Chapter Eleven
“Iwill require you to be demure in London,” Mrs. Warrick said, eyeing Agatha from her wingback chair where she conducted their daily evaluation, which was what she called listing the various ways in which Agatha had disappointed her that day.
“Demure.” Agatha nodded. “And ‘demure’ is not a color, like lavender?”
Mrs. Warrick’s expression hardened. “You needn’t feign stupidity, Agatha. I have solved the mystery of your profoundly slow-witted declarations.”
Oh, dear.
“You may act the fool all you wish,” Mrs. Warrick said, “but not when conversing with me, and absolutely never in the presence of company. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Warrick.” Agatha sighed inwardly. She had lost her one source of escape in this increasingly oppressive arrangement.
“Now.” Mrs. Warrick resumed her air of magnanimousness. “We need to discuss a more somber wardrobe for you.”
More somber? Agatha had already been limited to her most subdued colors and styles.
The door to the sitting room flew open in that moment. Mrs. Warrick was too startled for any kind of verbal response.
Edward stepped inside, an equal measure of excitement and determination in his stride. His gaze passed over Mrs. Warrick without the slightest pause and settled on Agatha.
“Agatha Holmwood, I love you. I have loved you almost from the first moment I met you.”
Warmth stole over her cheeks even as her smile grew ever broader. What had brought on Edward’s unexpected but welcome declaration?
“I have little to offer you, but as of this afternoon, I have a small home, a barely adequate income, and the vaguest of hopes that my family estate will not be reduced to a crumbling pile of stones by the time I inherit it.” He didn’t look away, didn’t flinch at the admission of his humble circumstances.
“Other than that, I have nothing to give you besides my admiration, my devotion, and my undying love.”
“What a pathetic—” Mrs. Warrick got no further than that before Edward’s cold glare cut off her insulting evaluation.
“Will you marry me, Agatha?” he asked. “I realize I’d be asking you to give up the company of this sweet-tongued, compassionate angel of a mistress,” he added on a mutter.
“Well,” Mrs. Warrick huffed.
Agatha ignored her and rose to her feet, barely able to contain the joy rushing through her.
She wasn’t at all certain what he meant by having a home and an income, but if he had found his situation adequate to support them, then she would have faith that he meant it.
She knew him well enough to trust he would explain in greater detail when they were alone.
She crossed the room to where he stood. His eyes danced with hope and anticipation. Her answer, she realized upon seeing his joy already overflowing, was more of a technicality. But he had asked, and she meant to answer.
“My sweet Edward,” she said, resting her hands on his chest, “I would marry you even if doing so meant living in a half-collapsed cabin on the edge of the world.”
His lips twitched. “I am relatively confident it won’t come to that.”
She rose up on her toes and pressed the tiniest, briefest of kisses to his lips. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” he answered. He pulled her up next to him, and together they turned to face Mrs. Warrick. “Ma’am, I do believe Miss Holmwood’s fulfillment of your various dictates is no longer yours to demand.”
A few sputters followed that announcement. Edward led Agatha out of the room before Mrs. Warrick had a chance to find her voice.
The embarrassment of the house party, the heartbreak of her father’s defection, and the misery of fearing she would be separated from Edward forever dissipated as they walked, his arm tucked affectionately around her, down the corridor.
“There is something I must show you,” he said, leading her from the house and through the gardens. He kept her close even as his pace quickened.
They followed a path that led beyond a thicket of trees. A lovely house in the contrasting colors of the well-known Tudor style sat tucked away among the trees. The scene was beautifully and wonderfully serene.
“What is this place?” she asked.
He turned to face her, then took both her hands in his. “This, my dearest Agatha, is our ‘half-collapsed cabin on the edge of the world.’ This is the home I have to offer you. And this”—he raised their clasped hands to his chest—“is the heart I offer you. All of it.”
“I accept,” she said without hesitation.
“The house or the heart?” he asked, his tone light.
“Both.” She threw her arms around his neck.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as he never had before. Gone was the timid uncertainty of their first kiss. This kiss was a celebration.