Page 57 of Libby's London Merchant
He would never have the contentment of seeing her face first thing each morning for the rest of his life. As much as he loved her, there wasn’t any way he could ever marry her, no way on earth. Such things happened only in vulgar novels, and he knew it.
When the sun rose, he found his way back to Holyoke Green. He sat quietly on the lawn, watching the smoke rise from the chimneys as the house came to life again. He startled the goose girl when she tiptoed barefoot across the lawn to turn loose her charges. She eyed him suspiciously and made a wide detour around him, her switch clutched tight.
Are you a tobacconist’s daughter? he thought as he watched her hurry through the wet grass. Oh, God, what was I thinking?
That he loved Libby Ames, he had no doubt. That he owed her his life, and more, of this also he had no doubt. He also knew that she would never be the Duchess of Knaresborough. That title would have to go now by default to one or another of the bloodless little bits of blancmange that Gussie found for him, with titles to match his own. It scarcely mattered which woman he chose. He would marry well and do his duty and grit his teeth and raise his family and wish himself to hell every day of his life.
He heard a window open and looked up, his heart in his throat. Libby stood framed in the sill, leaning out as she had done every morning she came into his room, looking with appreciation on another June day in Kent. She rested her elbows on the sill, her long brown hair a glory around her face.
Instinctively, he moved farther back into the shadow of the trees so she could not see him, and cursed himself for cowardice. How could he possibly look into those eyes and tell her that he had made a dreadful mistake? He knew that he could not.
An idea drifted into his skull. It buzzed about inside his head like a fly intent on a midden, and then settled quietly somewhere while he considered its merits.
That Libby Ames loved him, he knew as surely as he knew his own name. And more than that, she had loved him when there was no more promise than that he would be selling chocolate and sweets for the rest of his life. There was nothing in her of the well-turned-out beauties he was used to, the young ladies trained since babyhood to flirt and tease, always with an eye to titles and investments. He could have been doddering, bald, and without a tooth in his head, and those paragons would not have looked upon him with any less affection. Or any more.
He considered the matter, worrying it around in his mind, looking at it from all angles like a horse at an auction. Libby was intelligent; surely she must realize that a duke was completely out of her reach. She could no more become a duchess than hope to succeed Pius VII.
He got to his feet, brushing leaves off his buckskins, his eyes still on the window. Libby had turned away now, but her presence was almost as palpable as if she still stood there, her eyes on the morning, thinking of him, perhaps?
He foresaw some difficulty with the mother, but he knew he could win her around, too. Mrs. Ames was probably one of those shabby genteel women he had seen hanging about the fringes of the army, pretty once, with a face at one time palatable enough to catch the fancy of a cornet or ensign green as grass. And if the family’s situation was as unpromising as Lydia Ames had hinted at last night, it seemed unlikely Mrs. Ames would look with disgust on his plan.
He would broach the subject with Libby and then proceed to London to drawn up papers with his lawyer. For all that her origins were questionable, she was not friendless in the world, and Uncle Ames would require careful handling, too.
“I will move with all deliberate caution and endeavor to get over heavy ground as lightly as possible,” he said, smiling at the memory of the Iron Duke’s favorite military dictum reduced to the terms of romance. “And so I shall succeed.”
It remained only to find Libby and tell her of his brilliant idea. He went into the house, calling her name.
In another moment, she looked down on him from the upstairs landing, a smile of welcome on her face that made his heart lift and turn over.
“We wondered where you were, Nez,” she scolded, as she descended, coming toward him on light feet “The others are nearly done in the breakfast room, but I believe there are still toast and eggs.”
She took him by the arm and tugged it until—a smile on his face—he bent down so she could kiss him on the cheek. For the briefest moment she rubbed his cheek against hers. “Lydia said it would be fine if you took one of Uncle’s horses to Brighton, unless you prefer a post chaise, and they are available in Holyoke. But do come to breakfast now.”
He shook his head and took her by the hand, pulling her down the hall toward the book room. He answered the question in her eyes with a wink and a kiss of his fingers at her.
He took her in his arms in the book room and kissed her, touched and gratified at the same time to feel the trip-hammer of her heart against his chest. He rested his chin on top of her head, breathing in her lavender fragrance that would always mean Libby Ames to him.
“I am not going to Brighton, after all, my dear,’’ he said finally, still holding her close.
Libby pulled away from him slightly to look up into his face, a question in her eyes.
He cupped her face in his hands. “I have a much better plan.” The look that she gave him was full of so much trust that he felt another tug, this time to his conscience. He ignored it and pulled her close to him again.
“Really, your grace,” she teased, out of breath, as he kissed her neck and ears. “Ought we to at least close the door?”
“Libby, you told me everyone was at breakfast,” he murmured, and then reminded himself of the next step in his clever idea. He picked her up and set her lightly on the desk.
“How would you feel about a little house in Half Moon Street?” he asked, suddenly at a loss how to introduce the subject and trusting that his charm would carry him through.
To his relief, Libby smiled back and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Anywhere you are would be home to me,” she whispered, and touched her forehead to his. “You know that.”
“And I suppose you would like above all things to have a high-perch phaeton of your very own?”
“But of course I would,” she replied promptly, her eyes merry. “And it must be painted white with gilt trim. I shall cut quite a dash.”
“So you shall,” he agreed, laughing. “And you shall have furs and jewels and a box of your very own at the opera.”
“And you will introduce me to Florizel himself?” she asked, the expression in her eyes so loving, even as she teased.
