have done and are doing for Constance. I do not believe she could possibly be happier than she is tonight.”

“But I have been at least partly selfish,” she said. “Sponsoring her has given me great pleasure. And we have, I am afraid, spent a great deal of your money.”

“My father’s money,” he said. “Her father’s money. But will she be as unhappy in the near future as she is happy now? She surely cannot expect many more invitations to balls or other events, and she surely cannot expect any of the gentlemen dancing with her tonight to dance with her again. Her mother, Lady Muir, is sitting at home with her mother and sister. They make a modest living from a small grocery shop and hardly qualify even as middle-class people.”

“And she is the sister of Lord Trentham of Badajoz fame,” she said.

He turned his head to look at her in the near darkness.

“You probably have not even noticed that the ballroom is buzzing with your fame,” she said. “For years people have waited for some glimpse of you, and suddenly here you are. Some factors transcend class lines, Lord Trentham, and this is one of them. You are a hero of almost mythic proportions, and Constance is your sister.”

“That is the daftest thing I have ever heard in my life,” he said. “It is that drawing room at Newbury Abbey all over again.”

“And for your own part,” she said, “I suppose it would be enough to send you scurrying back to the country and your lambs and cabbages. But you cannot scurry, for you have your sister’s happiness to consider. And her happiness is of greater importance to you than your own.”

“Who says so?” he asked her, scowling.

“You have said so by your actions,” she said. “You have never needed to put it into words, you know, though you have come close on occasion.”

“Damnation,” he said. “God damn it all.”

Gwen smiled and waited for an apology for the shocking language. None came.

“Besides,” she said, “even apart from your fame, rumor is also making the rounds that Miss Emes is quite fabulously wealthy. A pretty and genteel young lady who is properly chaperoned will arouse interest anywhere, Lord Trentham. When she is also richly dowered, she is quite irresistible.”

He sighed.

There was a wooden seat at the far end of the garden beneath the shade of an old oak tree. It faced across