The Proposal

suggestions. His relatives had never been shy.

There was a billiard room that proved popular. There were no musical instruments. There was a library, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, all of them filled with great blocks of books that Hugo was almost certain no one had read or even opened before him. He had read precious few of them himself, not being particularly partial to books of sermons or books of the laws of ancient Greece or books of poetry by Latin poets he had never heard of—and in Latin too. But even those books amused some of his relatives, and all the children loved the moving stairs and darted up and down them and stood together to push them to different locations and made imaginary carriages and hot-air balloons out of them and even a tower from which to screech for rescue from any prince who happened to be passing below.

Fiona’s family tended to huddle together for confidence—for the first day or so, at least. But with Hugo’s help Mavis and Harold discovered common ground with the other young parents among his cousins, and Hilda and Paul were soon drawn into the company of those of the cousins who were not married or who did not yet have children. Hugo made sure that Mrs. Rowlands met all his aunts face to face, and she developed something of a friendship with Aunt Barbara, five years younger than Aunt Henrietta and rather less of a regal matriarch. Mr. Rowlands fell in with some of the uncles and seemed reasonably comfortable with them.

Fiona did not once mention her health in Hugo’s hearing. It must have become clear to her after the first day that the Emes side of the family was not looking upon her with contempt but actually deferred to her as his hostess. And obviously she was the grand, adored one of her own family. She bloomed before Hugo’s eyes, restored to health and mature beauty.

And he would be very surprised if a romance was not developing between her and his uncle.

As for Tucker, he was a young man who would be comfortable in almost any social setting, Hugo suspected. He mingled easily with everyone and seemed particularly popular with the younger cousins, both male and female.

Constance flitted everywhere, brimming over with exuberance. If she fancied Tucker, and if he fancied her, they were certainly not clinging to each other and making it obvious. And yet, Hugo would be willing to wager, they did fancy each other.

And Gwendoline, with quiet grace, fitted herself in wherever she was able. Aunts who half froze with apprehension at first, soon relaxed in her company. Uncles welcomed her conversation. Cousins soon included her in their invitations to walk or play billiards. Little girls climbed on her lap to admire her dresses, though she dressed with deliberate simplicity during those few days, Hugo suspected. Constance chatted to her and linked arms with her. And she made the deliberate effort to get to know Mrs. Rowlands, who regarded her with almost open terror at first. Hugo found them one morning at the end of an upstairs corridor, their arms linked, discussing one of the paintings.

“We have just spent a pleasant half hour,” Gwendoline explained, “going up one side of the corridor and down the other, looking at all the paintings and deciding which one is our particular favorite. I think the one with the cows drinking from the pond is mine.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “mine is the one with the village street with the little girl and the puppy yapping at her heels. Begging your pardon, my lady. It looks like heaven, don’t it, that village? Not that I would want to live in it, mind. Not really. I would miss my shop. And all the people.”

“That is the wonder of paintings,” Hugo said. “They offer a window into a world that entices us even if we would not want to step into it if we could.”

“How fortunate you are, Hugo,” Mrs. Rowlands said with a sigh, “to be able to gaze at these paintings every day of your life. When you are in the country, anyway.”

“I am fortunate,” he said, gazing at Gwendoline.

And he was. How could he have foreseen any of this even just a few months ago? He had gone down to Penderris, knowing that his year of mourning was at an end and with it his life in the country as a semirecluse. He had hoped his friends could offer some advice on how he might find a woman to marry, someone who would suit him without interfering too much with his life or in any way ruffling his emotions. Instead, he had met Gwendoline. And later he had gone to London to wrest Constance away from the evil clutches of Fiona and find her a husband as soon as possible, even if it meant his having to marry a woman chosen in haste. And he had found Fiona to be not quite the villain he remembered from his youth, and Constance with firm ideas of her own about what she wanted beyond the doors of her house. And he had proposed marriage to Gwendoline and been rejected—and invited to court her instead.

The rest was all a little dizzying and was proof enough that it was not always a good idea to try to plan one’s future. He could never have predicted this.

His house without all the dust covers looked very different. It was elegant but without heart. Yet somehow his visitors made the place cheerful and livable, and he knew that he would spend the next several years adding the heart that was missing. His park looked bare but full of potential and really not too bad as it was. With a lily pond and a curved flower bed and some paths and seats, and with a wilderness walk with more trees and seats and a pavilion, it would be transformed. And perhaps he would plant some tall elms or limes on either side of the driveway. If one must have a straight drive, one might as well accentuate the fact.

His farm was the warmly beating heart of his property.

He was happy, he discovered in some surprise during those days. He had not really thought about happiness with reference to himself since … oh, since his father married Fiona.

Now he was happy again. Or at least, he would be happy if … Or rather when …

I love you, she had said.

It was easy enough to say. No, it was not. It was the hardest thing in the world to say. At least for a man. For him. Was it easier for a woman?

What a daft thought.

She was a woman who had not known real happiness, he suspected, for years and years—probably not since soon after her marriage. And now …

Could he make her happy?

No, of course he could not. It was impossible to make someone else happy. Happiness had to come from within.

Could she be happy with him?

I love you, she had said.

No, those words would not have come easily to Gwendoline, Lady Muir. Love had let her down in her youth. She had been terrified since then of giving her heart again. But she had given it now.

To him.

If she had meant the words, that was.

She had meant them.

His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth or tied itself in a knot or done something to make it impossible for him to reply.

That was something he must put right before the end of their stay here. Typically, he had talked quite freely about making love to her. He had even enjoyed being quite outrageous. But he had not been able to say what really mattered.

He would.

He offered an arm to both ladies.

“There is a litter of puppies in the loft in the stables about ready to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world,” he said. “Would you like to see them?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “just like the one in the painting, Hugo?”

“Border collies actually,” he said. “They will be good with the sheep. Or at least one or two of them will. I will have to find homes for the rest.”

“Homes?” she said as they made their way downstairs. “You mean you are willing to sell them?”

“I was thinking more in terms of giving them away,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, “may we have one, Hugo? We have the cat to keep the mice out of the shop, of course, but all