He tsked. “I'd have expected more from you, Mrs. Rowland. You do know what your revelation means, do you not?”
The idea had been knocking in his head for some days. It had slipped in, like a determined lover, past all gates and barricades to whisper by the fluttering curtains of the virgin bower that was his entire experience with matrimony. And the idea was, he would be quite happy to marry her, if she would have him.
But his past had weighed on his aspirations. What right did he have, hissed some dank, sinister voice, to the love of a good woman, any good woman, let alone one as beautiful, accomplished, and wise as Mrs. Rowland? What right did he have to happiness for himself, when he'd so casually despoiled the happiness of others?
But that was no longer the case. He was an emancipated man, liberated from the bondage of blame and self-torment, at ease to enjoy the years remaining to him, with her by his side and in his bed, if he was so fortunate.
The gleam in his eyes made Victoria's heart skip a beat. “That there is still time left to plan a bacchanal?”
“No, that it frees me to propose marriage to you.”
She felt as flabbergasted as she'd been when she discovered herself in love with John Rowland. “You wish to marry me?”
“What in the world do you think I have been up to, madam? Have I not followed the rules of courtship most assiduously? Drinking tea, for heaven's sake. You should be flattered. I'd rather drink from my horse's trough.”
“I thought you wished to speak of bygone years. Or, at most, make me amenable to a liaison.”
“I do want to reminisce. And I do plan to take you to bed, madam. Neither, however, precludes marriage.”
“But I am going to be fifty years of age in less than fifteen months!” she cried—and couldn't believe she gave away that carefully guarded secret.
“Excellent news. That makes you a few years younger than I'd thought.”
Her eyes went round. “You thought I was how old?”
He laughed. “I didn't. I took our age difference into consideration and found that it didn't half-matter. Since you found happiness with a man nineteen years your senior, there is no reason for you to be undone by a man a few years your junior.”
“I—I cannot give you any heir.”
“For which my cousin's son would be intensely grateful.” He took her hand, further disorienting her. “Allow me to assure you, madam, that the thought of infants at my age is profoundly distressing. My second cousin once removed is an upstanding enough fellow. I have no regrets about Ludlow Court passing to him.”
She was tempted to say yes right away. Oh, how she was tempted. Not since the invention of chocolate gateau had there been a greater temptation than what the duke dangled before her nose just now. Her Grace the Duchess of Perrin. These magical words exploded shivers of delight deep into her viscera. That at this stage in her life, with old age breathing down her neck like an overeager suitor, she could still gain all the prestige and social stature she'd ever craved, with the man once considered the most elusive bachelor in the kingdom. Why, what kind of fool could possibly respond in the negative?
She bolted out of her chair, jerking her hand away from him. “No.” She shook her head, her voice shaking just perceptibly. “No. Your marrying me would be little different from your efforts to restore Ludlow Court to a facsimile of what it had been when your parents were alive.”
He frowned. “I fail to observe any similarity between the two.”
“Don't you see? Like the wallpaper, I was your mother's choice!”
“Am I to understand that in following my heart's— not to mention my loins'—desire, I am but atoning for my adolescent negligence of my mother, by fulfilling her wish posthumously?”
She wished it were otherwise, but she wasn't blind. He liked her. He was physically attracted to her. But what separated her from the pack was that she provided a link to his lost youth. “Yes.”
“You object to such a noble purpose?”
Oh, drat the man. How could he be flippant at a time like this, when she felt herself about to crumple, held erect only by the stiffness of her corset. “Because it is more wishful thinking than noble purpose. Your mother, bless her memory, would be proud of the man you are today. No further appeasement is necessary.”
He nodded, at last appearing somewhat thoughtful. “I take it that is your primary and overwhelming objection.”
“It is.”
“Any others I should know about? My contrariness, for example? My distaste for tea?”
“No, none at all.” She wished there were others. They would make it less painful to refuse his offer.
He smiled, a smile that twenty-five years ago would have left a wide swath of upended crinolines in its wake. “If that is indeed the case, then permit me to read something to you, my dear Mrs. Rowland.”