Chapter 8 #5
Alexandra, coming up beside Louisa, folded her hands and looked at the tilt of Genny’s body, the proximity of her ear to the door, and the guilt written across her face. “No?”
“I was gathering information.”
Louisa took Genny by the elbow and drew her away with merciless good sense. “You are gathering scandal.”
“I should think a woman has some right to know whether she is about to be disposed of.”
“You are not being disposed of,” Alexandra said. “You are being asked for.”
The difference should have made Genny feel steady.
It did not.
She allowed her friends to draw her into the smaller morning room, where the lamps had been lit and the last golden light of evening still clung to the window glass.
The room smelled faintly of roses, ink, and cooling tea.
On the table lay one stray card from the fête, its corner bent, the name upon it no longer important now that the great storm of the day had passed.
Genny sank onto the nearest chair and pressed one gloved hand to her middle.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. “He is speaking to my father.”
Louisa sat beside her. “As gentlemen do.”
“Yes, but he will do it thoroughly. There will be order. There may be principles. Papa will ask questions.”
“Naturally.”
“And Harrison will answer them.”
Alexandra smiled. “That seems promising.”
“It seems terrifying.”
The confession slipped out before Genny could make it amusing.
Both her friends softened at once.
Genny hated that almost as much as she needed it.
Louisa reached for her hand. “Do you doubt him?”
“No.” The answer came swiftly, surely, and from such a deep place that it steadied her a little. “No, I do not doubt him.”
“Then what frightens you?” Alexandra asked.
Genny looked toward the library door across the hall, though she could no longer hear the voices within. “Being wanted when he has seen me clearly.”
Neither Louisa nor Alexandra interrupted.
Genny drew a breath that did not quite fill her lungs.
“It is one thing for a man to fall in love with a pretty version of a woman. Men do that every day and recover from it by breakfast. But Harrison knows I meddle. He knows I make mistakes. He knows I hide behind laughter and take up too much space and become cross when I am wounded.” Her mouth trembled, though she forced it into a smile.
“He has seen the machinery, as it were. It seems very bold of him to want the whole contraption.”
Louisa squeezed her hand. “Perhaps he loves it because he has seen it.”
Genny blinked hard.
Alexandra sat on her other side. “And perhaps you might permit yourself to be loved without improving the arrangement first.”
“That sounds very dull.”
“It sounds very difficult for you.”
Genny managed a laugh, though it shook at the edges. “Cruel woman.”
“Devoted friend.”
The library door opened before Genny could answer.
All three women turned at once.
Harrison stepped into the corridor with Mr. Moreland behind him.
Genny’s father was a pleasant, sensible gentleman who possessed the unfortunate parental talent of appearing mild until one remembered he had spent more than two decades raising daughters and therefore could not possibly be as unsuspecting as he looked.
His expression now was grave, but not displeased.
Lady Moreland stood just within the library doorway with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and tears already bright in her eyes.
Genny rose too quickly.
Harrison saw her at once.
Everything in him softened—not enough to invite gossip from servants or speculation from friends, but enough that Genny felt it as surely as if he had crossed the corridor and taken her hand.
Mr. Moreland cleared his throat. “Genevieve.”
“Yes, Papa?”
“I have given Lord Woodmere permission to address you.”
Genny looked at Harrison. “Has he been very orderly about it?”
Her father’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Extremely.”
“That must have been exhausting for everyone.”
“Not for me,” Harrison said.
There was warmth beneath the dryness, and it nearly undid her.
Mr. Moreland glanced between them, and whatever last sternness he had meant to preserve gave way to something tender and resigned. “Your mother and I will be in the drawing room. The door remains open.”
“Papa.”
“I am a trusting man, not a foolish one.”
Louisa made a sound suspiciously like a laugh. Alexandra rose at once and drew her toward the door, leaving Genny with one last encouraging look before she followed the others away.
The morning room did not become private, not truly. The door stood open to the corridor, the lamps burned brightly, and anyone passing could see them. Yet the space between Genny and Harrison felt as intimate as the rose walk had been.
He came to stand before her.
For once, he did not immediately speak.
Genny tilted her head. “Have you no prepared remarks? I confess myself astonished.”
“I had several.”
“And?”
“And they have all abandoned me.”
A laugh escaped her, soft and surprised. “How alarming.”
“Profoundly.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small velvet box. The sight of it made the room tilt in a manner wholly unsuitable for a woman who had spent the day surviving sabotage, social warfare, and Lady Dorring.
“I spoke to your father,” he said. “He asked whether I understood that you required affection as well as position.”
Genny’s throat tightened.
“What did you say?”
“I said you shall have both.” His gaze held hers, steady and grave. “And my respect besides.”
The tears came so swiftly she could not hide them.
Harrison opened the box. Inside lay a ring of gold set with a modest but lovely emerald, not ostentatious, not cold, but vivid and alive, the green bright as spring beneath candlelight.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” he said. “She was, by every account, a woman who rearranged every household she entered and left them all better for it. My grandfather adored her and complained about it for forty years.”
Genny laughed through the tears. “That is the most romantic thing you have ever said.”
“I suspected you might think so.”
He took the ring from the box but did not reach for her hand yet. He waited.
She loved him for that too.
“Genevieve Moreland,” he said, and the full name in his voice felt like a vow already begun, “I love your laughter, your courage, your temper, your wit, and the way you notice what everyone else misses. I love that you make rooms brighter and better, even when you have not first asked permission. I will not ask you to be smaller, quieter, or easier. I know exactly whom I am asking for, and I would be honored to stand beside you while you are entirely yourself.”
Genny could not breathe.
He held out his hand. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
The word was far too small for everything it held, so she gave it again. “Yes.”
His face changed.
Tenderness broke through every careful restraint he possessed, and for one perfect instant Genny saw the future in it: not tidy, not quiet, not simple, but true.
She placed her hand in his.
He slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit.
Of course it did. He would have made certain.