Chapter 29 A Proper Wooing
A Proper Wooing
HAVING DELIVERED what he was certain was the worst proposal in the history of the world, Alwyn held his breath, awaiting Miss Everson’s answer.
“Mr Alwyn,” she began, guardedly. “No virtue was compromised that day when you kissed my wrist. You needn’t make amends, especially by such drastic means. I understand that a fleeting touch” — she looked down at his hand upon hers — “can spark unintended consequences, some quite plaguing.”
His heart dropped.
“I could never think of my feelings for you as ‘plaguing’,” he insisted, but she would not look at him.
“Yet you, like all men, are susceptible in some moments. After all, though it might seem otherwise, even you are comprised of flesh and blood.”
A cold fear washed over Alwyn.
“Miss Everson, do you think me a fraud?”
“What?” Her gaze snapped to his. “No! I have the utmost respect for your capabilities and your character.”
Relief loosened the clinch in his chest.
“Then please allow me to tell you that I have long been convinced that we are perfect for one another — or rather that you are perfect for me and I promise I will strive to be so for you.” As a glisten of tears formed in her eyes, he pressed her hand. “Can you not believe me sincere?”
He searched her face for any indication that she understood, that she trusted him. It was there, a glow in her sable eyes, and his heart flipped as she moved her hand to curl her fingers over his.
“I do believe you,” she whispered. “But not all honest words are prudent words. You must remember, Lord Farrmore, that I am only Lindy of Trippingham, a coachman’s daughter.”
“She is who I first fell in love with.” He gripped her hand more tightly. “Knowing she exists, I could not think of marrying anyone else. Lindy, do you not think we belong together?”
The faintest smile bowed her lips, then faded. She gave a grave and sweeping look to the auditorium.
“If we were to marry, you would be shut out of all polite society.”
“‘Polite society’?” The phrase was bitter on his tongue. “Many years ago, I found that I have no taste for—”
Suddenly, Miss Hartley startled them both, darting in through the doorway.
“I am so very sorry—” she whispered, “—but Mamma is coming!” Dropping into her chair, she pushed her spectacles into the reticule attached to her wrist.
Miss Everson shot him a fleeting look of regret and pulled her hand away from his, then turned to watch the acrobats on stage.
Alwyn studied her profile, fighting a growing sense of desperation.
How can I prove to her that I care nothing for what Society thinks or says?
As she lifted her hands to applaud the tumblers, he was struck with an idea.
Perhaps…
But I must act quickly.
Grabbing his satchel, he bolted out of the opera box, and nearly collided with a woman in the hallway.
She squawked, and as Alwyn grasped her arms to steady her, he realized that it was this woman’s piercing calls and stupefying gown that had helped him find Miss Everson when he first arrived at the theatre.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said, then hurried on that he might enact his plan.
I’ve ruined so many chances already, and this one might be my last.