“You must give me time to think,” I repeated. As he was still on one knee, my neckline was at his eye level; I wished he’d stand up, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. Maybe the man did not rise again until you said yes. “This is an important decision in a lady’s life, as I am sure you understand.”
He looked up at me. “I do understand.” And then he was speaking in a rush: “Though, please, be merciful, do not take too long. You have made me feel like a young man again, Miss Rav—Or may I call you by the name I call you in my heart? May I call you—Mary?” He went on without waiting for an answer: “Yet as the poet said, ‘But at my back I always hear, / Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near—’ I am as ardent as any man of one and twenty, but I am—and my health—my prospects are—I am—Perhaps I can talk to your brother—I—”
His head was practically in my chest, so I pulled him in the rest of the way, anything to stop this torrent of words. His nose found harbor in the cleft next to the spectronanometer; his moan of pleasure vibrated through my rib cage as he wrapped his trembling arms around my waist.
“Mary,” he said. “Oh, Mary.”
We stayed like that for a while, our breath coming fast. The moment felt deceptively peaceful, like something had been resolved. But when he turned his head and began to nibble along the top of my dress, bringing his hands up to untuck my fichu and then to try to ease my breasts out of the confines of my corset and toward his mouth, I realized we were not at Mansfield Park, and I had to make a decision fast.
“Mr. Austen!” I cried, pushing him away and jumping back, my outrage partly genuine, but also fighting down a laugh. Had I expected him to show the restraint of one of the heroes in his sister’s novels? “Is this how you offer your hand?”
It took him a moment to regain his balance before he stood up with remarkable dignity, everything considered, pulling down his waistcoat and smoothing his trousers. His face was flushed; he shot a quick glance at me and then away. “Miss Ravenswood, forgive me. You have made me forget myself.”
“Perhaps you had better go.” His use of my first name had seemed presumptuous, but switching back to my last felt cold. He had the shamefaced expression some men get after sex when they want nothing more to do with you. “I will think, hard, about what you have said.”
An amused look came into his eyes for the first time in this conversation, and with a tiny smile he stepped forward and bowed over my outstretched hand. “I leave you to your thoughts, madam.” And with one more conspiratorial glance, he was gone.
I sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands. I sat for a while, very still, eyes closed, trying not to replay what had just happened; I would think about it all later. Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Was Henry here?” Liam asked, walking into the room. “I thought I saw him in his carriage just now, but he didn’t seem to—” He stopped. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
I looked down to find I was still holding my fichu. “Um,” I said, going to the mirror over the mantel and tucking the length of fabric back into place. “Yes, he was here.” My face was flushed, my hair in more than usual disarray. As I tidied it, I looked from my reflection to Liam’s. He’d followed me to the mirror, staring at me in what looked like horror.
“Are you all right? Did he—did he do something?” I turned from the mirror to him as he held his hands out, like he was about to touch me reassuringly, but couldn’t decide where and then thought better of it. He took a step back, still looking down at me, wide-eyed. “Did he do something to you?”
“I’m fine.” I nodded toward the open door and put a finger to my lips. “Let’s take a walk.”
IT WAS NO WEATHER FOR FRIVOLOUS OUTINGS, THE AIR DAMP AND the clouds thick, threatening rain at any moment, and I shivered despite spencer and shawl as we turned in the direction of Berkeley Square.
“He asked me to make him the happiest of men,” I said without preamble.
“Did he really? Amazing.” Liam’s tone was low and cautious, and he kept shooting sideways glances at me. “What did you tell him?”
“Your amazement is a little unflattering. It’s like I’ve never received a proposal of marriage before.” In fact, I never had, but now that the shock was wearing off, I felt my spirits rising; I could not suppress a grin of triumph.
Liam gave me another quick glance as if assessing my sanity. “Amazing, as in—grand—brilliant. It means we’ve succeeded in convincing them that we—But what did you say to him, Rachel dear?”
“I told him I had to think it over.”
“And how did he take that?”
I paused, recalling the enjoyable sensation of his nose in my cleavage. “As well as can be expected.”
“He didn’t ask to talk to me?” Henry would need to have the money conversation with the male relatives of anyone he hoped to wed; marriage was as much about property as love. What he could offer, what I brought to the table, terms of the settlement.
“I think he said something about talking to you. We didn’t really get into it.”
“He was too busy removing articles of your clothing?” Liam demanded, his voice rising. I blinked; had he just said that? “Whispering sweet nothings? Pledging his undying love?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
He turned his head away and did not reply for a long moment. I looked down the street, a tunnel of terraced houses bristling with ironwork and watchful with windows. And at the end, Berkeley Square opened up to swirling gray clouds behind bare tree shapes, like a promise of freedom.
“I’m sorry. I’ve no right to ask about anything that happened between you and him. Except as pertains to the mission.”
His words were formal, his tone careful. Could he be jealous? I felt a flutter of hope, also amusement. “There’s nothing to—”
“Of course you’re attracted to him. He’s a compelling—You just have to be careful, that’s all, we both have to be careful, this—You don’t want to change history, is what I’m saying. At least—at least not more than we apparently already have.” He fell silent, looking miserable. “He’s the sort of man one can’t help—But just be careful, Rachel. This is not our world.”
“You don’t imagine I feel anything for him? I’m playing a part. Remember?”
“I see how you look at each other,” Liam muttered. “I don’t judge, but I see. You’ve not acted before, you don’t know; it happens before you know it’s happened, when the feelings you feign become the feelings you—” He stopped.
I thought of the sensation that had overtaken me when I was with Henry, of vanishing into the role. As we reached the square and stepped in under the bare trees, the sky had grown darker; a drop of rain plinked onto the brim of my bonnet, then another.