“North of here.”
That was more than he’d thought she’d say. “How far?”
“Not quite as far as Scotland.”
That left half of Great Britain and hundreds, if not thousands, of manor houses that could qualify as a chateau, the French word that was usually mistranslated as “castle” in English. Good Lord, he was seriously trying to wrest clues out of thin air.
“Give me a little more.”
She hesitated. “It’s a place you’d have no trouble finding on a map.”
And how was that supposed to help him? He never had trouble locating anything on or off a map.
“Have mercy.” What was a little more begging? It had already been conclusively proven that he had no pride where she was concerned.
“I’ve said too much already.”
Her voice had a faint unsteadiness to it. She really believed it, that she’d said too much, when she’d given him a haystack the size of the Pennines.
“All right, then I won’t ask anymore where you live.” He would simply have to keep her in his sight. Though how he could do that and meet with the Lord Justice in the morning he didn’t quite know yet. “Tell me what brought you to London.”
She rested a cheek on her palm. “You, of course.”
“Me?”
“It had to have been you. Or why would we be here together, when we were perfect strangers only hours ago?”
Indeed, what other explanation could there be? They had to have been destined to meet—and to love. “Stay with me, then,” he said. “I will take care of you.”
She smiled a little. “You are too kind.”
She didn’t believe him. She thought it was an impulsive offer he would regret at sunrise. She didn’t know him very well, did she?
“You’ve seen my house. I also have some sheep land in North Yorkshire. Within the next twelve months I should be called to the bar. But for now I’m subsisting mostly on interest, so you’ll have to wait a bit—maybe quite a bit—before splurging on a Worth wardrobe. But whatever else you want, I’ll be happy to supply.”
“A carte blanche from a poor man. Now I’ve heard everything.”
“I never said I was offering a carte blanche.” And he wasn’t exactly a poor man—he had quite a bit in his bank account from the sale of the Somerset town house. But fear of renewed penury ran deep. He would not touch the principal unless he absolutely could not get by otherwise. “I should hope that as my wife, you would wish to manage our household budget wisely. A carte blanche defeats the purpose.”
Her indulgent expression vanished, replaced by an astonishment that bordered on incomprehension. “You are offering marriage?”
“Yes.”
“To an absolute stranger?”
Her shock surprised him. There was an intimate connection between them, as if they’d known each other always. They were not strangers; they’d merely never met before. “I know you far better than I do any of the young ladies from whom I’m expected to select a spouse based on the acquaintance of a few dances and half a dozen insipid conversations.”
“At least you know who they are. You don’t even know my name.”
“Certainly not for a lack of trying. So you may not hold it against me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t hold it against you, but against myself. You are a gentleman. But I’m not a lady.”
“By marrying me you’ll be a lady.”
“I’m not a virgin either.”
“I believe I’ve noticed that already.”
She shook her head some more. “Why? You’ve everything ahead of you. Why would you wish to burden yourself with someone like me?”
“Are you London’s most celebrated courtesan after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you have a history of crimes and misdemeanors?”
“No.”
“Are you married?”
“God, no.”
“Then you won’t be a burden to me, but an asset.”
He had his cynical observations on marriage. But he had a healthy respect for its institutional power in legitimizing and sanctifying the illegitimate and unsanctified. And as a man, he had a certain leeway in his choice of a wife. A woman who spoke and looked as she did, who had that indefinable essence that separated a spellbinding woman from the merely comely—he had no doubt that after an initial period of cautious reservation on the part of his friends and colleagues, she would be a smashing success.
“I can’t. You can’t. You won’t.” She sighed, a sound of wretched resignation. “It can’t be.”
“Then have the courtesy and compassion to tell me what exactly is the impediment.” He grew a little impatient with her. Why all this mystery and secrecy? What was she afraid of?
Her eyes dimmed. He was instantly contrite. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be cross with you.”
“No, don’t ask for forgiveness,” she said. “You do me such honor.”