“I could have proposed marriage to Miss Littlewood anytime in the past three weeks,” he said. “She would have accepted—and I am not being conceited in believing so. I have not done it or felt the slightest wish to do so, though before I saw you again I did have the sinking feeling that soon I was going to have to choose someone not very different from her—someone whose father was rich and wanted a peer of the realm for a son-in-law. But then I did see you again and I knew, almost immediately, that I could feel comfortable with the thought of marrying you. And it is because you are so different from other women rather than despite that fact. I would rather marry you, Miss Heyden, than any other lady I have met, and I believe my mother would prefer it too. And Lizzie.”
“Then you must put it to the test,” she said, turning her head at last to look at him. “They must approve. I would not be responsible for putting any strain upon such a close family. It is worth more than anything else in the world and must be preserved at all costs.”
“And yet,” he said, “you left your own family at the age of ten and have not spoken of them since.” At least, that was one theory of what might have happened. It was equally possible that there had been some catastrophe that had wiped out all her family except her aunt.
For a moment her eyes held his. Then she jerked her hand free of his arm, turned about, and scrambled her way back to the path. She began to hurry along it, back in the direction from which they had come. He went after her. Damn him for a clumsy wretch.
“Miss Heyden.” He hurried up beside her and set a hand on her arm. She stopped but did not turn to face him.
“Sometimes,” she said, “it is the exception that proves the rule, Lord Riverdale. That is a cliché, but often there is truth to clichés.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, moving around to face her and taking her gloved right hand in both of his. “I really am sorry to have upset you.” He raised her hand and held it to his lips. She was frowning, her eyes on their hands.
“I do not believe I can bring you any happiness, Lord Riverdale,” she said, and he found himself frowning back.
“Why not?” he asked. “Happiness does not come ready-made, you know. Even a sunset or a rose or a sonata or a book or a banquet is not happiness in itself. Each can cause happiness, but we have to allow feeling to interact with the moment. Surely if we like and respect each other, if we make an effort to live and work with each other, to make a home of our house and a family of any children with whom we may be blessed—surely then we can expect some happiness. We can even expect moments of vivid, conscious joy. But only if we want it and work for it and never allow ourselves to become complacent or imagine we are bored or inadequate. And only if we understand there is no such thing as happily-ever-after. Not for anyone, even those who fall wildly in love before marrying.”
She had raised her eyes to his, though she was still frowning. “If Mrs. Westcott objects,” she said, “I will fully understand. I will even agree with her. I would not want my son to marry me.”
“Good God,” he said, grinning suddenly. “I should hope not.”
She must have realized what she had just said. She snatched her hand from his grasp, pressed it to her mouth, gazed at him horrified for a moment, and then—exploded into laughter. And suddenly it all felt right. All of it. She was a real person despite the layers of armor, and she had a mind and a conscience and opinions. And even a sense of humor. There was substance to her character and a sturdy sort of honesty. And if being associated with her was going to be difficult, well, so it would with anyone. He glanced quickly ahead and behind. The path was deserted in both directions.
“We are—tentatively—betrothed, then, are we, Miss Heyden?” he asked.
She sobered instantly and lowered her hand. “Yes,” she said. “Tentatively.”
“Then we must celebrate,” he said, and cupped her face in his hands and ran the pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones while her hands came up to clasp his wrists.
“Someone might come,” she said.
“A very brief celebration,” he said, and kissed her—and instantly remembered the shock he had felt when he kissed her at Brambledean. He had felt an unexpected surge of desire then, and he felt it again now, inappropriate as it was when they were standing on a public path in the most public park in London. Her mouth was soft, her lips trembling slightly against his own. Her breath was warm on his cheek, her hands tight about his wrists. There was nothing remotely lascivious about the kiss, but … There was that knowledge that he could desire her.
She drew back her head rather sharply. “Are we mad?” she asked, her frown back. “We have forgotten the most important thing.”
“And that is …?” He took a half step back from her.
“The very reason we put an end to everything on Easter Sunday,” she said. “I cannot be a countess, Lord Riverdale. I have no training or experience. I am a businesswoman, what the ton refers to with some disparagement as a cit. And when I am not that, I am a hermit. And I am—” She made a jerky gesture with her left hand in the direction of her cheek.
“Ugly?” he suggested. “Unsightly?”
“Blemished,” she said.
“Even though I have never recoiled at the sight of you?” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He was getting a bit tired of this image she had of herself. “Even though my mother and Lizzie have not? Even though Jessica has not? Cling to this image of yourself as some sort of monster if you must, Miss Heyden, but do not expect other people to endorse it.”
“I am still unqualified to be your countess,” she said. “And incapable. Moreover, I have no wish to learn.”
“Now that is unfortunate,” he told her. “When we refuse to learn, we often end up stunting our growth and never becoming the person we have the potential to be. But we all get to decide that for ourselves. What you will be if you marry me, Miss Heyden, is an eccentric. Eccentrics are often admirable people because they are not afraid to stand alone rather than huddle with the masses, as most of the rest of us do to a greater or lesser degree. Eccentrics at their best listen to the music at the heart of themselves and let it fill them as they dance to its melody while other people who cannot hear it gawk and frown in disapproval and mutter about straitjackets and insane asylums.”
She gazed mutely at him until she laughed again suddenly, her whole face lighting up with amusement. “It is not a rose you ought to have brought with you today, Lord Riverdale,” she said. “It is a pedestal upon which to set me. But only, presumably, if I choose to be at my best.”
“Shall we walk on?” he suggested, and they continued on the way back to the gates.
“What is one specific thing you would like me to learn, Lord Riverdale?” she asked.
“You are already doing it,” he said. “You have met my mother and my sister without your veil. You met Jessica yesterday without it. You came out today without lowering it from the brim of your bonnet. I suppose I cannot know just how incredibly difficult all that has been for you, but I can at least appreciate your courage. I wish you would do it again and then again—one person at a time or the whole world in one shot. A drive in the park, perhaps, or a shopping excursion on Bond Street. Or an evening at the theater. Or something on an outrageously grand scale, like a ball. A betrothal ball, maybe. Or just the rest of my family, one or two persons at a time. My cousin Viola may possibly come to stay within the next couple of weeks with her daughter Abigail.”