“By George,” she might say to herself, in that way she had. “If I seduce him and he gets a child on me, he’ll have to marry me for real.”
Perhaps he had found the answer, for her face softened. Yes! She was going to accept! But she shook her head and turned away.
“What is the trouble?” he demanded.
For an agonizingly long minute, she stood silently, facing away from him. Several tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to caress the bare skin of her neck, brushing the edge of her gown and the buttons that kept it fastened.
“The trouble, my lord, is that was a terrible proposal.” Levity had entered her tone, and when she twirled back around, mischief once more danced in her eyes. “Do they not teach you how to propose at earl school?”
“‘Earl school’?”
“Yes. Lessons in proposals, after your lessons in posturing, prejudice, and pomposity.”
“No need,” Rafe said. “No matter how an earl proposes, there are only three possible answers: ‘Yes, my lord,’ ‘Of course, my lord,’ or ‘I’d be honored, my lord.’”
“And yet again the nobleman gets what he wants without having to work for it.”
“I have no interest in courting you, Miss Knight. If you yearn for pretty words and nice sentiments, you can provide them yourself.”
“Very well, I shall. ‘My dearest Miss Knight—’”
She paused and looked at him expectantly. Rafe met her gaze and said nothing.
She broke the impasse with an overwrought sigh. “A pretty state of affairs, indeed, when a lady must dictate her own marriage proposal. Once upon a time, it was chivalry and gallantry and poetry, but oh no, not with these modern earls.”
Damn her. Why could she not simply behave like a caricature of a social climber? Why did she insist on having a personality? But what else could he do? He was an earl, yet she could make him dance like a carnival bear.
“Fine, I’ll play your blasted game,” he muttered. “My dearest Miss Knight.”
“‘The mere thought of your ankles makes me swoon.’”
“You want that in your marriage proposal?”
She eyed him defiantly. “I rather like the idea of a man swooning over my ankles.”
“If he swoons over your ankles, he won’t be good for much else. I assure you, they are not your most interesting feature.”
“Whatever can you mean? My ankles are fascinating.”
Rafe glanced down, but her ankles were hidden by the shadows under her hem. He was suddenly and irrationally curious about them, how they would look, how they would feel in his hand. Bloody hell. They were ankles, for crying out loud.
Maybe she was better at this than he thought.
He dragged his eyes back to her face. “Your fascinating ankles make me swoon.”
“‘The sight of you makes my heart go pitter-patter like raindrops on a—’”
“No. Enough. Let me emerge with some dignity.”
“Your aim is to emerge with an engagement; your dignity is of no consequence.”
“Anything to end this agony. Pitter-patter heart raindrops. What else do you want?”
Her expression changed again. The mischief faded, replaced by something like sorrow. Rafe’s arms tensed with the improbable urge to offer comfort. She stared at the orchids, and then brushed her thumb over one petal. He bit back his scold. Her fingers were so gentle and reverent, her touch alone might help the orchid recover.
“I want…” She trailed off, and he caught himself leaning forward. “Say: ‘I promise you a lifetime of laughter and kittens and syllabub, and a warm, safe, loving home.’”
Kittens? Syllabub? What?
“Enough!” he snapped. “You have had your entertainment, making me say ridiculous things, but that is too much. You can use this opportunity, so stop playing games and just bloody well agree to marry me.”
A sad smile curved her lips as she nodded. Already she had stopped playing, and he didn’t understand what had changed. How he had lost her, when he had never had her. How he had missed something, something important. Misunderstood, miscalculated, got something horribly wrong.
“No, my lord,” she said softly. “I won’t.”
She snatched up her shawl, backed away, and then turned and ran. A moment later, the door opened and closed, and her figure hurried up the path, a blurred ghost disappearing into the last of the light.
Damn it. Why didn’t she just agree? What kind of inept social climber was she, if she didn’t seize a chance like that?
A wave of fatigue washed over him, as if only her presence had kept him from wilting like the orchids’ leaves.
Maybe she needed a night to think it over. And tomorrow he’d invite her for that walk among the roses and she’d beg his forgiveness and say she was overcome and something something blah blah blah. She was right about one thing at least: He was not very good at this.
And he would not get better overnight.
Blast it, no. No more games. No more pretty smiles and pretty proposals and pretty ankles.
Rafe had another option. Thea Knight was not the only one who knew how to play tricks.
The Earl of Luxborough was likely mad, Thea decided, as she darted off in search of Arabella to tell her about the encounter.
That whole encounter had been, well, rather thrilling, if she was honest. How demanding he was, never imagining that she tricked him. And how marvelous for him, to be so sure of his place that he could issue a marriage proposal as carelessly as a dinner order. Perhaps he saw a wife as being of as little consequence as a meal.
Really, he had nothing to recommend him.
Except the money.
Oh, the money.
If somehow she could turn his proposal to her advantage and wangle some money from that trust, then she could go ahead with her publishing scheme immediately.
No. No regrets. Refusing was sensible. Her fascination with him was silly. The fact was, he had been awful to her, and she was rather tired of noblemen being awful to her.
Thea got lost several times in her attempt to locate Arabella’s room, and might have spent the rest of her life wandering through the enormous house had a servant not rescued her. Arabella had not returned, so Thea left for her own chambers. She ate the supper left for her, bathed, and prepared for bed. But as her mind continued to torment her with “what-ifs” and “yes-buts” and memories of intense eyes and an amused half smile, Thea pulled on a wrap and went back to Arabella’s room.
Which was still empty.
She sat and stood and sat and stood, and was about to leave when Arabella drifted in, looking even paler than usual.
“Where have you been?” Thea asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Why on earth would anything be wrong?” Arabella said, only to stop short and stare at nothing.
“Arabella? Are you ill?”
“Worse.”
“Are you dying?”
“Worse.”
“Are you already dead and I’m conversing with a ghost?”
“Worse.” Arabella inhaled with a hiss and blew the air back out. “I am engaged.”
“What?”
“To be married.”
“What?”
“To the Earl of Luxborough.”