by Jo Goodman
“Of what?”
“Of what I saw,” he said, watching her closely. “Of what I hope you will remember.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“I didn’t bring them. I believe they will be best viewed away from here. I would prefer that we review them where there is no chance for interruption.”
Emma understood very well what he was not saying. If there was something in them that would upset her, he was granting her the opportunity to experience it away from her family. “I told Lady Rivendale last night that I mean to leave today. She has been very kind, but there is no reason for me to stay any longer. There are no lasting ill effects. I did not breathe in so much as a thimbleful of water, though I admit it seemed like a great deal more. My uncle is sending a carriage for me this afternoon.”
“No, he’s not.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted. There was no point in asking the question when she knew the answer. “You’ve spoken with him already.”
Restell nodded. “I thought I should.”
It was the manner in which he said it, vaguely apologetic, perhaps even a bit uncertain, that made Emma think they were no longer talking about precisely the same thing. “I meant that you told him not to send the carriage for me.”
“Yes, I know what you meant.”
She was certain now that he was being deliberately ambiguous. “What else did you discuss with my uncle?”
“His health. My trip. The painting he is working on. He told me that prior to the moment you and Mr. Charters were attacked, he had been enjoying Lady Rivendale’s companionship at cards. I thought I detected your fine hand in that piece of work. Was I right?”
Emma dismissed all of what he’d said with a wave of her hand and asked the question that was foremost in her mind. “Did you tell him you intended to make me an offer of marriage?”
Restell sighed. “So we are returned to that. It seemed that you did not want to discuss it earlier.”
“Please, Mr. Gardner, if you will be so kind as to answer my question.”
“Then, yes, I told Sir Arthur that I wished to marry you.”
“Without a hint to me that you meant to do so?”
“Would you have been receptive to a hint? Frankly, I did not think so. It seemed you liked the kissing well enough but not necessarily what might come of it.”
“Your ability to put me out of patience is unnatural. What do suppose would come of a marriage between us?”
“Children, I suspect.” He glanced at her lap and saw her hands were bunched into fists again. It seemed prudent to elaborate. “We would have mutual respect and admiration, tolerance of each other’s foibles and vanities, and a partner for the waltz and whist. We would share a home, the newspaper, a box at the theatre, perhaps a piece of fruit from time to time—I am fond of oranges—and naturally enough, a bed.”
“Naturally enough,” she said faintly. “So it would not be a marriage of convenience.”
Restell snorted. “I should like to know the origin of that bit of nonsense. Marriage and convenience in the same breath? It is oxymoronic. Oh, I understand the premise well enough, but marriage, even when it is arranged for pragmatic reasons and not because of shared affection, is hardly a convenience. And further, such unions do not exclude marital relations.”
Emma wished he did not have such a knack for amusing her. “Clearly,” she said dryly, “you have formed an opinion on the subject.”
Restell realized he had been perhaps too adamant in his response, although he was encouraged that the edges of her mouth were curling upward. “Yes, well, there it is. Have you known anyone to have entered into a marriage of convenience?”
“No, not of my acquaintance. I do not think it is generally announced as such, but the royals have engaged in the practice for centuries.”
One of Restell’s eyebrows kicked up. “You have made my argument for me, you know.”
“Oh, very well. We are agreed there will be mutual affection and no conveniences.”
“Then you are accepting my proposal?”
“You haven’t actually asked.” She held up one hand. “Don’t.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs before him. He made a steeple of his fingers and regarded Emma over the tips. It had required considerable effort to remove himself from his bath only a few short hours ago, then put on his best appearance for Sir Arthur. He had arrived at Lady Rivendale’s bone weary, yet strangely restive. In Emma’s presence, though, as much as she tried and challenged him, she still gave him ease—often at the same time. He did not imagine that he would ever be able to explain it.
It was oxymoronic.
“There is something you wish to say?” he asked.
“Several things.”
“That hardly surprises. Go on.”
“What about love?”
He tapped his fingertips together as he considered his answer. “You gave me most excellent advice on that subject. Do you recall? You suggested I should allow the feeling to pass, and oddly enough, it has. I find I am considerably more clearheaded than I was on that occasion.”
“Really?”
He smiled wryly. Clearly, she was skeptical. “As you have noted, it was a long ride from Walthamstow. If I do not seem of sound mind, I expect that accounts for it.”
“It is as good an explanation as any.” Emma ran a finger across several of the pianoforte’s keys. She did not touch any of them hard enough to create a sound. “We have affection, then, not love. A good beginning, some would say. Will you want a mistress?”
Restell took his time answering, hoping she believed that the question deserved serious contemplation. What he was, however, was dumbstruck. “I don’t think I will, no.”
“You don’t think you will?” she said, softly echoing his words. “That is not precisely an endorsement of fidelity.”
“I take your point, and as I don’t want to offend your sensibilities, I am agreeable to forgoing a mistress.”
“Oh, good for you. I am taking note of your sacrifice.”
Since she had neither paper nor pen, Restell supposed she made the tick in some mental ledger where it would never be lost or forgotten.
“How shall we live?” asked Emma.
Restell realized he should have anticipated the question. With the nonsense about mistresses out of the way, this was the most logical tack for her to take. “Why, I hope we shall live quite happily.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed, and she gave him the sharp edge of her frostiest stare. “I am in expectation of a better answer than that.”
“Yes, well, you are referring to our finances, then.”
She nodded. “We are both poor relations, Mr. Gardner. You must not hope that my uncle will settle any great amount on me. He did not lead you to believe that would be the case, did he?”
“No, not at all. He expressed concern that you should still be able to attend him, but he did not ask how I would provide for you.”
“He imagines that you are well set in your own right. I have never explained to him that you engage in business for favors.”
“I am not without means.”
“The Earl of Ferrin. Do you intend we should live in your brother’s home? Draw an allowance from him?”
“I take it you are not as satisfied with that arrangement as I am.”
“You suggested to me that I should be paid for the services I do for my uncle,” Emma said. “Perhaps you might find something you could do for your brother.”
“Ferrin as my employer? Perish the thought. He is generous to those in his service, but I prefer his largesse. You know he has a perfectly vulgar living, don’t you? He has amassed a fortune that no one man can spend in three lifetimes. Even he says as much. If he finds pleasure in supporting his family, it would be churlish of me to deny him.”
Emma sighed. “I believe we are at an impasse. It is not that I object to charity, indeed, I have been the fortunate recipient of it, but I also think we must make
ourselves industrious.”
“I shall be industrious, or is protecting you of so little consequence?”
“Let us speak of that, shall we?”
“As you wish.” Were all proposals so damnably difficult? he wondered. He was regretting he had not made some inquiries. Ferrin or Wellsley, even Ian, might have had experiences that would have better prepared him. “What would you like to say on the subject?”
Emma did not hesitate. “I cannot help but believe your proposal is wholly predicated on this matter of my protection. Do you think you failed to protect me?”
“Not entirely. Hobbes pulled you from the fountain, but it was a narrow thing.”
“Hobbes was there because you told him to be. In every way you were successful in securing my safety.”
“I should prefer a different arrangement.”
“You would have me live in your pockets.”
“I admit, it has a certain appeal.”
“It is a ridiculous notion. Have you considered how you will feel later, once you have discovered who is threatening me and put a period to it? And, truly, you do not yet know that I am the one threatened. Mr. Charters is Marisol’s fiancé. It is still possible that I was mistaken for her because I was with him at the fountain.”
“Yes, you were. Why is that?”
“You will not move me from my point, Mr. Gardner.”
Apparently not. Restell was wise enough not to say so aloud. He glanced at the door and wondered what had happened to the promise of tea. An interruption at this juncture would serve him well. Unless he missed his guess, Emma was about to suggest that he should perhaps propose marriage to her cousin.
“If I follow your argument to its logical end,” Emma said, “then you should consider making your proposal to Marisol.”
Restell was saved from revealing his rather smug smile by the housekeeper’s timely entrance. He rose to meet her before she had taken but a few steps into the room. He knew a spy when he saw one, and Mrs. Posey had the watchful eyes of someone who regularly apprised her mistress of events within the home. He did not want Lady Rivendale to know that his proposal had not yet been accepted.
Restell took the tray, thanked the housekeeper, and dismissed her. When she was gone, he carried the tray to the pianoforte and set it on the lid. “Nosey Posey,” he said. “Lady Rivendale’s spy mistress.”
Emma nodded, amused. “You observed that also. I imagine she is in want of more information.” She stood and poured tea for both of them. “These biscuits are quite good. Will you have one?”
“No.” He sipped his tea. “I am not going to propose to your cousin, Emma, so you should not entertain hope on that score.”
“I only suggested it to point out the failure of your reasoning, not because I hoped you would act on it. If we were to marry, you could expect to hear regular reports on your failures of reason. That should give you pause.”
“That depends. Would you apprise me of them at breakfast or dinner?”
“Breakfast, I suspect.”
“Then it presents no problem. I will be reading my paper and am likely to ignore you.”
It was the teacup she was holding that prevented Emma from throwing up her hands. “You are determined to do this, aren’t you?”
“I am, yes.”
“After avoiding just this end for years? It makes no sense. I thought you were bent on defying your mother.”
“Defying her? I would not characterize it as anything so bold. I was bent on making my own decision in my own time. I have done so. That it happens to coincide with her own plans is a happy accident. She will think she has persevered, and who is to say that she hasn’t?”
“You don’t know that she will accept me.”
“Have you ever trod the boards at Drury Lane or harbor aspirations of doing so?”
Emma blinked. “No!”
“Then you will be entirely acceptable. Mother has very few standards, but she holds them as absolute.”
Emma was not proof against Restell’s sharply angled grin or the deep dimple that caressed it. Still, she was also not prepared to give in just yet. “What if you come to regret it?”
“My proposal, you mean?”
“No. The marriage.”
He shook his head, his eyes suddenly grave. “I won’t.”
“You can’t know that. Please, humor me. What if it happens that you cannot bear to share even the newspaper with me?”
Restell said nothing for a moment. He set his teacup aside, then hers, and took her right hand in his. He hunkered down in front of her so that he was looking up. “I don’t know, but believe me when I tell you I cannot conceive of it happening.”
She did believe him. She was the one with doubts. “You must promise you will divorce me.”
“Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse?”
Emma went on as if he’d said nothing. “If I observe that you are unhappy in the marriage, if I suspect you have come to regret your noble gesture, then I will ask you to divorce me. I want your promise that you will do so.”
“That is your condition to accept my proposal?”
“When you make it, yes.”
Restell didn’t have to consider it, and he suspected she would misinterpret any argument he made as hesitation on his part or signaling a lack of sincerity. “Then I agree,” he said. “It will be as you wish.”
Emma nodded once.
“Your hand is cold,” he said. “Here, let me have the other.” He folded her hands together, then surrounded them with his own. “Are you so frightened, then?”
“Terrified.”
His smile was gentle, encouraging. “Then let us have it done quickly.” He dropped to one knee. “Is this what you imagined?”
She flushed a little. “Sometimes.”
“I understand from my sisters that young women often entertain such notions. If you have a preference for the manner in which it should be done, I would certainly like to hear it. I do not think I am at my best on one knee.”
Emma was unprepared for the tears that suddenly gathered in her eyes. She managed a watery smile. “I doubt there is ever a time when you are not at your best.”
“It is promising that you think so.” Restell gave her hands a light squeeze. “Miss Hathaway…Emma…it is my belief that we are well-suited in temperament and inclination, and I suspect that a longer acquaintance would not diminish that belief, but strengthen it. It occurs to me you may share the same belief, and that has emboldened me to set the question before you: Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
“I will.” Her answer was so light of sound that she was compelled to nod to confirm it. The movement caused a tear to slip free of the rim of her lashes and mark a trail down her cheek. She gratefully accepted Restell’s handkerchief. “It was a lovely proposal.”
Restell found that a lump had settled in his own throat. He coughed politely, clearing it. Still, his voice was husky. “Thank you.”
Emma dabbed at her eyes. “Did you rehearse it?”
“No. It was extemporaneous.”
She nodded. “I wondered at the word ‘emboldened.’”
“Did I say that? You will have noticed that I was not standing at the time. I begin to comprehend why gentlemen are wont to kneel and hold the lady’s hand.”
“Then it is not a romantic gesture,” Emma said. “I have always had that question.”
“You will not share this epiphany, will you? Ladies should be allowed to keep their romantic fancies, and gentlemen should not be made more nervous than they already are.”
Recovering a bit of her poise, Emma smiled and shook her head. “I will tell no one. Are you able to rise, or must I assist you?”
“I think I can manage the thing.” He stood, and because he still held one of Emma’s hands, he drew her to her feet as well. “See? Steady.”
Emma placed her free hand on Restell’s shoulder and lifted herself just enough to brush her mouth against his
. When he didn’t engage, she kissed him again, this time nibbling lightly on his upper lip as he had done to her. He was not entirely resistant to that effort. She felt his mouth begin to move over hers, slowly at first, and lightly. As she returned it in kind, he pressed with more ardor until she was quite without breath. When they drew apart, the question of steadiness did not arise.
Emma dropped to her heels and stuffed Restell’s handkerchief back into his frock coat pocket. “So I will know where it is,” she said, “in the event I have need of it later.”
He chuckled. “I should have thought of it myself.” He glanced at the door. “Do you suppose we should inform Lady Rivendale of your answer now or wait for Nosey Posey to deliver the particulars?”
“I think we should tell her. It cannot have been easy for her to wait us out.”
“As you like. It is quite possibly the last time we will announce it to anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lady Rivendale circulates more widely than the Gazette.”
Before Emma agreed to marry Restell she thought she had touched on every concern of import. A point she failed to clarify was the speed at which the thing was likely to occur. She had imagined there would be time enough to visit a modiste and have a gown made for her. She thought there would be fittings. She wanted to speak to the priest who would marry them, and she had particular thoughts about the flowers she would carry. She had depended upon the banns being read.
She presented all of this to Restell the same evening they became engaged. He listened to her quite closely, tilting his head just so as she rattled on about gowns and flowers and vows. He listened to her argue in favor of tradition without offering an opinion of his own. He listened to her discuss the guest list at great length, not inquiring once how she had come suddenly to have so many friends. And when she fell silent, finally satisfied with the persuasiveness of her discourse, he presented her with the special license he had procured a few hours after securing her promise.
“We’ll exchange vows in the morning,” he’d said.
It had been the end of the subject as far as he was concerned. Emma was of a different opinion, but he was intractable. Pig-headed was the term she’d used to describe him. For some reason he found that vastly entertaining and kissed her so thoroughly that she forgot she was out of patience with him. She remembered afterward, but it didn’t seem as important as it once had. Indeed, she began to look forward to the kiss they would share following the exchange of their vows. If that had been his intent, she decided that he was diabolical and that she would do well to remember it.
