Chapter Eleven #3
She found a copy of the Sorrows of Young Werther and spotted a large window seat that was cushioned and open.
It was the perfect place to read. It bore a great window to the outside so a person might sit and read and look at the outside world to their heart’s content.
With the book in hand, she sat, leaning against the wall, and began to read.
But it was in German, and she couldn’t understand a word.
Still, just seeing the pages and knowing it was the same story of the lovesick young man made her feel closer to Mr. Heyter somehow. Almost as if he were there.
Time passed—she did not know how long. But then she felt a presence behind her, and a voice that said, “I thought you would have finished it by now.”
She turned. It was him.
Her heart skipped a beat. Mr. Heyter looked dashing, wearing a tan overcoat and dark hat over a suit of brown, like the earth.
His square chin caught her eye, his lips already looking slightly amused.
But his eyes, the way his eyes grew dark, almost black as they raked over her.
That made her pause to catch her breath.
She recovered quickly. “I did. I’ve been waiting to discuss it with you.”
He took a place on the window seat facing her, looking very proper on the light-green cushion, and removed his hat, setting it aside. “I have wanted that too. But I thought you did not want to see me.”
Sibyl shook her head. “No, that’s not true at all. I had a letter from you, saying you no longer wished to see me.” She proffered the letter that she’d read a dozen times from her pocket and handed it to him.
He read its contents and crumpled it in his hands, tossing it away. “It is false. I never sent such a letter. Could you imagine my spelling to be so terrible?” He gave her the ghost of a smile.
“No.” She paused. “But it hurt. It bothered me to see you treat the countess so coldly, and to hear you speak with such disdain for those who seek out fame. Is it really such a horrible life choice to make?”
His posture was ramrod straight, but he glanced down at his gloved hands.
“No, not at all. Like I told you once before, if the picture was of you, I would buy it.” He sighed.
“My treatment of you, of the whole subject… I was wrong. It is because of my aunt, the countess. She used to be very wild once. Seduced by the idea of being famous, of going somewhere and everyone knowing her name. But her ways brought our family name into disrepute and my parents thought it better to disavow the connection, rather than suffer by association. It was not a decision taken lightly, but I think both parties regret it now. I know…” He looked up at her, his gaze demanding her attention.
She could not look away.
“I know that I was wrong to associate everyone together, and that fame does not always change a person for the worse. I think it can. And the very idea of being famous in and of itself is seductive. It would take a person of great character not to be swayed by it.” His eyes sought hers.
“But I think you are such a person. I… I…”
He took the book from her hands and set it aside, then took her hands in his.
“Tell me. I have thought of nothing but you for days. I haven’t slept.
I cannot even enjoy the books I love to read.
I cannot think but worry. I worried what you might think, and when I received that letter…
I thought all was lost and done between us. ”
She touched the side of his face with her gloved hand. Did he lean into her touch? She thought so.
Sibyl dropped her hand and he took it in his once more. He squeezed her delicate fingers, gloved as they were, as if afraid they might slip away.
He nodded. “I know better now. A mean trick, by someone who plays a few too many tricks for her own good. But, Miss Clifton, tell me once and for all. Am I too late? Have you found someone else who has taken your fancy? I do not pride myself on being your only suitor, especially when you are the toast of the art world.”
She laughed. “Hardly.”
“But if you will permit me, I will do what I can to make sure you are the happiest woman ever, with many books to amuse and entertain you. I will sometimes let you win at chess. I will make sure the library is well stocked at all times.”
He was speaking with her heart. He spoke words that he knew would please her. But behind the pretty words was emotion, lurking in his dark eyes. They held hope and were so fragile. With a word, she might bring them closer together—or destroy his hopes forever. Love was such a fragile thing.
Her blood began to pound in her veins. Her throat felt dry.
“You will?” she asked.
“I promise. And I swear that I will listen to your opinions and tell you when you are wrong—”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Maybe tell you when I think you are wrong,” he supplied.
“Mr. Heyter?” she asked, scooting closer on the cushion.
“Yes?”
“Are you asking me to marry you?”
“I… Yes. Yes, I am. Will you? I promise to buy you lots of books and we’ll have great discussions over wine and dinner and dancing and we’ll entertain all the singers and artists you wish and—”
She kissed him, stilling him into silence. There was a soft gasp nearby, but Sibyl didn’t care. She knew they were in public, in a bookshop, but there was no place she’d rather be at that moment, except there, with him.
Sibyl kissed him soundly, tenderly, pressing her lips to his. He leaned into the kiss gently, and when they both pulled back, Sibyl said, “Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes, I will. I will marry you. Provided that you don’t let me win at chess. I will beat you, fair and square. And that we can disagree about each other’s taste in books without hating each other.”
“Disagree yes, but hate, I would never. Just have a profound respect and admiration for you.” He glanced at her. “You will? You really will?”
“Yes.” She gave him a little smile.
In a second, he’d pulled her from the window seat and whirled her around in the air, laughing. Lucy clapped from nearby.
“Ssssh.” A bookseller nearby shushed them, bidding them to silence.
“Sorry,” Mr. Heyter said, clearly chastened. “Miss Clifton. My muse. No one’s muse but my own. I will buy up every picture of you in creation.” He looked down at Sibyl, who grinned, her cheeks pink.
“And I suppose I should ask your family for permission to marry you.”
“Oh, Lord,” Sibyl said.
“What?”
“My mama. She’ll want to meet your mother and plan it together.”
He tugged at his cravat.
“Perhaps we can read together in your family library whilst they argue over silks and dresses.”
“I can think of something else I’d rather do with you in the library, Miss Clifton.” He kissed her again.