“I have no notion that he ever expected me to accept him,” Leorah said, although she knew her reasoning was not sound. An offer of marriage, especially with witnesses, was legally binding. She could have accepted him only for his position, his title, and his money, as most women would have done, and Lord Withinghall knew this as well as anyone. So why would he have risked her saying yes? Why had he done it?
He knew she disliked him as much as he disliked her, and he must have guessed that she never would have accepted him. The two of them were completely incompatible. It would have been one of those cold, loveless marriages that Lord Withinghall might have been satisfied with, but she could not bear to live that way.
No, she would never have accepted him, and he must have known this.
“That is not sound reasoning, Leorah.”
She looked up, startled. Had she been thinking aloud? “What do you mean?”
Felicity had finally left off fanning her younger sister, who still looked pale but was sipping her tea as if it were a life-giving tonic.
“You said you had no notion that he expected you to accept him. But almost anyone would have. I can’t believe he would ask you if he hadn’t felt something for you. He is famous for his abhorrence of adultery, for his righteous indignation at the immorality of married couples in England, especially of the upper classes, who are rarely faithful to each other. Would he have asked for your hand if he hadn’t been sure of your character? I think not.” She eyed Leorah over the rim of her teacup.
“Now you’re being silly. You know he thinks me reckless and irresponsible. Besides, it’s all settled that his soon-to-be fiancée, Augusta Norbury, is coming to stay, and he shall become engaged to her, and no one will even know that he asked me to marry him.” Leorah widened her eyes and pretended to shudder. “To save us both from the evil gossips.”
“It is nothing to make sport of, Leorah. You cannot deny that the gossip could ruin your reputation forever. He is willing to marry you. And you might never get another offer of marriage, especially if this becomes a widely known scandal.” She stared sadly down at the carpet, which still had a damp spot in the middle from Elizabeth’s spilled tea. Quietly but with a significant look in her eyes as she focused again on Leorah, she said, “Perhaps you should accept him.”
Leorah set her teacup down harder than she had intended to, rattling it alarmingly. “How could you even say such a thing?”
“Perhaps he isn’t so bad.”
“You have seen him. You know how he looks at me, his reaction to me. He disapproves of me greatly, and I’m sure he could never love me. Don’t you remember the things he said?”
“But, Leorah, only consider.” Felicity grabbed Leorah’s hand. “He is a viscount and very rich. You could certainly do worse, and his home is not that far—how far did you say? Only fifteen miles? You could come here to visit your family, your mother, anytime you wished.”
Elizabeth picked up the fan and began fanning herself. “Felicity,” she said, as though out of breath, “don’t encourage her to marry someone she doesn’t love after she has already refused him. It is too horrible. Lord Withinghall . . .” She took an audible breath and closed her eyes. “He is so severe.”
“I am not afraid of him.” Leorah sat up straighter. “I simply do not wish to be disapproved of all my life. Only the most passionate love could ever induce me to marry. And I can’t believe Lord Withinghall capable of passionate love.”
And that was the end of the matter. She would refuse to think about it anymore.
The next morning, Leorah received a letter from Rachel Becker and read it in her room.
Livvie was doing well after having a cold. Near the end of the letter, Rachel wrote, and “he” has had my landlord put all my belongings on the street. It is good that I had already given away nearly all of my furniture. Livvie and I are now living with the other unwed mothers, where at least I have plenty of company.
Who was this fiendish Member of Parliament who refused to provide for his own child? Bad enough that he would seduce and keep a young girl as his mistress, but to despise his own child . . . He was worse than an unbeliever and did not deserve a seat in the House of Commons. But at least Rachel was where John and Sarah Wilson could watch out for her.
Leorah left her room and went downstairs to the library. Where was that book she wanted to show Felicity and Elizabeth? They were still in their rooms but would soon be coming down to breakfast.
Leorah turned to the left as she entered the dimly lit library and searched the shelves. “Where is that book?” she mumbled to herself, touching the spines with her forefinger as she combed through each title.
She searched every shelf in that particular bookcase but didn’t see it. Undaunted, she moved to the next wall and continued examining the books, sometimes pulling them out to look at the covers when the spine did not reveal a title.
“Where could it be?” She closed her eyes to think where she might have left it.
“Can I be of help?”
Leorah’s eyes flew open, and she spun around to see who was behind her. “Oh, Lord Withinghall. I didn’t see you there.” Her heart was pounding, and she pressed her hand against her chest. She tried to pretend he had not frightened her nearly to death.
“I asked if I could help you, but in actuality, I am bound to this chair. So I’m not sure what assistance I can lend you.”
Sitting in a wheeled chair by the window, his hair was tidy and even somewhat fashionable in its controlled waviness—not at all the way he had worn it when he’d been in London last Season. His features looked less angry than usual too—more youthful in the morning light that was streaming over him from the window.
Strange that she should note his youth when he was only a few years older than she was. It was merely his usual manner of speaking, his severity of expression, and his unfashionable clothing that made him normally seem older than he was.
But his confinement to the wheeled contraption, with his right leg elevated and wrapped in many layers to keep it immobilized, actually stimulated a pang of sympathy for him. Then she remembered his cold, impersonal marriage proposal of the previous day. But if he didn’t mention it, neither would she. She would be glad to forget all about it, as well as what had brought it about.
“You might be able to help me, Lord Withinghall. I am searching for a book to lend to my friends, Felicity and Elizabeth Mayson.”
“A particular book, I presume?”
“Yes. I read it only last winter, and I remember putting it away at Easter. The title is Sense and Sensibility.”
“A book of essays?”
“Oh no. It is a novel.” She had her back to the viscount, and she continued searching the shelves for the book. She imagined the look of disapproval that was probably settling over his face. “A first-rate novel. Even you might enjoy it.”
“I never read novels.” His voice was even.
“That is a pity, since novels can be quite interesting and can teach us many things about ourselves and about human nature.”
She continued searching, very aware of the man behind her, and finally he replied, “You may be right.”