At least, she had not used that exact word. She had expressed the preference for being wed rather than unwed when she traveled to Wensbury to find her maternal grandparents. She had not actually said she wished to be wed to him, though, had she? But no, there was no hope to be grasped at there without being ridiculous about it. She had meant him.
He ought to have known he was in danger when he set Edwin Goddard the task of finding the Reverend Snow and his wife. He ought to have known it when Edwin greeted him on his return home soon after noon today with the letter that had been delivered earlier and he, Avery, had taken only the time to change his clothes before heading off to South Audley Street so that she would not be kept ignorant for one minute longer than necessary. He ought to have known it when, after escorting Uxbury off the premises a couple of evenings ago following the magnificent setdown she had dealt him, he had given in to the overwhelming and quite unmannerly urge to cut in on Washburn and waltz with her himself. He ought to have known it when she wept over Harry. He ought to have . . .
God damn it all to hell, he thought, coming to an abrupt halt on the pavement, he was in love with her.
He acknowledged with a curt nod a couple of acquaintances who seemed to think he had stopped to chat with them and showed signs of slowing down to oblige him. He continued on his way, and they presumably continued on theirs.
He tried to picture her as she had been that first day with her hideous Sunday best outfit and ugly shoes. And all he could see was the dignity with which she had explained her presence in his house and then sat in the rose salon, and the courage with which she had looked him over there even when she realized that he was scrutinizing her.
She deserves to be married because she is everything in the world to one particular gentleman.
God damn it and a million or so other profanities and blasphemies he would utter aloud if he were not on the public street where he might be overheard. Everything in the world, indeed. It was enough to make him want to vomit.
Though it was just as well if he was in love with her, since he was doomed to marry her. He needed to marry in the foreseeable future anyway. It might as well be sooner rather than later. He had imagined, though, that when he finally got around to making his choice, the chosen one would be an acknowledged beauty, someone like Miss Edwards. He had danced with her once the evening before last and found himself wondering why he had so admired her just a few weeks ago. There was a certain softness to her face and figure that would almost certainly convert to plumpness and plainness within ten years, and he had wondered if she possessed enough character to make the inevitable changes of little importance.
Even then, with such uncharitable thoughts, he might have guessed the truth.
He had never been in love. He had never come close. He did not even know what the term meant. He was not off his food or off his sleep. He felt no urge to write a sonnet dedicated to her left eyebrow—or the right for that matter—and none whatsoever to sing a ballad of love lost below the window of her bedchamber in the dead of night. He did not feel lovelorn when he was out of her presence or lovestruck when he was in. He had not even suspected until a short while ago when it had popped into his head to offer to marry her himself and put the whole lot of them out of their misery.
No one had been miserable.
Yes, she had. She had made that impassioned little speech about feeling like an object, a commodity. She had described all the frenzy of male interest her appearance in society had aroused as though it were the worst possible insult that could happen to anyone. Most ladies would sacrifice a right arm for half the attention. To her it was a misery.
He had offered her marriage to put her out of her misery. He did not care about anyone else’s.
At least she would know he was not marrying her for her money.
He climbed the steps to Archer House, rapped on the door, handed his hat and cane to his butler, and eyed the stairs, a frown between his brows. What he felt like doing was splitting a pile of bricks in two with the edge of his hand. But he had been taught long ago that he must never practice when he was feeling out of sorts. The arts he had learned were not an antidote to bad temper. What he ought to do was go up and have a word with Jessica. She would be less than delighted with his news, and it was not fair to expect his stepmother to break it to her.
He never did anything because he ought to do it.
Except this one thing, he thought with an inward sigh as he made his way up to the schoolroom.
*