But he was so much older than Lily—nearly twenty-eight to Lily’s eighteen—and so much more experienced. Perhaps Lily could look around a little more. The ton was full of charming and eligible young men.
That made sense too, but Lily didn’t want to look around.
She felt certain—almost—that she loved Edward, but was she in love with him? Didn’t there need to be two who loved to be in love? Both of you, loving each other?
It was hard to know. He hadn’t hinted at any feelings. He’d said things like, I’m no catch, you deserve better, I’m no hero, I am a rake—all very clear messages warning her off admiring him in any way.
But the more he tried to make her dislike him, the more she wanted to hug him. He was so much more wonderful than he thought he was.
Was she doing the right thing in marrying him? She didn’t know.
Was she doing the wrong thing? She hoped not.
All she was sure of was that if she’d refused his proposal today, she probably wouldn’t see him again, and that she couldn’t bear.
Something had begun, in that trip back from Yorkshire, and every instinct she had was to nurture it. She felt certain—as certain as a girl full of doubts could—that this was what she had to do. She loved Edward and would do her very best to make him the best wife she could be. And she would hope and pray that he would become the loving kind of husband she’d always dreamed of.
He might be marrying in scandal, but she would marry in hope.
She reached the landing, turned the corner, and found Rose and George sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for her.
“Well? Did you send him on his way?” Rose demanded.
“He’s downstairs, talking to Cal.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed. “What about?” When Lily didn’t respond, Rose made a dismayed exclamation. “You accepted him, didn’t you? Oh, Lily!”
“I want him, Rose,” Lily said quietly.
“I know you think you do, but . . . Oh, Lily, I just wish . . .”
“I suppose I must wish you happy, then,” George said. She didn’t sound very confident or in the least bit joyous, but Lily hugged and thanked her anyway.
Then Rose hugged Lily tightly, saying, “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be so— I just want you to be happy, Lily.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I’m going to be happy, Rose, just you wait and see.” Lily’s eyes were teary too. “He’s a wonderful man, really he is. You just don’t know him yet.”
“I gather you’ve accepted Mr. Galbraith’s proposal.” Emm emerged from the sitting room at the top of the stairs. She held out her arms to Lily. “I hope this marriage brings you all the happiness you deserve, my dear.” Emm was as full of doubt as the others; she was just better at hiding it.
Lily and she embraced, then Emm said, “Well, then, we’d better go downstairs and congratulate the happy groom. Cal will want to make a toast.” She began the descent downstairs. George, Lily and Rose followed.
Congratulate the happy groom? At the moment Edward was probably more of a resolute groom. But he would be happy, eventually. Lily was determined to make it so.
Halfway down the stairs, Rose paused and gave her a sudden sharp look. “Did you tell him about—?”
“No. I’ll tell him later.”
“But don’t you think you ought to—?”
“Later, Rose.”
She didn’t want to talk about it, not now—and if she was honest with herself, not ever. Edward had made a clean breast of his faults. That was admirable—assuming he’d meant it as a way of starting fresh and not a way of putting her off.
She hadn’t done the same. She knew she should have told him about her reading difficulties. He’d have to know eventually. But she didn’t want to see that expression in his eyes when she admitted her problem, the look she’d received from all but a few people. Even from Papa. Especially from Papa.
Did they think she didn’t want to be like everyone else, to be able to read ladies’ magazines, or lose herself between the pages of a novel, or to write letters and exchange convivial little notes? And not to have to ask—always ask—someone else to read or write for her?
So no, she wasn’t going to tell him. Not yet, at any rate.
Chapter Twelve
You must be the best judge of your own happiness.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
“I believe I must wish you happy, Mr. Galbraith.” Lady Ashendon came forward. She didn’t sound in the least joyful, more resigned. “Lily is a girl very dear to my heart. You will take the very best of care of her, won’t you?”
It wasn’t so much a wish as an order, Ned decided. With a clear, if restrained, assurance that should he fail, Lady Ashendon would have something to say about it. A teacher’s tactic, but she wasn’t bluffing.
He bowed over her hand. “I will, Lady Ashendon.”
Lily’s sister, Rose, glided toward him, hands held out. She was taller than Lily, slender and graceful, a golden-haired beauty with ice-blue eyes and a smile that dazzled, even as it chilled. No doubt the ton fawned over her. They could keep this ice queen; give him Lily’s warmth and luscious femininity any day.
“So you are to become my brother-in-law, Mr. Galbraith.” She stood on tiptoe as if to give him a pretty sisterly kiss and, in a voice only he could hear, murmured, “Hurt my sister in any way, Galbraith, and you’ll be sorry you were ever born.” She pressed a dry, cold pair of lips to his cheek, stabbed him with a glittering look and stepped back, smiling.
Thank God she wasn’t the one Nixon stole. He might have had to marry her.
The other girl, Lady Georgiana—curious that she was Lily’s niece and yet was the elder—came forward with a loose-limbed, almost boyish stride that was oddly attractive. She held out her hand to him and murmured with a sweet smile, “Lily is a darling and if you don’t
