The Proposal

mother reached out and patted her hand though she made no additional comment.

“I am taking Sylvie and Leo to the park this morning while Neville is at the House,” Lily said. “Come with us? I can take the baby too if you do. You can do all the running after balls. It seems they will never learn how to catch them.” She laughed.

“Of course I’ll come,” Gwen said, getting to her feet. “Perhaps they cannot catch, poor things, because their mother cannot throw. Aunt Gwen to the rescue.”

For three years Hugo had jealously guarded his privacy in the country, first at his cottage and then at Crosslands. It was his own domain, his refuge from the tumult of the world. He had never invited anyone to stay, even his fellow members of the Survivors’ Club, and he had only rarely invited neighbors for dinner and cards.

But things had changed.

Actually, everything had changed.

Come to my world, he had said to Gwendoline. And suddenly he had ached with the need to give her the chance to do just that, not for a mere afternoon of tea and conversation or an evening of tea and cards, but for … well, for a long enough spell that she would know what it felt like to be out of her own comfortable domain.

You will find that wanting, even loving, is not enough.

And he felt the desperate hope, the need to be proved wrong.

He could and would mingle with her world whenever it was necessary to do so, provided he could keep the reins of his businesses in his own hands and retreat to the country for several months of each year. But could she mingle with his world? More important, would she? Or, like Fiona, would she ignore them if they were to marry, pretend they did not exist?

He would not be able to bear that.

His family was important to him despite the fact that he had neglected them for years. He had rediscovered them lately, and he was not going to let them go again. Or marry a wife who would ignore them. And he had discovered Fiona’s family and liked them even though they were not related to him in any way. They were Constance’s family, though.

He had known about the upcoming anniversaries for a while. And he had been toying with the idea of inviting both families to Crosslands for a short time during the summer. It could not be for long. These were working people who could not afford to take lengthy holidays.

But why not invite everyone to Crosslands for the actual anniversaries? Why wait until summer? The possibility popped into his mind during the week following his last visit to Gwendoline. When he had told her she would hear from him, he had not known what she would hear. And when he had invited her to come to his world, he had not known quite how it was to be done.

But then he had known.

And everything had worked out wonderfully well. Despite the short notice, everyone was able to make arrangements to be away from their work for a week. And everyone was excited at the prospect of seeing his large country estate and being together there and celebrating two such grand events.

The only thing that remained to be seen was whether Gwendoline would be able to leave London in the midst of all the activities of the Season. And whether she would wish to. And whether she would.

It did not matter anyway, he told himself. He wanted to go for the sake of his family. It was time that he opened the whole of his life to them. And Crosslands and all he had there were a large and significant part of his life.

If Gwendoline could not come or would not, then that would be the end of it. He would not try to see her again, and he would put the pieces of his heart back together and move forward with his life. If she did come, on the other hand …

But he could not, would not think beyond that. He had told her that wanting, even loving, would not be enough for them. He was not sure he believed that. But he did not not believe it either.

And then he had a brief note from her, accepting his invitation.

His house, he remembered then, was like a barn. Although it was fully furnished, he had only ever used three rooms of it. The others were permanently shut up and covered in dust sheets. His servants could easily manage those three rooms and cater to his needs when he was there, but they would be quite overwhelmed by a house party. His stables and carriage house were well managed by a groom and his young helper. They would need more help, though, when a whole cavalcade of carriages and their attendant horses descended upon Crosslands. His park was barren, his flower garden bare soil.

Was there enough bed linen? Were there enough towels?

Enough dishes and cutlery?

Where would all the extra food come from? And who was going to cook it all?

But Hugo was not his father’s son for nothing. He advertised for a butler and chose with care from the seven applicants. After that, everything was taken out of his hands and he was made to understand that any interference on his part was neither necessary nor welcome. His new butler was a man after Hugo’s own heart.

Even so, he went into the country several days before his guests were due to arrive. He wanted to see what his house looked like without the dust sheets. He wanted to see what the gardeners the butler had hired had done with the park on such short notice. He wanted to make sure that the guest chamber with the best view had been assigned to Gwendoline.

Everything looked quite respectable, he was relieved and impressed to find, and the butler had turned into a tyrant of efficiency, who demanded hard work and perfection of everyone and got both—as well as total devotion, even from the staff members who had been with Hugo for longer than a year and might have resented the newcomer.

The day when everyone was to arrive was fine though not sunny. And everyone made good time. But that was to be expected of people who were up at dawn every day to work instead of sleeping off the excesses of the night before until noon.

Hugo greeted everyone as they came and turned them over to the care of his housekeeper.

And at last he saw his own carriage approaching the house and felt an uncomfortable lurching of his stomach. What if she had decided after all not to come? Or what if she had so not enjoyed the company of Fiona and Constance and Philip Germane, his uncle on his mother’s side, that she would insist upon returning to town without further ado?

No, she would not do that. She had the manners of a perfect lady.

The carriage drew to a halt before the house, and he opened the door and set down the steps. Fiona came first, looking far less wan than Hugo had expected. Indeed, she looked considerably younger than she had when he first arrived in London.

Then came Gwendoline, dressed in varying shades of blue, and succeeding in looking as fresh as if she had just stepped out of her boudoir. She looked into his eyes as she set her gloved hand in his.

“Lord Trentham,” she said.

“Lady Muir.”

She descended the steps. He always forgot about her limp when he was not with her. She did not smile. Neither did she glower.

And then Constance was out of the carriage, helped by his uncle, and was demanding to know if everyone else had arrived and where everyone was.

“We will all be gathering in the drawing room for tea in half an hour or less,” Hugo said. “Fiona and Connie, the housekeeper will show you to your rooms. You too, Philip.”

He shook his uncle warmly by the hand.

And then he turned back to Gwendoline and extended an arm to her.

“Allow me to show you to your room,” he said.

“I merit special treatment?” She raised her eyebrows as she took his arm.

“Yes,” he said.