Had he been talking to the Earl of Carbrooke? Had his lordship been too busy with his tongue in the clubs and coffee houses? She shrugged. “I would be foolish not to look at comparative rents.”
He grunted. “And you discovered that you have the house you presently occupy at a very good rate.”
“Indeed, sir.” He had not raised the rent since before her husband died.
“Do drink your tea while it is still hot.” He picked up his own but waited until she’d untangled her fingers and followed suit. The dish rattled against the saucer as she lifted it, and he smiled slightly.
She would have preferred not to betray her nerves. She took a sip of the excellent tea. Then another, to moisten her dry throat.
She had made a mistake. He would use this meeting as an excuse to raise the rent.
When the dish was nearly empty, she replaced it in its saucer, careful not to rattle it this time. “Thank you, sir.”
“Would you like another?”
Forcing a smile, she shook her head. “I am content.” Damn the man, he was prolonging this encounter, and his delaying tactics were working. Her nervousness had increased to the point of tightening her throat.
Carelessly, he dumped his empty dish on his desk, keeping his attention on her. His small, black eyes gleamed in the light from the narrow windows that illuminated the room. Opposite, the back of another building similar to this loomed, and beyond that, the spire of a church; a typical London landscape. The gray skies above were familiar, too.
“Madam, I have found your behavior exemplary since your unfortunate spouse’s demise,” he said. At last he was getting to the point. “You have worked hard to support your sons. However I find it impossible to believe you wish to expand the business. Your duty is first to your family. It is distressing to me that a woman with your sterling qualities is without support, other than what you can give yourself. Furthermore, you employ six excellent workers. Who designs for you?”
The fancy patterns they put on some of the wire, he meant. “Jem Levallier, sir.”
He nodded. “A Huguenot.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the letter again, then back at her. “As I said, supporting a woman in independence goes against my principles and my sense of chivalry.”
Him, chivalric? The words didn’t go together. Oh, he was well-mannered, but chivalry indicated some kind of knightly behavior, and Mr. Stephenson did not go in for such extravagant gestures. He could be playing with her. Cold hands clutched her heart when the dreaded word “eviction” entered her mind. He would not do that, surely?
His gaze rested on her. It traveled from her waist to her face and remained there, as if he could see through her clothes. Annie fought not to squirm.
Mr. Stephenson was about forty-five, a couple of inches above her height, and very slender in form. He had never married. Rumors suggested his preferences did not go in the direction of the opposite sex but remained firmly on his side of the divide. Considering his high moral stance Annie doubted that. Furthermore, he had never avoided women. Previous courtships had ended in nothing.
“Mrs. Cathcart—Annie—I have found, as I’ve been watching you, that I would find you acceptable.” He stood, and his coat skirts whirled as he turned to place the letter on the desk. He moved toward her, the smell of camphor and lavender, no doubt layered with his clothes to deter insects, swamped her in thick scent. “Acceptable, that is, as a wife.”
Annie sat completely still, stunned. She had never imagined this conversation would go in that direction. A simple yes or no to her query about the leasehold, for sure, but nothing more.
He was undeterred by her silence. “Therefore, I make you this proposal. Marry me, and I will ensure you retain your property and more. I will take your business into my care, and treat it as my own.”
“I wish to leave it to my sons,” she pointed out gently.
“In the fullness of time, they would of course inherit. But as my wife, you could bestow so much more on them. They could become my heirs, although I would prefer to sire heirs of my own. However I would look on them favorably.”
Her bewildered thoughts caught up with her. He meant it. That was the reason for the clothes and the fine china. He was proposing to her.
Mr. Stephenson was a fine catch; everyone would tell her. His enterprise was much greater than hers, and he was of excellent standing, his name a byword for reliability. “Sir, I fail to understand. Why would you want me?” He could have someone with a greater fortune and influence. “I heard that Miss Child was interested in you.” Vague rumors, that was all, but the daughter of a banker would have been a fine catch.
He waved a hand, the lace ruffle at his wrist catching the light. “I do not believe we would suit. I am serious, Annie.”
“Mr. Stephenson—”
His voice softened. “Joseph. Please call me Joseph.”