“But . . .”
“The advantages should be plain.” His voice was emotionless. “If we marry, that changes everything. At the very least, they’d wait to see if you’re pregnant with my heir. During that time, I can make certain you get the money you’re owed.”
“Well, that sounds very . . . transactional. I hope you’ll pardon the honesty, but this isn’t quite the romantic proposal a girl hopes and dreams to hear.”
“You’re twenty-six years old,” he said. “How many other proposals were you expecting?”
His cold words froze the breath in her lungs.
“Perhaps none,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to rejoice in one so unfeeling.”
“Grow up, Izzy. What are you waiting for? Some dashing hero? It’s time to stop living in this”—he waved his arms at the knights and handmaidens—“fairy tale.”
She stared at him, unable to believe the words coming from his lips.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she said, slowly understanding him. “You’re pushing me away because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not pushing you away. I believe I just offered to marry you.”
“In the most insulting, unappealing way possible.”
Wendell clanked a few steps forward and called out to them. “Can I offer my lady some assistance?”
“She’s not your lady,” Ransom shot back. “She’s Miss Goodnight. A grown woman. And it doesn’t matter how many of your granny’s tea trays you strap on your chest. They don’t make you a knight.”
Izzy crossed her arms. So, it wasn’t enough for him to push her away. No, he wouldn’t rest until he’d pushed away everyone.
“Your Grace, I am a knight,” Wendell said. “I’m a Knight of Moranglia.”
“And what makes you a Knight of Moranglia?”
“I swore an oath.”
“Oh, you swore an oath. On what? A sword made of a vegetable marrow? You’re not a knight. You’re delusional. All of you.” He lifted his voice. “Admit it. That’s why you’re here, styling yourselves as handmaidens and knights of honor. Because your own lives are too pitiful to face.”
“You’re jealous.” She shook her head. “You’ve never known what it’s like to be a part of something like this, and you’re envious.”
“Envious,” he scoffed. “Of these men? I’ve ten pounds that says Sir Wendell here still lives with his mother.”
Wendell’s face flushed bright red. “A great many bachelors live at home until they marry.”
“Oh, yes,” Ransom said. “And what marriage prospects are on your horizon? Do you have a sweetheart? An intended? At least tell me you’ve groped a tit or two.”
Izzy stomped on his boot and ground her heel into his toe. “I said, that’s enough. If your aim was to make a jackass of yourself and ruin everything we’ve been working toward, believe me, you’ve done more than enough.”
But Ransom wouldn’t let up. “Come along, ‘Sir’ Wendell. Admit it. You’ve never even kissed a girl, have you?”
Poor Wendell. His cheeks blazed an alarming shade of crimson.
Izzy couldn’t see anything but red.
And then Abigail Pelham crossed the dining hall in determined steps, took a shocked Wendell Butterfield by the shoulders, and kissed him full on the lips.
“There,” Abigail said. “He’s kissed a girl now.”
Inwardly, Izzy cheered. Good for Abigail.
With a desperate tug, she tried to draw Ransom aside. “Now that’s enough. You’re going to apologize. We need these people. And even if you are determined to destroy your own chances, I need these people. They’re always here for me.”
“They’re not here for you. They are here for a wide-eyed, precious little girl with emerald green eyes and sleek, amber hair. They were never here for you.”
Oh, God.