Chapter 7 #2
Lantern light painted the leaves in shades of gold and shadow. Esme stood near an orange tree, fingers resting lightly on its trunk.
She turned.
For a beat, they looked at one another.
"Lord Redford," she said. "I see Haverleigh's invitations extend even to the most notorious of the ton."
He smiled. "Haverleigh prides himself on tolerance. He allows in bishops, after all."
A faint twitch touched her mouth, then faded.
"Are you hiding from Watford's ink?" he asked softly. "I hear he is on the verge of forming an attachment to Lady Honoria's metaphors."
"I believe they deserve each other," she said.
He took another step forward. "Esme—"
She lifted a hand. "If you begin with apologies, I may scream."
He stopped. "Noted."
"May I begin," he asked quietly, "with the admission that I have been a monumental idiot?"
Her brows rose. "I had already reached that conclusion."
"Excellent," he said. "Then we are at least in agreement on one point."
Some of the stiffness left her shoulders, though she didn't smile. "What, precisely, have you been idiotic about, Lord Redford? It is a long list."
He drew a breath. "About you," he said simply. "About myself. About what is possible between us."
Her fingers tightened against the orange tree's bark. "You told my brother you would never marry," she said. "You confirmed as much to me. That seemed perfectly clear."
"It was," he said. "Perfectly clear and perfectly cowardly."
Her eyes widened.
He pressed on. "I have spent years announcing that I would not marry, that I am unsuitable, that any woman foolish enough to attach herself to me would regret it.
It allowed me to behave as I pleased and call it sacrifice.
..to flirt and meddle and avoid all serious feeling, because I had declared myself a lost cause.
" He met her gaze. "And then I met you."
Her throat worked. "I did not ask you to change your mind."
"No," he said. "That is rather the point. You asked for choice. I responded by making all the choices for both of us."
He took another step, leaving only a small space between them.
"When your brother warned me away," he said, "I did not tell him he was wrong. I told him I had no designs on you, that I would not drag you into scandal, that you deserved a safe, sensible man. I believed those things." A short, humorless laugh. "I still do."
Her eyes flashed. "Do you, now?"
"You deserve safety. You deserve respect. You deserve a man who does not roll out of bed wondering whether he will ruin your life before luncheon."
"James," she whispered.
His heart jolted.
"But," he said, "I was wrong about one important detail."
"And that is?"
"It is not for me to decide what makes you safe or happy or how much risk you are willing to endure. In trying to protect you from myself, I stripped you of the very choice you said you wanted."
"You never overstep where it matters," she said quietly. "You know you hurt me with that, don't you?"
"Yes. I have been thinking of little else."
"Good," she muttered.
He almost smiled. "It was easier to accept your declaration at Foxmere—to say, 'She wishes to be sensible, so I must be noble and let her.' It allowed me to keep my vow and call it virtue." He exhaled. "Then I realized the only thing standing between me and asking for you was fear."
Her gaze searched his face.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked at last.
He hesitated.
"Of turning into my father," he said. "Of gambling away peace, of drowning any affection I'm given in my own restlessness."
"You are not your father," she said automatically.
"I know. My accounts are tidy. I asked my solicitor for a full reckoning last week, and I am competent.
" Her lips twitched. "But there is a part of me that has clung to the idea that I am fundamentally faulty, that anyone who comes too close will pay for it.
It has been a convenient story. It kept me from wanting anything too much. "
"And now?" she asked softly.
"Now," he said, "I want you too much for convenience."
"I am not asking for an answer this moment," he went on. "But I would like, officially and without jokes, to put one question before you." He drew himself up. "Esme, may I court you properly?"
Her breath caught. "Properly?"
"In broad daylight." He grinned. "With lemonades and chaperones and no wagers that treat you like a stake.
I will speak to your brother in the morning, to your parents, if they will have me.
I will attempt respectability with an effort that will shock the ton.
And if, at any point, you decide you would rather have ink and Watford or peace and solitude, you may say so.
I will step back—not because I believe I am unworthy, but because you do not choose me. "
He met her gaze. "In short. I am, at last, handing you the cards."
Color rose in her cheeks. She stared at him. "You are proposing that I be allowed to choose my own ruin?"
"Yes," he said. "It seems only fair."
Her laugh sounded close to a sob.
"You idiot," she said thickly. "You absolute, hopeless, wonderful idiot."
His chest loosened. "Is that a yes, then?"
She took a step closer. "Let us be precise, my lord," she said, voice unsteady but clear. "I do not want Watford and his ink. I do not want a quiet, neat life. I want mischief. I want laughter. I want to be seen exactly as I am and loved anyway."
Her hand flattened briefly against his chest, over his heart.
"And I want you," she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "You are quite certain? You've heard the worst."
"I have heard what you consider the worst," she said. "And I have seen, repeatedly, that your worst includes dragging women out of lakes, quietly rescuing shy wallflowers, and teaching bishops how to cheat at battledore."
"That was entirely Sophia's doing," he said automatically.
She ignored that. "You are reckless and infuriating and altogether too charming," she went on.
"But you stop when I say stop. You listen when I say no.
You make even the dullest evenings bearable.
" A shaky smile curved her lips. "You also look quite handsome soaking wet, which I have decided is a point in your favor. "
He huffed out a laugh, his throat too tight for anything more.
"I am," she finished, "very much in love with you. It is inconvenient. It is likely unwise. And it is entirely my choice."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, she was still there.
"Esme," he said, voice rough, "may I kiss you?"
Her answer was immediate. "Yes."
Relief and desire crashed through him.
He reached up, cupping her face in his hands, thumbs brushing her jaw. She rose onto her toes as he bent his head.
The first brush of her mouth was soft, tentative—a question.
He answered with care, not claiming but offering, not possession but promise. The taste of her—lemon, courage, a hint of laughter—went straight to his knees. Her hands fisted briefly in his coat, then slid up to rest against his shoulders, steadying herself.
Breath uneven, he drew back. She stayed close, eyes half-closed, reluctant to let the moment end.
"Well," she murmured. "That settles it."
"What does it settle?" he asked, dazed.
"That any life that does not include that would be a waste."
He laughed, pressing his forehead to hers.
"In that case," he whispered, "welcome to the Mutual Mischief Society, Matrimonial Division."
Her lips curved against his. "Do we have rules?"
"Only one," he said. "All significant wagers are to be made jointly."
She considered. "And no drowning without prior agreement."
"Agreed," he said solemnly.
From the doorway, a gasp.
"I knew it," Genny whispered loudly. "Pay up, Foxmere."
James closed his eyes. "Of course."
Esme turned. Genny and Niall stood just inside. Behind them, Pippa peeked over Niall's shoulder, one hand clamped over her mouth.
"You swore you would not follow me," Esme said.
"I swore no such thing," Genny replied. "I merely said I would not interrupt. I have upheld my honor admirably."
Niall jingled a small purse. "I, on the other hand, have just won a tidy sum. Half the room bet you would take another fortnight. Fools."
James groaned into Esme's hair. "My love, if we marry, we must forbid wagers on our domestic life."
Esme's breath caught at the word love—he felt it—but she did not shy away.
"On the contrary," she said, cheeks flushed but eyes bright. "We shall simply ensure that we are always the ones placing them."
Genny clasped her hands. "Oh, excellent. Married mischief. Society will never recover."
"Out," James said, without heat. "Both of you, before I change my mind and throw myself into the nearest reflecting pool."
"Too late," Pippa sing-songed. "You're already drowning."
They vanished.
Esme turned back, amusement and apprehension mingling in her gaze.
“My brother,” she said. "My mother.”
He sobered. "I will speak to your brother tonight," he said. "If he attempts to strike me, rest assured I have practice at dodging blows."
She laid a hand over his. "Allow me to speak first."
He hesitated. "Esme—"
"You gave me the choice," she said. "Let me use it. I should like to tell him myself before he hears it from Lady Honoria's verse about 'devils in conservatories.'"
He winced. "A fair point."
She drew a breath. "Come with me?"
"Always," he said.
Harrison Jones, Viscount Woodmere, looked as though his ledgers had decided to rearrange themselves.
In a small anteroom off the main hall, summoned there by Pippa's machinations, Esme faced her brother with Redford at her side, fingers twined with his.
Harrison's gaze dropped to their joined hands, then snapped back to Esme's face.
"I see," he said tightly.
"Do you?" Esme asked. "Allow me to assist."
"Esme," he began. "This is hardly the time—"
"It is precisely the time," she interrupted. "Because for once, I am speaking about my life."
Harrison's lips thinned. "Watford has—"