Page 44 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
He took that in silent contemplation. “Thank you for that. For coming here, too. I appreciate your care to do so.”
“I’ve come to realize why I even thought it useful for me to interfere in other people’s lives. Painful to admit, but I must. I thought, after my accident, that I was less than anyone else. Useless. Ungainly. That wasn’t so awful as a child, but when I grew older, I was supposed to be a lady. Delicate, fine-boned, I might be in stature and form. But in grace? Never. Able to walk into a room? To glide? To dance? No. I struggled, hobbled, a spectacle. So I must have some redeeming feature, mustn’t I?
“I cannot say I actively thought of myself that way. But in some secret parts of my head, yes, I did. Oh, no one ever called me names. Or made fun of me. Most in our set are too polite to do such a thing. But I felt it. And so to be knowledgeable about others, to be helpful was to be in control. That is powerful. I could do positive things for others. And they would like me. Love me. Want me to be their ally. Their friend. And so, I continued.”
“Mary, sweetheart, I knew you were hurt. That you wanted to be whole. And to me you were.”
Whole? To him. Wonderful. But not enough.
She shot up. Unsteady on her feet, she bent to grab her stick and poke it into the Axminster for support. “I want you to know that I care for you too much to ever have done anything so reprehensible as to pretend I love you. I do love you. I did as a child, as a friend. But two years ago, I came to love you as more. Much more. I was so thrilled you cared for me. Your letters were my comfort and my hope you’d return to me. And when you stopped writing, I would re-read the old ones to hear your voice and hope that…”
She swallowed, words like stones in her throat. Then she dug in the pocket in her skirts and brought forth the item that had symbolized what he was to her. “For all these years, I kept this as a talisman that every day could be better than the last. After you stopped writing to me, I looked at it and vowed that some day we might find adventure and growth and love, together. I see now I invested it with too much wishful fantasy. I was wrong.”
She strode forward and put the small brown acorn on the deal table near him.
He stared at it, astonished, then met her gaze. “What I gave you after you fell?”
She nodded.
The first smile she’d seen on his face in what seemed like years dawned, bright and glorious. “Oh, Mary.”
But his smile was not enough. She needed love from him, a man’s for a woman—and could not, would not lure it from him.
She turned abruptly for the door, hot tears on her lashes, sorrow crushing her heart.
He caught her before she made it to the hall. An arm around her waist, he pressed himself against her, his lips in her hair. “Don’t go. I was wrong, too. Wrong to believe you could be arrogant. To me you have always been perfect. Perfect.”
She gasped for air and logic. “But I’m not perfect. I’ve done horrible things.”
He walked around her, never letting go. “No. You’ve made mistakes. Mistakes, Mary. Like any of us imperfect beings.”
She couldn’t believe he could exonerate her.
He brushed his fingers through her hair. “I want us to have a future together, Mary.”
“Friends?” she asked him as if she stood upon a sinking ship.
“More than that. Mary, I love you. I have for many years. And for most of them, I’ve thought myself unworthy to even ask you. And now, now—” He pulled her close, his arms urgent around her. “I have this title and this land. I have money.”
She leaned back to view the agony on his handsome face. “But what?”
“I have no confirmation of my status with the Corps. Am I on duty? Am I to be on half-pay? And if I separate, if I sell my commission, how much will I regret that I’ve left the very profession that gave me dignity, fulfillment and purpose? I have nothing but uncertainty to offer you, my darling. Still, I want you.” He caught a tendril of her hair and brushed it behind her ear. “I want you as my wife.”
His proposal was more than she’d expected, everything she yearned for. “I could want nothing else from life than to be yours.”
He crushed her near. “Even if I cannot offer stability?”
“The stability you speak of is but change of venue. Geography. What is that to the constancy of love as Mrs. Lindsey?”
He gave a laugh. “Or Countess London-Bridges falling down.”
“I wouldn’t want to be Birdie to you.” She shook her head. “I’d wish to be scandalously more than that.”
“My lover?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I want to be that. Wherever you go, I want to be with you.”
“In the wilderness of Canada?”
