He watched her swallow again.
“I have not said I will marry you,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I do not believe I have even asked you, Miss Huxtable. May I, though? Ask, that is?”
Something happened to her eyes. They grew larger and deeper and bluer, and for a moment he had the sensation of falling into them. Then they filled with tears and she lowered her eyelids over them and looked down at the carpet between them.
“I do not want to marry you,” she said, “and you do not want to marry me. Why should we be forced into what neither of us wants? No, do not answer that. We have dealt with all the reasons why and will start to talk ourselves in circles if we continue.”
He heard her inhale slowly.
“Very well, then,” she said, “you may ask.”
He took her right hand in both of his. It was limp and cold. He warmed it in his own.
“It will not be so bad,” he said, trying to console himself as well as her, “if we choose not to let it be. The expectations of society and our concern for the well-being of our family may force us into marrying, Miss Huxtable, but they cannot force us into being miserable forever after. Only we can do that. Let us not do it. Let us make each other happy instead.”
Good Lord, where were the words coming from? What the devil did he know about making a woman happy? What the devil did he know about making himself happy, for that matter? What was happiness?
But what else was there to say? Except…
“Miss Huxtable,” he said, dipping his head a little closer to hers, “will you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
The dreaded words that surely inhabited every single man’s nightmares.
Spoken at last.
Perhaps he ought to have made a complete ass of himself and gone down on one knee. Too late now.
Her head came up again, and her eyes met his from only inches away. They were still huge and bright with unshed tears.
“It would seem,” she said, “that I have little choice, Lord Montford.”
Loverlike words indeed.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, his eyes fixed on her lips. He forced a smile, which he hoped was neither twisted nor mocking.
“Yes,” she said. “It is a yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, and he moved his head closer in order to kiss those lips.
Except that she turned her head aside, leaving his mouth half an inch from her ear.
Leaving him feeling like an ass after all.
Ah. Well.
“Perhaps,” he said, “we had better-”
He did not complete the thought. There was a tap on the door and it opened before either of them could respond.
“Kate,” Merton said, all pokered up and looking very aristocratic and older than his twenty years, “is everything all right? You said you would be back upstairs within five minutes.”
He did not even look at Jasper. Neither did the elder Miss Huxtable, who stood in the doorway at her brother’s shoulder. Nor did the Duchess of Moreland, who was behind them.
An affecting family tableau.
“It has taken longer than I expected,” Katherine Huxtable said. “But we have finished now and you might as well all come inside and congratulate us. I have just accepted a marriage offer from Lord Montford. He is my betrothed.”
They all looked suitably stunned. Obviously it had been understood that their sister would say a quick no before his offer was even made and that she would be back with them within minutes of his arrival.
Then her sisters rushed into the room to catch her up in a hug-whether of congratulation or commiseration was not evident-and Merton advanced upon Jasper, his mouth set in a grim line, his hand outstretched.
“I am to congratulate you, then, Montford,” he said, all arctic frost.
Not Monty any longer?
Jasper set his hand in that of his future brother-in-law.
Lord! He was an affianced man, soon to be a married man. There was an unfamiliar ball of something that felt like panic in the pit of his stomach. But it was too late now to run for the hills. He was a dead goner, as someone had predicted at White’s this morning.
Clarence Forester had better watch his back, by thunder, if he ever plucked up the courage to leave the safety of his home in Kent again.
And his front too, by God.
She might have married Tom Hubbard or one of a number of other suitors she had had when she still lived in Throckbridge, Katherine thought, and lived a worthy life of contentment.
She might have married Phillip Grainger almost any time since she had moved to Warren Hall and lived a worthy life of contentment with him.
But she had held out for that elusive something called romantic love, and now she was to marry Lord Montford, who did not know the meaning of either romance or love. She had no illusions about him. He was incapable of commitment.
And how could she commit herself to a man who did not take life at all seriously? One who was willing to wager that he could make her fall in love with him for the sheer amusement of tackling an impossible challenge? One who thought that physical desire and going to bed with each other were the only ingredients necessary to a good and lasting marriage?
They were pointless thoughts. She was betrothed to him anyway.
In one month’s time they would be married. The nuptials were to be at St. George’s in Hanover Square with as many of the ton present as could be persuaded to remain in town after what would normally be the end of the Season. If she were a wagering person, she would bet that that would be a large number. They would not be able to resist witnessing what they had collectively forced upon two people who had become victims of the vicious gossip spread by one of their own.
What a farce it all was! If it were not also tragic, she would laugh until the tears ran down her cheeks.
Elliott, who had remained upstairs in the drawing room when the others came down to the library, had thought it was best to have a proper society wedding instead of a quiet ceremony by special license. He had said so after they all went upstairs to break the news of the betrothal to him. Stephen had agreed with him. So had Meg and Nessie.
So had Lord Montford.
Katherine had not expressed an opinion. She did not care when or where they married.
She was sitting now, half an hour later, staring into the empty fireplace in the drawing room while her family talked about her with false heartiness. They talked with one another, having given up trying to comfort her and draw her into the conversation. Lord Montford had left.
And then the butler appeared with a visitor’s card on his tray.
Whoever could be calling at this hour, so late in the afternoon? She would go up to her room, Katherine decided, and avoid whoever it was. She had had quite enough for one day. This was surely the final straw.
“Miss Wrayburn is calling with Miss Daniels,” Margaret said, looking across the room at Katherine.
Katherine sighed. There was to be no escape yet.
“Let them come up, then,” she said, and stayed where she was.
Did Miss Wrayburn know about the betrothal? Already? Or had she merely heard about the gossip and scandal?
A minute later she had her answer when the girl came hurrying into the room with a bounce in her step, all bright, happy smiles. She beamed about at everyone, but it was Katherine who was the focus of her attention. She came across the room, her hands outstretched, as Katherine got to her feet.
“Oh,” she said, “I am so happy I could burst. I have never been happier in my life. You are going to be my sister, Miss Huxtable. May I call you Katherine, please? And you must call me Charlotte.”
Katherine took her hands and smiled. Her facial muscles did not seem quite to belong to her.
“I would prefer Kate,” she said. “My family calls me that.”