Page 6 of To Marry and to Meddle
“That’s hardly the point. And in any case, rabbits have no business in close proximity to marriage proposals.”
“Is that still what this is?” she asked cheekily. “You’ve wandered a bit from the point, I can’t help but notice.”
“Emily,” he said, exasperated. “Let me ask you a single question: do you want your life in a year—in two years, in five—to look like it does now?”
She frowned again. “No,” she said, quietly but firmly, with no more than a moment’s hesitation. “I do not.”
“I’m offering you escape. I know your father is indebted to Cartham—whatever the figure is, I promise you I can pay it.”
Emily opened her mouth to object. “But—”
“I promise you,” he repeated, leaning forward and clearly enunciating each word as he held her gaze with his own, “I can pay it.”
She shut her mouth again, looking faintly impressed. Good.
“Furthermore,” he added, “if my suspicions are correct, and Cartham is keeping your father in line with threats that go beyond merely a financial debt, I promise you that I can avert any scandal.”
Her frown returned and deepened; perversely, it made her more attractive to him, rather than less so. “How?”
“Let’s just say that Cartham and I have a number of mutual acquaintances, and I’ve heard all sorts of whispers. Should he be blackmailing your father, I’ll see that he regrets it,” Julian said grimly. He wondered for a brief moment if he had shocked her—after all, he couldn’t imagine that she was accustomed to anyone speaking to her like this, or about matters like this.
When she spoke, however, she didn’t sound shocked—merely, perhaps, a bit confused. “You are willing to go so far as to marry me—to pay my father’s debts, to make a lifetime commitment—just so that society will think you are respectable?”
“Courting you clearly wasn’t enough,” he said bluntly. “There’s a pile of regrets from half thetonsitting in my house in London—I’d invited them all to the opening night of our staging ofMacbeth, and encouragedthem to bring their wives. Old acquaintances, friends of my family, you know the sort. Not a single one accepted. But you—” He paused, momentarily uncertain how to phrase this, not wishing to offend.
“I’ve proven I can weather a scandal?” Emily suggested, taking the words right out of his mouth.
“Yes,” he agreed, thinking of her elder brother’s disastrous, deadly duel over the honor of a married lady he’d insulted, and of his later death on the Continent, just as Emily was making her debut into society; thinking also of three Seasons spent on the arm of a man like Cartham. And still, he’d never heard anyone accuse her of anything remotely scandalous. It was impressive.
“If I marry you, people will be forced to look at me differently. To look at my theater differently. And you—you’ll be free to live a life of your own choosing.”
He reached out to take her hand, the first time he had touched her since dropping her arm, so determined had he been not to allow seduction to play any role in this proposal.
“Marry me,” he said, “and I’ll do my best to see that you are… content.” He hesitated over the word for a moment, not wishing to promise anything he could not deliver. He did not know if he could make her happy—indeed, he wasn’t sure he knewhowto make a creature like Emily, all innocence and light and kindness, happy. But he could certainly see that she was content.
“I know this is not the marriage proposal many ladies dream of,” he continued, very aware as he spoke that both of her closest friends had made love matches, and that he was offering her something entirely different. “But I think you and I deal rather well together because we speak frankly with one another. I don’t intend to promise you anything I can’t give you, nor do I expect that of you.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned, looking out over the lake. The slight breeze pulled at a loose, uncurled strand of hair at her temple. Everything about her was so utterly, perfectly composed—from the simple blue-and-white morning gown to the careful knot of golden hair at her neck—that he was somehow heartened by this loose strand, this slight crack in her perfect facade. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t turn to him, which gave him an excuse to continue gazing at the softness of her cheek, the smooth curve of her lips and chin, the length of her throat.
“I will marry you,” she said, turning to look at him without blinking. “On three conditions.”
“Name them,” he said simply.
“The first is that you must not lie to me.” She hesitated, searching his gaze—for what, he wasn’t quite sure. “I will not… If there comes a time in our marriage when you wish to seek company elsewhere, I will not pry. But I would ask you not to lie to me, not to a direct question.”
“Let’s not worry about other company for now,” he said, attempting to sound soothing.
Her eyes flashed briefly with something that he thought might have been annoyance. “That’s precisely what I mean, my lord,” she objected. “I don’t wish you to say comforting things to me to shelter my delicate female sensibilities. Let us deal honestly with each other, as you said.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling faintly abashed. Some distant part of his mind noted that prim virgins were not as flattering to one’s self-esteem as he might have expected; she had an unmatched ability—or,at least, unmatched by anyone not related to him—to make him feel like a bit of an ass at times. “And you’re right, of course. What is your next condition?”
“I would like to be married as quickly as possible,” she said. “My parents—I’m not certain how they will react to this news, and I don’t wish to give them time to put a stop to it. If we could call the banns as soon as we returned to London—”
“I can do even better,” he said. “What if I procured a special license and we wed right here, in the country?”
She blinked at him. “You—you would do that?”
“If it means you say yes, and it spares me the horrifying prospect of having to stand up at St. George’s in Hanover Square—”
