The Proposal

if he somehow mattered. And when he had said that about her limp, she had thrown back her head and laughed with sheer merriment. And except that he had been inside her body in the cove at Penderris and she had welcomed him there. Yes, she had. She had, and he, who had only ever had whores before her, had known the difference even though she had lacked most of their expertise.

He had been wanted, cherished, loved.

Loved?

Well, perhaps that was going a bit too far.

But he craved more. Her? Was it her he craved? Or it. More of it.

Or was it love he craved?

But he had been wool-gathering for too long and returned his attention determinedly to work.

Later in the afternoon he was rapping the knocker against the door of Kilbourne House on Grosvenor Square and asking the butler if he would find out if Lady Muir was at home and willing to receive him. He fully expected her to be out. It was the time when everyone was out walking or riding or driving in the park and it was a pretty decent day even if the sun was not constantly shining. Hind had been driving off with Constance as Hugo was leaving the house, braying with laughter at something she had said. Perhaps this was why he had come now—because he could be fairly sure that she would not be home.

If he ever grew to understand himself, Hugo decided, it would be a miracle of the first order.

Not only was she at home, and not only would she receive him, but also she came downstairs in person, just ahead of the butler. She was looking pale and listless, a little heavy-eyed.

“Come into the library,” she said. “Neville and Lily are out, and my mother is resting.”

He followed her into the room and closed the door.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She turned to look at him and smiled slightly.

“Nothing, actually,” she said. “I have just come from spending the afternoon with Lauren.”

Her face crumpled and she spread her hands over it.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“Was I right?” he asked her.

Good God, what if he had not been?

“Yes,” she said, lowering her hands, her facial muscles under control again. “Yes, you were right. We have just spent almost a whole afternoon crying like idiots. I am to understand that I am the biggest goose ever born to keep all that bottled up inside for so long.”

“No” he said, “you are not a goose. She was wrong there. When we feel like rotten eggs, we would rather no one cracked our shells—for their sake.”

“I am a rotten egg, then.” She laughed shakily. “Is your sister happy today? I intend to call on her tomorrow morning.”

“She is out driving with Hind and his sister,” he said. “The sitting room of the house looks and smells like a flower garden. She has received five invitations, not counting the thirteen I received that include her. Yes, she is happy.”

“But you are less so?” she asked. “Oh, do come and sit down, Hugo. I will get a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”

He sat down on a love seat while she took the old leather chair across from him.

“I would be quite happy to make a bonfire out of the lot of them,” he said, “but I have to think of Connie. I came to ask your advice on which invitations to accept.”

“Of those?” She nodded at the bundle of papers he held in one hand.

“Yes,” he said, holding it out toward her. “Constance’s on top, mine below. Which ought we to go to? If any. One ton ball was all I promised, after all, and I don’t want to raise unreasonable expectations in her.”

“She can find happiness only among her own kind, you think?” she asked, taking the pile of invitations from him and setting it on her lap.

“Not necessarily.” He could feel his jaw hardening. She was making fun of him. “But probably.”

She took a few minutes to look through the invitations one by one. He watched her as she did so and was irritated. For he wanted to step over there, scoop her into his arms as he had done at Penderris when he had had every excuse to do so, and carry her back here to cradle on his lap. She was still pale. But he was not her keeper. He was not in any way responsible for bringing her comfort or anything else. Her back was ramrod straight. No, that was unfair. It was straight, but her posture was relaxed, graceful. Her spine did not touch the back of the chair, though. Her neck arched like a swan’s. She was a lady from the top of her head to her well-manicured fingertips to her daintily shod feet.

And he wanted her something fierce.

“I have received most of these invitations myself,” she said. “I would not presume to tell you which ones to accept or refuse, Lord Trentham. But there are some it would be wiser for Constance to refuse and a few it would be very advantageous for her to accept. In fact, there are three events to which I was very much hoping she would be invited so that I would not have to go to the effort of securing her an invitation.”

She laughed softly and looked up at him.

“You must not feel obliged to come with her,” she said. “I shall be delighted to take her with me and to be an attentive chaperon. However, the ton will be disappointed if the hero of Badajoz disappears from the face of the earth again after last night, when many of them either did not have a chance to speak with you and shake your hand or else were not even present. The ton is a fickle entity, though. After a while the novelty of seeing you at last will be replaced by something else and you will no longer be the focus of attention wherever you go. But everyone is going to have to be offered the chance of seeing you a number of times before that will happen.”

He sighed.

“I will accompany Constance to those three events,” he said. “Tell me which they are, and I shall send an acceptance.”

She set the three on top and handed the bundle back to him.

“How I would love some fresh air,” she said. “Will you take me walking, Lord Trentham, or will my limp embarrass you?”

She smiled as she said it, but there was something wistful in her eyes.

He got to his feet and shoved the pile of invitations into his coat pocket, pulling the fashionable garment horribly out of shape.

“You do know I was joking last night,” he said. “Your limp is part of you, Gwendoline, though I wish for your sake it was not. You are beautiful to me as you are.” He held out a hand for hers. “But I still have not decided if I wish to court you. One of those three invitations is to a garden party.”

She laughed and at last there was a little color in her cheeks.

“It is,” she said. “You will acquit yourself well enough, Hugo, if you remember one small thing. When you drink tea, hold the handle of the cup with your thumb and three fingers—but not with your little finger.”

She shuddered theatrically.

“Go and fetch your bonnet,” he told her.

I have decided not to court you,” he said.

They had been walking along the pavement in the direction of Hyde Park, Gwen’s arm tucked through his. She had been feeling weary to the marrow of her bones just a short while ago after returning from Lauren’s. She probably would have lain on her bed if Hugo had not come. She was glad he had. She was still feeling tired, but she was relaxed too. Almost happy.