CHAPTER FOURTEEN WITHOUT CHARM #2
Julian’s expression softened by a degree most men would have missed.
“She may.”
“I know.”
“Ask anyway.”
Gabriel left before courage could turn into another written draft.
* * *
The new sign had not yet been placed above Eleanor’s publishing office. A wooden board leaned inside the ground-floor workshop, its lettering unfinished.
FINCH &—
The blank after her name remained under discussion.
Quinn had suggested FINCH & QUINN, then withdrawn the idea after Eleanor pointed out that he was printer, not proprietor.
Frances preferred THE SCANDALOUS PRESS, which would have ensured immediate attention and no respectable subscriptions.
Clara proposed a name involving Minerva.
Arabella believed Eleanor’s own name should stand alone until she chose a partner in business.
Gabriel supported Arabella’s view. He had not been asked.
The workshop smelled of ink, fresh wood and heated metal.
New type trays lined the walls. A press stood near the rear, its iron frame newly repaired, while stacks of paper waited beneath linen covers.
Quinn was nowhere visible. Gabriel heard movement overhead.
He climbed the narrow stairs. The office door stood open.
Eleanor sat upon the floor surrounded by books.
She wore a plain brown working gown with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and an ink mark along one cheek.
Her hair had loosened from its pins, and several dark strands hung near her eyes as she examined pages spread across the boards. No Mrs. Grey.
No Mr. Fenwick. No public scholar addressing a hostile hall.
Only Eleanor, cross-legged in an unfinished office, deciding where women’s stolen work would be restored to them.
Gabriel’s heart forgot every prepared sentence.
She looked up. For one instant, surprise softened her face.
Then her gaze moved over him. He had not brought flowers.
Every florist in Mayfair knew his name, which made flowers feel like part of the performance he intended to abandon. He had brought no poetry.
His father had used poetry after violence, and Gabriel distrusted any verse offered when plain truth was required. He carried no ring. A ring might imply he expected acceptance before asking. He had brought himself, which felt alarmingly insufficient.
“Gabriel.”
“Eleanor.”
She set down the page.
“Has something happened?”
“Yes.”
Her expression sharpened.
“With my father?”
“No.”
“Peregrine?”
“No.”
“Blackthorn?”
“Not yet.”
Eleanor studied him more carefully.
“What, then?”
Gabriel entered and closed the door. He did not lock it.
The room contained a desk without drawers, two chairs, a long printing table and a rolled rug awaiting placement near the small fireplace.
Rain tapped against the window. Downstairs, the press creaked as Quinn or an apprentice began testing it.
Gabriel stopped in the centre of the room.
Eleanor rose. Ink marked two fingers as well as her cheek. He wanted to kiss both.
“Your father has signed a preliminary statement,” he said.
“I know.”
“You arranged lodgings.”
“Yes.”
“You do not intend to forgive him yet.”
“No.”
Gabriel nodded.
“I think what you have done is extraordinary.”
Eleanor’s face changed slightly.
“I have rented two rooms and instructed a solicitor.”
“You showed mercy without surrendering control.”
“He is still my father.”
“And still guilty.”
“Yes.”
“You have somehow allowed both facts to exist.”
“So have you.”
Gabriel looked toward the unfinished sign visible through the open stairwell.
“Hargreaves may offer me a formal role.”
“What kind?”
“Analysis. Coordination. Fewer bedrooms.”
The faintest smile touched her mouth.
“Will that damage your professional enthusiasm?”
“Greatly.”
“Do you want it?”
“I believe I do.”
Eleanor waited. Gabriel had begun with intelligence work because it was easier than the reason for his visit.
She knew. The silence said so. He reached into his coat and removed the folded proposal.
Then he looked at it. Julian had rejected the first six versions.
The seventh contained fewer metaphors, no financial projections and only one line concerning the legal protection of Eleanor’s publishing business.
It still felt like armour made of sentences.
Gabriel tore it in half. Eleanor’s brows rose.
“That appeared dramatic.”
“I had written something.”
“I assumed.”
“It was terrible.”
“Was it a poem?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps not irredeemable.”
Gabriel dropped the pieces onto the desk.
“I do not know how to do this without charm.”
Eleanor came closer.
“Then do it badly.”
His breath caught. She had offered no rescue from the question. Only permission to be imperfect while asking it. Gabriel looked at her. He had faced armed men, hostile officers and women’s husbands with less fear.
“I love you.”
The words left him without elegance. No preface. No protection. Eleanor became very still. Gabriel continued before terror could make silence appear like refusal.
“I believe I have loved you since you looked at me as though beauty were irrelevant evidence.”
Her lips parted.
“The first night at Rothmere House,” he said. “Everyone else saw what they expected. A rake, a threat, a useful scandal. You examined me as though I were an uncertain translation and decided parts had been deliberately altered.”
Eleanor’s eyes shone.
“I did not love you immediately,” Gabriel said. “I resented you. Then I wanted your attention. Then I wanted your laughter, which was deeply inconvenient because it required effort.”
A small sound escaped her. Not quite laughter. Gabriel’s hands felt useless. He left them at his sides.
“I cannot promise I will never be afraid. I will probably be afraid often. I cannot promise every instinct I possess will become healthy merely because I understand where it began.”
“You do not need to.”
“I know.”
The answer steadied him.
“I can promise I will not use charm when truth is owed. I may make jokes because they are occasionally excellent, but I will not offer one in place of an answer you deserve.”
Eleanor’s mouth trembled.
“I will not ask you to abandon your work. I will not become proprietor of your publishing house, purchase a controlling interest or explain printing to men who understand it better.”
“That eliminates several of your natural talents.”
“I am prepared to suffer.”
He stepped closer.
“I want fidelity.”
The word frightened him less now that he spoke it as desire rather than obligation.
“I want partnership. I want to know when you place yourself in danger, not because I possess authority over you but because I wish to stand beside you when invited.”
Eleanor held his gaze.
“I want a home in which neither of us must disappear to remain free.”
The room became silent except for rain and the press below. Gabriel’s throat tightened.
“I want to marry you.”
Eleanor did not answer immediately. Every fear he had ever possessed gathered in the pause.
She might love him and still refuse. Love did not create a legal claim.
She had taught him that. Marriage brought risks neither passion nor honesty could erase.
Perhaps he had mistaken reconciliation for readiness.
Perhaps his proposal still carried invisible ownership no revised language could remove. Eleanor looked toward the torn paper.
“Did you rehearse?”
Gabriel exhaled.
“Extensively.”
“How many versions?”
“Seven.”
Her brows lifted.
“Julian rejected the first six.”
“On what grounds?”
“The first sounded like seduction.”
“I am shocked.”
“The second avoided asking the question.”
“Cowardly.”
“The third contained excellent provisions regarding your independent property.”
“How romantic.”
“The fourth compared marriage to intelligence coordination.”
Eleanor covered her mouth. Gabriel’s dignity deteriorated.
“The fifth contained escape clauses.”
She laughed. The sound filled the unfinished office and struck him with such joy that for a moment he could not speak.
“And the sixth?” she asked.
“Julian believed I sounded as though I intended to acquire your publishing house.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss investment?”
“Briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“Two paragraphs.”
Eleanor laughed harder. Gabriel looked at her and thought he could survive refusal if the sound remained in the world. Perhaps.
“The seventh,” she said, recovering, “remains suspiciously effective.”
“Is that a criticism?”
“It is an observation.”
“I have become wary of those.”
She closed the final distance. Gabriel’s heart struck painfully. Eleanor lifted her ink-stained hand and placed it against his cheek.
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“You want fidelity.”
“Yes.”
“You will not purchase my press.”
“Under any circumstances.”
“You will occasionally offer unwanted business advice.”
“I cannot promise miracles.”
“And when fear tells you to leave?”
“I will tell you I am afraid before obeying it.”
Her thumb moved across his cheek. Gabriel scarcely breathed.
“Then yes.”
The word was quiet. He stared. Eleanor’s mouth curved.
“Yes, Gabriel. I will marry you.”
Relief did not arrive gently. It struck through him with enough force to weaken his knees.
Gabriel caught her around the waist, lifted her from the floor and kissed her before either could say more.
Eleanor laughed against his mouth. Then she kissed him back.
There was no instruction in it, no performance and no need to measure which of them possessed control.
Their mouths met with the certainty of two people who had already seen one another afraid and chosen to remain.
Gabriel set her down. His hands stayed around her waist. Eleanor touched the swelling scar near his lower lip, left from Peregrine’s blow.
“You are smiling.”
“I am attempting not to.”
“Why?”
“It feels dangerously charming.”
“This one is permitted.”