you seated on that rock, surrounded by one of the few beauties that are comparable to yours.”
“No one paints portraits like that,” she said, trying to steer the conversation to something less personal.
“Only because they have not yet thought of it. Or seen you sitting here.” He walked around her as though he were an artist considering the pose. “If I could, I would have such a haven as this created for you, but our gardens at home are not this verdant. The climate is not welcoming. Even in the summer.” He considered the idea for a moment. “There is a house in the Lake District that would suit. We could live there.”
So he was simply going to pretend that he had already proposed and ignore the truth. She was not going to play that game. “My lord,” she said formally, “you have not even spoken to my father yet.”
“Because I listened to you and, on your advice, I am waiting until he is in better humor. And a sound suggestion it was, because it later occurred to me that I should see if the lady is willing before I approach her father.”
She shook her head. “William, I cannot marry you.” Which was not the truth but was easier than trying to explain how she felt.
“You are already married? You are mad for another? Your sister is older and must marry first?”
She shook her head at the absurd questions.
“Then tell me, Cecilia, because I do not believe you.”
“We have not known each other long.” That sounded tentative even to her own ears and, as expected, he waved her excuse away without comment.
“You are impulsive, even your best friends say that, and I am afraid you only think you love me because I am beautiful and you want it to be true.” There. She had told him the truth and it actually felt good to have it in the open so she went on. “Once you have time and distance to think about it you will realize that it was only an infatuation.”
William jumped off the rock, anger radiating from him in waves. “Do not tell me what I feel, Cecilia Brent. Do not tell me that this all-consuming need to be with you is not love. Do not tell me that I am too impulsive when this feeling has driven me since the moment I met you, until I drink hoping to forget it, ride too hard hoping to escape it.” He shook his head. “I love you.”
The way he spoke the words made it sound more like damnation than his salvation.
She had never seen him angry before. Now that she thought about it, she’d never even seen him a trifle annoyed. He was always in good humor—until now. It was more reassuring than frightening.
“My apologies, William. Your unfailing good spirits tricked me into thinking that you are not serious about anything. I see that I am wrong.”
He exhaled, a short, sharp breath, but said nothing. She could see the anger was still with him in the set of his mouth, the rigid way he held his body, and the fact that he was standing perfectly still.
She stood straight, too. “I still cannot marry you.” She swallowed. He was not the only one who could give a speech, so she began. “You are the finest man I have ever met. I must love you. I must, because I am miserable without you and your anger does not frighten me. The fact that you are several inches shorter than I seems to be the ideal size and I want to kiss you as much as I want to bury my face in the sweetest roses.”
He took her hand and kissed it, but was wise enough to wait for the “but” that was coming.
“And I am so afraid that it cannot last forever. It is too great a gift from God to be true.”
“Of course it cannot last forever.”
She stopped.
“It will only grow stronger and better. Can you doubt that being together in every way is better than kissing? That sharing children is more complete than anything we have yet experienced?”
Oh dear, she thought. He was winning. She could feel her doubts fading, her longing invading her, overtaking her wisdom and banishing it to the back of her mind.
“Cecilia, my dearest, if you are not sure, then I will not propose to you. I will wait. And if that is not a gesture of the purest love then nothing is.”
That was true,