Chapter Thirty-Two
Henry did not arrive home for almost another hour. After changing and cleaning the cut on his cheek, Oliver sat in the library and plotted how he might approach the subject with his brother.
If he was to marry Emily, he would need to request Henry’s help as he’d said he would do all that time ago. But the prospect of confessing that he had always struggled with the most basic of intellectual abilities—reading and writing—felt pathetic.
But he’d had enough of hiding.
Despite his resolution, when Henry strode in, Oliver’s nerves had been wound so tight that he turned around and blurted, “I’m going to marry her.”
Henry paused in the middle of the room, shock wiping the tiredness from his face. “Is that so?”
“Presuming she’ll have me, but I think she will.”
“I don’t doubt it. Congratulations.” After a moment, Henry sat, gesturing for Oliver to join him. “I presume you will therefore be asking for your inheritance.”
“That’s not the reason I’m offering for her.”
“I never said it was,” Henry said mildly.
“I have no objection to your marriage, or the lady herself. I like her, Oliver. More to the point, she is not a lady one marries for the sake of one’s inheritance.
” He held up a hand as Oliver half rose from his chair.
“By which I mean she is far too clever to be taken in by baseless flattery. She has even had the wisdom to refuse you once, which shows strength of character and good sense.”
“Of course it does,” Oliver muttered.
“If this is what she wants, then I give you my blessing, and I will get in touch with my lawyers. Louisa, too.”
“Thank you.” Oliver took a deep breath. Time for his second announcement, the far more nerve-wracking of the two. “I have another request.”
“Oh?” Henry rang for some brandy—an unusual occurrence. There had been a time when Henry had refused to drink a drop, all for the sake of never turning out like their father. Now, he had eased somewhat.
On occasion.
“About the inheritance. The property.” Oliver took a breath.
“I would like to learn how to run an estate. In a practical sense. You see, I know there are books on the subject, but I have never found . . .” He cleared his throat, shame like a stone in his neck.
“I have always struggled with reading. Letters, words. They just don’t make sense to me the way they ought.
I have tried—as a boy, my tutors all despaired of ever getting me to learn.
And I didn’t—or at least, I can, very slowly, if I put my mind to it.
But it has never come easily to me, and frankly put, I don’t like doing it. ”
There was a sternness in Henry’s eyes. “This has been the case since you were a boy?”
“Well,” Oliver admitted, “I never did pay much attention to my lessons before I went to school, so I don’t think I realised quite the extent of my situation, but it became apparent once there.
” He swallowed, rubbing his hands together as though for warmth, although the room was perfectly warm.
His skin prickled. “It was easier playing the fool. But I’ve had enough of that.
I would like to do things properly—and provide Emily with a home she can be proud of.
She’ll help me,” he hastened to add. “She knows of my affliction, and I know she’d help with letters and the like.
And if I need to, I’m sure she would read me books on estate management, but—”
Henry held up a hand, and Oliver stopped his rambling. “Do you truly believe I would refuse to help you?”
“I know it’s shameful.”
“You’re my brother. Why would I turn you away when you ask me for help?
If I’d known—” He frowned, and Oliver finally realised it wasn’t judgement he saw in his brother; it was regret.
“You ought to have told me. However, I know why you didn’t.
I have been . . . exacting.” When the butler brought the brandy in, Henry poured two glasses and handed one to Oliver. “I suppose that’s my fault.”
“So you’ll help?”
“Oliver,” Henry said, and held up his glass in a toast. “I thought you would never ask.”
Emily sat in the bedchamber she’d been assigned, anxiously awaiting the sound of his footsteps outside the door.
She brushed her fingers along the lace of her nightgown—the one that had been left out, and was quite as daring as the one Isabella had been wearing.
Such garments felt unfamiliar against her skin, and so did her reflection in the mirror, but for once there was no self-consciousness marring her anticipation.
Oliver would like what he saw, she knew. He loved her—not because of her looks, but for her.
Everything else didn’t matter.
She chose this.
The door opened and although she had been expecting it—waiting impatiently for it—she still jumped at the sudden motion.
He had changed, his crisp white shirt, flamboyant waistcoat, and intricately tied cravat made him look like a gentleman of fashion, despite the bandage on his face.
Far more reminiscent of the man she had first met at gunpoint than the man he had grown to be.
Yet when she looked in his eyes, she saw a familiar smile. Yes, this was still her Oliver.
“You’ll wear the carpet down if you’re not careful, darling,” he said with those warm eyes laughing at her, and held out his hands. “Have you been waiting for me long?”
“Only this past half hour.” She joined him, putting her hands in his, no longer ashamed of the roughness of her skin. He kissed her healing knuckles tenderly.
“Then I’m sorry for keeping you.” The smile died from his eyes as he looked back at her, serious in a way that made her heart flutter. “My darling, I have a question for you, and—”
“Marry me.” The words burst from her lips in a way that would have made her embarrassed if it weren’t for the wonder dawning across his face.
She adored everything about him—the humour that danced so often in his eyes; the way he disguised his selflessness as whimsy; the kindness that never failed to spark when there was something he could do for someone.
She adored the freckles across his nose and the wickedness of his smile when he was teasing her—and how she loved the way he teased her.
For seven years, she had been existing, and he had taught her how to live again.
His smile was perfectly crooked. “You look even more beautiful when you’re asking me to marry you.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Emily.” He slid his good arm around her waist, pulling her to him.
“I love you more than I ever knew a man could love a woman. If you asked me to, I would throw off the bonds of family and live in that dreadful, creaking house of yours. So yes, I will marry you. I would walk to the ends of the earth for you.”
This happiness was too big a thing; she feared she might drop it and it would shatter. But if she did drop it, Oliver would catch it for her. She trusted him utterly.
“I love you,” he said again, kissing the very tip of her nose. “I confess this was not exactly how I had envisaged this conversation going, but the end result is the same.”
“You’ll marry me?”
“As soon as you like.” He kissed her. “Tomorrow.”
“That might be impossible.”
“It might,” he conceded with a brief grin. “Then when? Next week?”
“We could have the banns read.”
“Three weeks?” He stared at her in mock horror. “You expect me to wait three weeks?”
“It might be sensible. After all, I could then change my mind.” At his immediate glower, she leaned up to kiss him. “If we wait three Sundays,” she murmured, “then we would have known each other over a month, which feels a far more reasonable courting period.”
“Ah.” Humour sparked in his eyes. “So it’s wooing you want?”
“Does not every woman?”
“Darling, I pretended to be your husband for a week. Was that not sufficient?”
That had been surprisingly wonderful, if she were honest, and she wanted more of Oliver playing the role of young, flirtatious, overly protective husband.
That was, she supposed, why she was marrying him.
“Three weeks,” she insisted. “Announce the engagement. Bring me flowers, you cad.”
“Little Emily,” he teased. “A secret romantic.”
“If I am to marry, I may as well do the thing properly.”
“I can think of something else you could do properly,” he murmured, his good hand finding her hip.
“Oh?” She pretended at innocence. “I suppose I ought to go bridal shopping. Do you think Louisa would go with me?”
He huffed in mock irritation. “Don’t bring up my brother’s wife when I’m trying to seduce you.”
“Oh, is that what you were doing?” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, muffling his complaints against her mouth until he gave in, kissing her back with such enthusiasm, she wondered how they had ever got through the past day without kissing like this.
Then he broke away. “There’s something else I want to say.”
Emily looked into his face, startled by the lack of concern such an announcement provoked in her. “Why?” she teased. “Have you changed your mind already?”
He hooked a finger into his collar. “I realise it’s somewhat late for me to have developed a conscience, but if you would now rather wait until we’re married to—”
“Oliver. I was not a maiden even before you. What chastity do you think you’re preserving?” She took his good hand in both of hers. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”
“As my lady wishes,” he murmured, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “But that is exceedingly scandalous, Miss Brunton.”
“Tell you what, Mr Beaumont.” She kissed his knuckles. “I’ll marry you to make up for it.”