Page 63 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
Some instinct told her that this was not the moment to push him. “It’s all right.”
He opened his eyes, and they were slightly wild. “I thought maybe I could tell you, but… but…”
“Please do not distress yourself.” She laid her head upon his shoulder. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
He nodded tightly. She just held him and waited for his panting breaths to slow.
After a few minutes, he turned his head and gave her a cringing grin. “I realize that my first two attempts at proposing marriage have not done a great deal to recommend me. But I do want to marry you, Elissa. If you’ll have me.”
Elissa bit her lip, because she’d been thinking about this all morning, too. “I hope we can marry, Edward. But there are a few things we need to discuss. You said this morning that, as your wife, it would not be permissible for me to publish any translations.”
It pained her to see the worry steal into his eyes. “That is correct. And again, I must apologize for the way the conversation went this morning. I did not explain myself properly. There are certain rules that, as the heir to an earldom, society expects me to follow. Not working in trade, including publishing, is one of them. And while I might privately agree that many of these rules are nonsensical, there are consequences if I do not follow them. And those consequences would affect not just me, but my entire family.”
Elissa sighed. She had hoped so desperately that he would say he’d changed his mind, that it didn’t matter. But that didn’t seem to be the case. “What sorts of consequences?”
“Any improper behavior from me—or my wife—would hurt Lucy and Izzie’s marriage prospects.” He shook his head. “I could never do that to my little sisters.” He looked up, his blue eyes entreating. “And so I would have to ask you to make some sacrifices. Some of which I know would be significant to you. But if it means we could be together, I—I hope you will consider it.”
“You also said it would not be permissible for me to enter the contest.”
“Well…” Edward paused, thinking. “That was because you had announced your intention to continue publishing anonymously. And, of course, you would lose your anonymity if you were to win. But if you were to agree to cease publishing following our marriage, I—I suppose there would not be any impediment to your entering the contest,” he said stiffly.
Elissa studied him a beat. “Although you would prefer I not do so.”
Edward’s shoulder gave a violent twitch. “What makes you say that?”
“How I wish I had a mirror. Your face has turned positively chartreuse.” She laughed as he shifted uncomfortably. “Given your reaction to finishing second to Robert Slocombe, it isn’t much of a deduction.”
Edward took her hand in his. “All right, I admit it. The thing I came to understand this morning, when you told me you were the translator…” He waved his free hand, as if searching for the right words. “I do not mind that you are good. I meant it when I said that I love the fact that you’re so intelligent. What I mind is when I am bad.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’re never bad, Edward.”
“But you understand my meaning.”
“I think so. If we’re competing head-to-head, my victory might be the cause of your defeat. And you worry about how you might react.”
“Precisely. I’m not proud of it,” he said in a rush. “I wish I didn’t feel this way. And I wish I could be the one to drop out of the contest in order to avoid the conflict. I would do it gladly were it not for my brother’s predicament.”
“I’m sure you would. I’m guessing you would rather not enter at all.”
“You have the right of it.” A silence fell, interrupted only by the song of a skylark fluttering in the branches above them.
Edward cleared his throat. “So. Would you be willing to compromise? To give up your publishing career so we can be married?”
“The problem,” she said carefully, “is not giving up my publishing career per se. The problem is that I am a duck.”
The befuddlement that crossed his face was actually quite adorable. “You are… I’m sorry, I think I must’ve misheard.”
“I am a duck,” Elissa repeated. “I float around in ponds. I trip over pigs. I once became lodged in chest-deep mud over at Bicklebury Bog, and Farmer Broadwater had to fetch his plough horse to pull me out. I am a clumsy, inelegant duck. But you do not need a duck, Edward. What you need is a swan.”
“Ah!” Comprehension dawned on his face. “But I can help you with that. I will steer you around pigs and bogs and whatever else—”
“Alas, my duck-qualities run far deeper than my propensity for wandering into blackberry brambles. Every single thing I would have to do as your countess makes me want to run and hide. The only thought more horrifying than that of attending a London ball is ofplanningone. It isn’t merely the fact that I would constantly do the wrong thing, although I assure you, I would. I am just not the girl who gets excited over a trip to the dressmaker, or who spends her afternoon trimming a new bonnet. I am the girl who misses not only luncheon but also dinner because I’m absorbed in a two-thousand year-old manuscript. The one who emerges from the library bleary-eyed with my hair in a tangle, much like a hermit emerging from his cave. The girl who has freckles on her nose and ink on her elbow, and sometimes, I fear, the reverse.”
She pressed his hand, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “The true issue is that the tasks that would fill my days as your countess are not merely things I’m terrible at. They are things I detest. I just—” She broke off, looking down. “I’m a duck, Edward. I’m not a swan. I’m just not.” She forced her eyes up to his. “I’m so sorry.”
Edward’s brow was knotted, but his eyes were not bereft of hope. “But Elissa, I do not want you to give up your duck qualities! Your duck qualities are the very things I love about you. And more than that”—he glanced in every direction, then dropped his voice to a whisper, even though there was no one around for miles—“I am also a duck. I am merelypretendingto be a swan. And that is what we shall do. When it is just the two of us, we shall indulge in all of our favorite duck activities. Get ink on your elbow. Barricade yourself in the library. Never give a thought to your wardrobe. Have Caro design it all for you.”
He was warming to his theme and rose to pace across the blanket. “It will only be during the London Season that we need to pretend to be swans. That’s just six or seven months out of the year. And whenever my mother is hosting guests here at the house. So, another month or two. And on those nights when company comes to dinner. And whenever we’re in public.” He turned to face her, wearing a hopeful smile. “But you will see that doing the things we hate will be ever so much more tolerable, because we will be doing them together!” His smile faltered as he realized what he’d just said. “Er, allow me to rephrase that…”
