the fantasy they presented; Felicity did not miss the fact that the compliments all mirrored each other, blending into a generic mass.
“Mr. Johnson,” she said, but before she could interject further, he launched into a bout of poetry.
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
“I would rather you not.”
“‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”
“Mr. Johnson, please desist,” she said, but the fellow continued, giving line after line of the sonnet with growing affectedness, his gaze holding hers in a manner that had her inching backward, though the back of the chair kept her from traveling too far. When she gave another protest, he halted mid-line and watched her with a furrowed brow.
But before she could say another word, he launched into another. “‘Love is not love which alters in its alteration finds…’”
“Enough, Mr. Johnson,” said Felicity, nudging him aside so she could get to her feet and move to the desk. “I thank you for your kind words, but I fear I must decline your offer.”
“Decline?” Mr. Johnson blinked at her, and she held her breath. How the next few moments would unfold varied greatly from gentleman to gentleman, and she hoped Mr. Johnson had enough sense to behave with dignity.
“But, Miss Barrows, I am offering to marry you.”
“I am fully aware of what you are offering, Mr. Johnson, but I have no desire to marry for the sake of marrying. I do hope you are not too disappointed,” she said, adding a few more trite words of consolation as she rose to her feet.
Mr. Johnson did the same, though his gaze remained unfocused, his brows pulled together in such a tight bunch that Felicity didn’t know whether to be offended or amused by his utter confusion. She chose the latter.
With a nudge here and there, she had him out the study door and shut it firmly behind him. Giving a heavy sigh, she leaned against the door and stared upwards as though patience might pour down from the heavens.
Chapter 2
Why did so many proposals include soppy verses?
True, love was not love if it altered with the slightest whim, and every young lady hoped for a beau who believed her more lovely and temperate than a summer’s day, but such poetry bespoke a romance that was more fantasy than reality.
Of Shakespeare’s sonnets, there was none to compare with One Hundred and Thirty, which spoke of true love that was not falsely compared to objects of inordinate beauty; it was written by a lover who recognized his lady’s flaws and adored her all the same. Surely that was far more endearing and heartfelt than blind adoration that sees perfection where there is none.
Pushing off the door, Felicity abandoned such thoughts and turned her attention back to her wretched work. She collapsed onto the armchair, staring at the physical evidence of all she needed to do, and felt her stomach sink. Would it ever end? Or was her life to be a constant stream of uninteresting tasks?
“Oh, Uncle,” she murmured, not for the first time. Likely the fellow had more pressing matters to attend to during his eternal rest than to watch his niece flounder, but Felicity wished he were seated beside her.
Another knock sounded at the door, and Felicity bade the visitor enter, grateful for yet another distraction from her business. Before she could right herself, Bethany Beaumont swept into the study.
“Tell me you are not spending yet another afternoon cooped up in this dreary place,” she said, reaching for Felicity’s hand and tugging her to her feet.
“There is work to be done,” said Felicity, but Bethany would hear no other protests as she led her friend from the study and into the sitting room where the maids were readying tea and cakes. Though she still did not require any refreshment, a bit of conversation was welcome, so she settled herself onto the sofa as Bethany did the same.
“Was that Mr. Johnson leaving just now? He looked terribly distraught,” said Bethany.
“No doubt he expected a different outcome to his declaration,” said Felicity as her friend reached for the teapot and began preparing their cups. “I ought to do that, Bethany—”
“Hush, Felicity. If you take no umbrage with my stepping over the bounds of propriety, then I am glad to do it. You have enough weighing on your mind without having to wait on me.”
Watching Bethany’s efficient movements, Felicity felt the tiniest bit of strain ease from her heart, though that allowed a trickle of disappointment to take its place. Her