“Now then, we can get to it.” Randolph rubbed his hands together like a man anticipating a good meal. He sat at the writing desk in Robert’s bedchamber. Robert watched him draw a notepad and a small pencil from his coat pocket and lay them out before him. “First, a list of the things you need. Some flowers, I think. I’ll take care of those.” He jotted it down.
“You think flowers are necessary?”
“Women love flowers, don’t they? And then privacy. This is a large house. We’ll find a spot.”
Robert thought of the library, then wondered if a fresh place might be better.
“So, what do young ladies expect from a proposal?” Randolph asked. “You have more experience with society. You must know.”
“I’ve never actually offered for anyone before.” Which had been Flora’s point, Robert noted. He hadn’t offered for her.
“Nor I.” Randolph frowned, then brightened. “Literature is full of famous love stories. Let me see. We never hear precisely what Paris says to Helen to lure her away from Greece, do we?”
Robert gazed at his handsome brother with budding fascination. “He started a war.”
“True. Not a good example. There are problems with Romeo and Juliet. Hmm, Troilus and Cressida. A remarkable number of great lovers end up betrayed or dead, don’t they?”
“More than I realized,” replied Robert dryly.
“Tristan and Isolde. No, the Guinevere triangle problem. Heloise and Abelard—oh, definitely no! Quite inappropriate.”
Robert gazed at him. “Because?”
“Heloise’s uncle had Abelard castrated.”
“Good God!”
Plato added an emphatic harrumph. Randolph gave the dog on the hearthrug a startled glance. Robert pursed his lips. He tried to avoid addressing Plato in anyone else’s hearing.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t look to literature,” Randolph concluded.
“I think not.”
“Writers seem to sacrifice verisimilitude for drama.” Randolph considered. “I’ve performed many weddings of course and spoken with the couples beforehand. Though not about the proposals.”
“Your dedication to my cause is flattering, Randolph. But…why are you so interested?”
“Well, I intend to make an offer myself next season.”
“I didn’t realize you had a bride in mind.”
“I don’t, yet. I’m determined to find one, however, and…ah. Oh. That’s it.”
“What?” Robert was increasingly rapt.
“Never mind.”
“No, no, you must tell me what has made you go white.”
Randolph grimaced. “Mama took me along to a ton party a few years ago when I was visiting London. I sloped off to a quiet corner, because I knew very few people there, you see. A group of very fashionable young ladies congregated on the other side of this…arrangement of greenery and began dissecting their acknowledged and hoped-for beaus in, really, daunting detail. You can’t imagine.”
“Ah, they compare notes. I’ve heard a bit of that.” It had been educational.
“They might have been touts handicapping a horse race, or placing bets on a cricket match,” Randolph said. “Only more graphic and…ruthless. Also, they knew things that I had thought hidden from gently reared females. What they’d said about Colefax! And then cackled like a bunch of hens.” Randolph shuddered. “I thanked God that none of us were mentioned. If I’m to face girls like that next spring…well, as Sebastian would say, I need more ammunition.”
Robert hid a smile.
His brother let out a breath. “So, then. All young ladies like to be told they’re wonderful.”
“Don’t we all?” Robert murmured.
“And unique. That’s important, I believe. We…you should say there’s no one else like her.”
Flora certainly fit the bill in that regard, Robert thought.
Randolph scribbled on his notepad. “Mention that she’s changed your life, can’t live without her.”
Also perfectly true, Robert acknowledged.
“What else?” his brother wondered.
“Actually ask her to marry me?”
“That goes without saying.”
“And yet, it doesn’t,” Robert murmured. “Which is the point of this rather odd exercise.”
“I’m sure you can find the words for that. You’re a veritable tulip of fashion, aren’t you? Acknowledged wit and all that?” Randolph’s smile softened the comment.
“I once thought so.”
Randolph consulted his pad. “I think that covers it. So tomorrow then?”
Robert discovered a thread of anxiety deep in his consciousness. He banished it and nodded.
“Morning or afternoon?”
“The latter. Everyone is awake and alert.”
“But people are often scattered on various expeditions,” Randolph objected. “Harder to pin down.”
From the hearthrug Plato responded with a characteristic grumble.
Robert weighed options. “The hour before it is time to change for dinner, I think. There’s an…atmosphere of expectation. And yet nothing much to do.”
The dog’s curmudgeonly gurgle included a snort at the end, rather like an exclamation point. Robert nearly answered him.
“Good,” said Randolph. “I will begin the arrangements at once.” He stood. “Roses, I think. Yes, must find some roses.” He hurried out of the room.
Robert looked down. Plato’s brown eyes were not twinkling with amusement. It was merely a healthy shine.
* * *
On the following day, in the slack time before people went upstairs to change for dinner, Robert stood in his bedchamber once again, snipping the thorns off a single red rose with a pair of nail scissors.
“Good notion,” Randolph said. He shifted from one foot to the other, seeming more nervous than Robert. “Better than a great armload of flowers,” he said, not for the first time.
“Much better.”
“The gardener in the greenhouse thought so.”
Robert suspected the fellow was more interested in conserving his stock than a random guest’s wishes, but he didn’t say so. And if Flora chanced to throw her arms around his neck, accepting him, there would be no awkwardness about where to put a bouquet. There would be no bloody fingertips either, he thought as he finished his task, much as they might evoke his and Flora’s encounter in the brambles.
“I considered ordering up a bottle of champagne,” Randolph said. “But I decided that looked like overconfidence.”
“That seems wise.”
“I’ll go and herd her then, shall I?”
“Yes.” They—mostly Randolph—had chosen a small parlor on the south side of Salbridge Great Hall as the…Robert found himself thinking…stage. The room was little used but pretty, papered in a narrow green-and-white stripe and cozily furnished. He’d asked for a fire to be lit.
Randolph departed. As Robert waited the prescribed quarter hour, he thought of his married brothers. James had bungled his first proposal, as he told it, blurting out, “If you want a proper husband, take me.” He’d come right in the end, however. Nathaniel had made a stilted offer in form, with Violet’s parents right there looking on. Smiling, Robert wondered what Alan had said to Ariel. Had he given her a scientific argument about why she should favor him? Sebastian had no doubt flailed in a morass of words. They tended to get the best of him. Georgina had probably had to offer for herself. They all would have expected him to show them how it was done, Robert thought. But summoning smooth phrases was rather different when one’s entire future was at stake.
It was time. “Come, Plato,” he said.
In the drawing room, Flora hid a yawn. She’d played a longish game of cards with Frances Reynolds and some of the other young ladies. It had broken up, and now she was sitting with a group including Harriet. She didn’t know where Robert was, and she felt a bit anxious about that. They’d hardly spoken five words since her impulsive request for a proper proposal. He hadn’t seemed annoyed. But then…where was he?
Lord Randolph came in, surveyed the room, and came up to her with a polite bow. “Would you care to take a turn about the room?” he asked. “I think we’re all feeling rather cooped up on this wet day.”
“The rain has certainly worsened,” she said, rising to take his proffered arm.
“It was just a drizzle this morning when I was hunting down gardeners.”
“You were—”
“But it’s really pelting down now,” Randolph interrupted.
Indeed, water ran down the long windows overlooking the gardens. The patter of raindrops masked the conversations taking place around the drawing room.
They strolled along the outer wall, turned, and walked up the side of the chamber. “Very large room,” Randolph remarked. “Big enough to provide a decent walk on a filthy day. If you go ’round a few times.”
Flora agreed, wondering what had come over Robert’s scholarly brother. These were the remarks of a witless rattle.
“Shall we continue along the corridor?” he suggested as they neared the doorway.
Increasingly mystified, Flora agreed. They walked. Randolph began a rambling story about the artifacts he’d found hiking along Hadrian’s Wall. When he repeated one of his sentences, she started to ask him what was wrong. But at that moment he drew her into a pretty little parlor. “Just remembered something I have to do,” he said. He rushed out leaving her alone. She stood there, astonished. Had he been taken ill?
The door opened. Flora looked around, expecting Lord Randolph’s return. But no one came in. Then she caught a movement near her feet. Plato stood there. He had the stem of a red rose in his teeth, like a gypsy dancer.
“What in the world?” said Flora.
Plato sat. He stared up at her, solemn as a judge.
Flora reached for the bloom. As she grasped it, the dog opened his jaws and set it free. “Thank you?”
“I do hope you like red,” said a dearly familiar voice from the doorway.
Robert stood there, in an immaculate coat and pantaloons, the picture of a polished man of fashion. He came in, smiled at her in a way that made her pulse accelerate, and went down on one knee.
“Aren’t your knees sore? Mine are.” Flora nearly added to herself—idiot. Why had she said something so silly?
“We are not going to discuss my knees, or yours. Lovely as they are.”
Flora’s fingers tightened on the rose. There were no thorns, she realized. The implications of that fact nearly made her cry.
“We are not going to discuss at all,” Robert continued. “Or argue. I hope. I am simply going to tell you that I love you with all my heart.”
Flora swallowed the threatened, and unwanted, tears.
“And why is that?” he said, as if in one of her father’s Socratic sessions. “You are lovely, of course. The determination and compassion with which you fight for justice inspire me. You ravished my mind, which no one ever did before. Having met you, I can’t imagine any other wife. Indeed, I won’t have one.”
“Oh, Robert.”
“You will want to know about my fortune,” he said.
“No, I don’t ca—”
“It’s nothing like a duke’s, but I inherited a comfortable competence from a great aunt. I believe you have an income as well.”
Flora blinked in surprise.
“We would be a joint enterprise, would we not? You’d want a hand in the, er, direction of things? If, that is, you consent.” For the first time, his confidence seemed to falter.
“Yes,” said Flora. “Yes!”
“Is that a general yes? Or a yes limited to my financial question?”
“It is a wholehearted, unqualified yes.” She held out her hands. “Do get up. Your knee must hurt, whatever you say.”
“A bit.” He rose gracefully and started to pull her up into his arms.
The parlor door swung, and Lady Victoria surged in. “You’ve settled it at last. Bravo! I knew you would. I told Edward so.” Her fiancé followed her in. “We didn’t mean to listen at the door, but you left it a little open.” Her tone indicated that the interruption was demonstrably their fault. “Good, I can speak to you both at once.”
“Perhaps this is not the time?” Trevellyn suggested.
“It’s perfect.”
Trevellyn subsided in a manner that Robert deplored, in this instance. It also boded ill for the man’s future. Meeting Victoria’s eyes, Robert saw an iron will gazing back at him. The cat’s foot indeed.
Edward Trevellyn leaned on the mantelpiece and smiled fondly at his…future feline. Victoria plumped down on a sofa, the ruffles of her yellow muslin gown floating around her. “I wished to apologize to you. Both of you. Edward thinks I should. He has made everything clear to me.” She and Trevellyn exchanged a doting smile. “He is very wise.” Trevellyn basked in her admiration.
“Er, no doubt,” said Robert. Not a word he would have chosen to describe the fellow, but he wasn’t besotted with him.
Victoria clasped her hands at her bosom. “I see now that what I felt…thought I felt about you was just a silly schoolgirl crush.” She was as earnest as a parson. No, not a parson, Robert amended. Randolph was never that complacent. “I mean, it was ridiculous, really. You and me?”
“Just so.” Robert barely stopped himself from saying, “Couldn’t agree more.” Flora’s stifled choke of laugher didn’t help.
“I require a husband with true depth, not mere surface flash.” Victoria gazed at Trevellyn.
“That isn’t fair…” began Flora.
Robert silenced her with a sidelong glance. The last thing they wanted was to prolong this conversation.
“You’re not angry with me?” Victoria treated them to a melting gaze. She had a real flair for drama, Robert thought. She could have dominated the stage if only she’d been able to memorize lines. “Not at all,” he said. “Quite the contrary. I wish you very happy. You too, Trevellyn.”
“Good of you.” The other man stepped forward, extending a hand.
Robert shook it.
“As do I,” said Flora. “I expect you will be happy.”
“Oh, we will be.” Victoria smiled smugly.
“We’ll leave them alone now,” said Trevellyn.
Victoria started to object. He smiled and took her hand. She actually subsided and stood up. Perhaps the fellow was wise, Robert thought with silent thanks.
Lord Philip Moreton barged through the half-open door. “There you are. Heard your voice. I wanted to speak to you about—”
“Lord Robert is engaged to Miss Jennings,” said his sister.
“Oh yes? I wish you very happy. Could you come with me to speak to Phelps? I had this idea about the display tonight. It occurred to me that—”
“No,” said Robert.
Philip gave him a reproachful look. Randolph popped through the door exclaiming, “Congratulations!” He checked, clearly bewildered by all the people present. Robert gave him a nod for his vote of confidence.
“Splendid, isn’t it?” said Victoria.
“It’s just that they listen to you,” Philip argued.
“About what?” said Randolph. “Who? Did you ask her?”
“They’re engaged,” said Philip. “All right? Now can you all just—”
“Oh good.” Randolph grinned. “I was thinking the Guy Fawkes fireworks could be like a celebration of the engagement. Between, ah, ourselves, that is.” He looked at the others dubiously.
Flora emitted a small gurgle, like a woman who could contain herself no longer. Then she started laughing. Robert wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign until he met her eyes. Consigning the others to perdition, he took her hand. The way her fingers interlaced with his—naturally, confidingly—buoyed his spirits.
“We won’t go anywhere near the mud,” Philip explained. “And it won’t take long.” He jumped. “Hey!”
Plato had set his teeth into the ankle of Philip’s boot, Robert noted. It was a rather old boot, and Plato wasn’t biting down.
“Come on,” said Victoria. She grabbed her brother’s coattail and tugged him toward the door. With these reinforcements in place, Plato released him.
“But I haven’t finished. Stop that! You’ll tear my coat.”
She kept pulling. “They want to be alone,” she said, glancing pointedly at Randolph.
“Oh, of course,” said the latter.
The daughter of the house shoved the three gentlemen ahead of her into the corridor. And then, miraculously, they were alone, and Flora walked into Robert’s arms. She was still laughing.
“I hope the, ah, unanticipated addition didn’t spoil the proper proposal?” he asked.
“It was everything a lady could want,” she replied. She smiled up at him. “And so much more.”
Robert thought she sounded determined to be happy. Which was not quite the same as simply happy. But it was a mistake to overanalyze. He kissed her.