“Respect.” It came out an unsteady laugh. “Do you find that in short supply, where women are concerned?”
“I don’t mean the respect any gentleman must have for a decent young woman,” Galen answered her. “I mean the sort of respect I have for Mrs. Vesey, or Mrs. Montagu, or Mrs. Carter. Respect of the mind, Miss Northwood.”
In the rosy light, he could not tell if she colored, but the sudden, embarrassed tuck of her chin suggested it.
Galen went on with quiet determination. “But while I may have resigned myself to an unromantic future, Miss Northwood, I won’t ask you to do the same. Tell me now, and honestly: is there another man for whom you entertain such feelings? I would not be the cause of your permanent separation from the one you love, if such a one exists—or if you prefer to seek love, instead of settling for me.”
She snapped her fan open for a few rapid beats, then snapped it shut again and rose to pace a few steps away. “There is no such man, Mr. St. Clair. Whether there would ever be one… who can say?”
When she turned to face him, her mouth had settled into a startlingly hard line. Dread curled in Galen’s stomach, bringing with it a sour taste familiar from his disastrous walk with Dr. Andrews. Had he stepped so wrong again?
Miss Northwood said, “You aren’t the only young man to show interest in my hand. You know that, of course—but do you know which one my father favours the most?”
Galen shook his head, mute.
“William Beckford’s illegitimate son,” she said, biting each syllable off with her teeth.
He was dumbstruck. Miss Northwood nodded, a tight, stiff motion. “Indeed. He would prefer Mr. Beckford himself, except that Maria Hamilton got there two years ago; and any children they have will take far too long to grow up.”
“But—” Words were still slow to come. “I thought your father wanted respectability.”
“He does, very ardently. On the other hand, he might forgo a gentleman for me, when plantation wealth could buy Temperance a duke.” Miss Northwood’s hands balled into fists, fan swinging free from her wrist. “If Mr. Beckford persuades the Prime Minister to attack the French at Martinique, as I know he wishes to, then no doubt my prospective husband would be the happy recipient of a new plantation himself. And I? Would be a slaveholder’s wife.”
Mrs. Northwood kept a Negro page, in imitation of those fashionable ladies who also had the wealth for such an exotic touch. Galen wondered how Miss Northwood felt about that. “I needn’t ask your opinion on this prospect,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “Do you mean then that you would choose me to escape it?”
The fight went out of her hands, and her shoulders slumped. “I would shame to use you in such fashion—but you’ve been honest with me, Mr. St. Clair. I thought it only fair to do the same.”
Now he did sit, and pull out a handkerchief to blot the sweat from his face. The warm scent of roses surrounded him like a too close embrace. “I—” God, how desperately he wished for something to wet his throat. “I suppose I’m flattered, that I am preferred to the bastard son of a Jamaican plantation owner.”
She was at his side, in a rush of silk. “Oh, Mr. St. Clair—I didn’t mean it that way. Rather to let you understand what you would be taking me away from. Not a secret love, but a match I would avoid at any cost.” Miss Northwood hesitated, then settled herself on the bench across from him, smoothing her skirts over her knees with uncertain fingers. “But before—when you spoke of resigning yourself to an unromantic future—the look in your eyes… Mr. St. Clair, is there one you love?”
The handkerchief twisted in his hands. Ladies had an advantage, with their fans they could hide behind. “Yes,” he admitted, in little more than a whisper. “That honesty, too, I think I owe you. But I will never—can never—be with the lady in question.”
“Your father won’t permit it?”
Galen laughed at the mere thought. “He wouldn’t, if he knew… but no, Miss Northwood. The reasons go far deeper than a father’s disapproval. Nor is it a question of wealth, or any other such thing. If you imagine me in the position of a young fool in love with the moon, you’ll have a fair sense of just how hopeless my situation is.
“Given that, there is nothing to be gained by delaying my choice. I promise you that, whatever sentiments repose in my heart, you shall have no cause to reproach me for my behavior. It is all I shall ever be able to offer any woman.”
He busied himself tucking away the handkerchief, to regain a modicum of his composure. The task done, he found Miss Northwood sitting with her hands folded, and a look in her eyes that said she was preparing to accept, despite—as he had said at the beginning—the reasons his honesty had given her for refusal.
Before she could answer, he spoke again.
“I suppose there is one thing more I can offer. Should you come under my roof, you will never again have reason to conceal your purpose at Mrs. Vesey’s. We shall have a library, and you shall buy what books you like for it; you may attend what lectures will admit ladies, learn what languages your talents suit you for, and if your mind inclines to it, you may write.” He thought he would have to force a smile past the lump in his throat, but it came with surprising ease. “I may detest Dr. Johnson on many counts, but in this matter, he and I have no disagreement at alclass="underline" an educated woman is an ornament not only to her family, but to the nation that bore her. I shall do everything in my power to aid you.”
Her lips parted during the speech, and remained open in a small, astonished O; when he finished, she sat without speaking for quite a few moments—and then she answered him, in a strangely breathless voice. “Oh, Mr. St. Clair. I was all prepared to say that unlike you, I am not a romantic, and would willingly accept an offer of stability, respect, and friendship, even were my alternative not so terrible. But then you said those words, and I discovered that some part of me is a romantic after all.”
Her voice wavered on the last words, but the waver turned out to be a smile. Galen rose without thinking and crossed to her, then knelt and took her hands. “If talk of books and writing is your notion of romance, Miss Northwood, then we are happily matched indeed. If you will consent to be my wife, then I will go this minute and beg your father for your hand.”
The setting sun gave her a halo of fiery splendor. “You will not have to beg hard, Mr. St. Clair. I do consent.”
“Betrothed?” Irrith said in disbelief. “The Dragon will be here in a matter of months. Is this the best time to be talking marriage?”
Galen collapsed into a chair, sighing. “Likely not. But if I waited longer, I might have lost Miss Northwood to another—and besides, I promised my father I would find a wife before the end of the Season, which is upon us now.”
Irrith hardly cared about that. True, the quality would be departing soon for their country homes; they were the beau monde, the folk Carline liked best. Irrith preferred the ordinary Londoners, who stayed in the city all year. “You’ll be so busy, though, with the wedding, and setting up away from your father, and all the rest of it.”
“As it happens, no.” Galen’s smile was equal parts amusement and smugness. “Drawing up a marriage settlement can take time, and Miss Northwood and I have both made it clear to our families that we are perfectly content to be wed in the spring. Which gives her time to reconsider.”