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BREAKFAST WAS LESS stimulating once the duke left.
“Are you interested in botany, Miss Carberry?” Mr. Owens said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t given much thought to botany,” she said.
“Ah.” He shook his head gravely. “That is a mistake in a young lady. It is important for every young lady to know about botany.”
“You believe so?” Mama asked, and her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Oh, indeed,” Mr. Owens said solemnly, nodding with such force that a double chin appeared. “What could be more feminine than flowers?”
“Indeed.” A pensive look drifted onto Mama’s face.
“And you are an expert on flowers, Mr. Owens?” Papa asked.
Mr. Owens tightened his jaw and stretched his lips cumbersomely. If clocks had smiles, they would resemble Mr. Owens’.
“I can imagine you’re quite unfamiliar with flowers. Can anything grow in Scotland, since it’s so far north?” Mr. Owens shrugged, obviously assigning his question prematurely to the rhetorical variety.
“I assure you,” Margaret said, “that plenty of flowers do grow in Scotland. We know. We have seen them.”
“All the same,” Mama said, “perhaps Mr. Owens would be kind enough to show you around the garden.” She looked at him. “I doubt my dear daughter is aware that flowers extend beyond roses, and I rather suspect she cannot name them.”
Margaret flushed. When she’d told Mr. Owens she hadn’t given much thought to botany, it had been in the hopes of halting a potentially irritating conversation about pistils and petals.
It seemed she was now going to be subjected to a more intensive discussion.
“Miss Carberry, I will be happy to address the gaps in your knowledge,” Mr. Owens said. “I can assure you that my knowledge is irreproachable.”
“How splendid for you,” Margaret said.
He gave a casual shrug. “You are too kind, Miss Carberry. I am enchanted.”
Enchanted?
Margaret drew back.
Mr. Owens rose and extended a hand toward her. “Please, let us go.”
Margaret put down a half-eaten piece of toast. She hoped lunch would be served soon. She’d been too nervous to eat much.
She glanced at her mother. “Did you want to join us?” Margaret despised the unfamiliar pleading tone in her voice.
Mama blinked. “Ah, nonsense. What do I need to know about flowers? Besides, we can see you from this room.”
Margaret’s hope drifted away, abandoning her with the speed of a leopard racing over the plains.
Papa slathered some marmalade onto his toast, and a smile appeared on his face. “This is good. Did you try some, young man?”
“I haven’t,” Mr. Owens said reluctantly.
Papa shook his head. “You’re missing out.”
Margaret noticed that Papa didn’t pass the marmalade to Mr. Owens. She waited a moment, to see if Papa would add anything else, but when he slathered another piece of toast with marmalade, she rose as well and joined Mr. Owens.
“Have a good time, dear,” Mama said. “You better go now. I think it might rain.”
Margaret frowned. The sky’s cerulean color hardly harbingered rain.
“Hurry,” Mama said, and Margaret followed Mr. Owens from the room.
Her heart sank as they walked through the corridor, then left the castle.
She didn’t feel more buoyant when they strode outside, even when the warm sunbeams hit her skin, and even when she inhaled the floral fragrance of the nearby flower garden.
The latter scent only made her stiffen.
Oh, well.
She could take a stroll in a garden with him. After all, she hadn’t been exactly comfortable in the duke’s presence. It was nice to have one’s heart move at a more steady pace, and for sweat to no longer spring up spontaneously on the back of her neck as if she’d accidentally worn a woolen dress intended for the coldest days of the year.
Voices sounded from the other side of the hedges, and she peered over, spotting the brim of the duke’s top hat. He and his friends were laughing together, and she was reminded of the group of little boys who’d all had in common that their fathers had died. Her heart squeezed, and she was happy they still had one another.
“No need to tarry,” Mr. Owens said. “Exercise is good for somebody of your form.”
Margaret stiffened.
“You should walk for two hours each day, no excuses,” Mr. Owens said. “Forty-five minutes after each meal.”
“That’s one hundred thirty-five minutes,” Margaret said automatically. “That’s over two hours.”
“Are you certain?” Mr. Owens scrunched up his forehead.
“Yes,” Margaret said.
Mr. Owens shrugged. “All the better, then.”
“I believe you may have meant forty minutes after each meal,” Margaret said.
“Excuse me?”
“Because that would be one hundred twenty minutes.”
The man stared at her blankly.
“Two hours, instead of over two,” Margaret said quickly.
“Er—right,” Mr. Owens said. “So it is. I was perhaps over generous with my recommendation given your—” He waved his hand in her general direction.
Margaret flushed. “Do you walk two hours each day?”
Mr. Owens’ eyes widened, then he laughed. “You are amusing. Naturally, I do not walk so much each day. I do not need to do so.
“Is there something about me that you would like to say?” Margaret asked sternly.
Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “There is. I must say, I’m surprised you asked. So many women are less direct. I do know they are the weaker species, but I am always surprised by just how weak they are.”
“Women are not a different species,” Margaret said.
There was more she wanted to say, but she could at least say that.
Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “You are quite pedantic, young lady.”
“I want to be correct,” Margaret said, but her voice wobbled.
“Well, well. I suppose there is nothing wrong with the urge to flaunt one’s intelligence. It is odd we say that children should be seen but not heard. It is a rule some people should not forget.” He gave her a significant look. “Besides, there’s something more important you should focus on.”
“Indeed?” She steadied her jaw, lest her lips scowl.
“Your curves, dear woman, are excessive. I’d hoped I could merely hint, but—” He gave a helpless shrug, “I see you require more clarification.”
Margaret inhaled. And exhaled. She clenched and unclenched her fists.
She was not going to lose her temper.
Margaret had lived her entire life without losing her temper. She was hardly going to start on a beautiful day in a beautiful garden by a beautiful castle.
“Mr. Owens, may I remind you that we only met yesterday?”
“It feels like longer.”
Margaret’s lips twitched. “Ah yes, each minute feels like a year.”
Mr. Owens guided her toward a rose bush. “These are—er—pink roses.”
Margaret had rather expected his botanical tour would involve more details.
There was an awkward silence, then Mr. Owens descended to the ground. He smoothed his trousers, fluffed his cravat, and moved his right knee forward.
“Are you quite well?” she asked.
She’d thought he must have had a mishap with his boots, but he’d been striding around quite capably before, and it seemed odd he would now struggle so much with them that he would require to adjust them.
The man wasn’t looking at his boots though. He was looking at her.
Margaret shifted her legs awkwardly. The ground might be well-maintained, but it was still uneven. No doubt that was the reason her knees buckled slightly.
Mr. Owens looked at her with intensity. It was almost as if—
She shook her head.
Naturally the man was not proposing. That would be impossible. Just because the man had taken her to an elaborate garden, filled with all manner of enchanting flowers and all manner of lovely fragrances, did not mean he was proposing.
That would be absurd.
He’d only just met her. And much of the time had been him criticizing her with various degrees of forcefulness.
No, just because some men chose to kneel while proposing did not mean he was about to express a ridiculous desire for them to entwine their lives together for all eternity.
Mr. Owens cleared his throat. “It is odd, Miss Carberry, that you agreed you had felt as if you had known me for a long time. I have an ambition to know you, in actuality, for a long time.”
She’d expected some sort of statement about flower stems, but he’d launched into a speech about time. “I don’t understand.”
He flashed his patronizing smile. “My dear child, will you agree to spend the remainder of your life with me?”
Margaret stepped back, and a thorn tore against her dress. “I-I don’t understand.”
“I am asking you to marry me,” he said.
“Oh.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “Say yes.”
Margaret was silent.
“It’s one word,” he said.
“This is happening quickly,” she said.
“Cupid’s arrow is not without speed,” he said. “Whoever heard of a slow arrow? Ha!”
Margaret’s lips wobbled.
The man had proposed.
He’d actually proposed.
Margaret had never had anyone propose to her before. Even having a man offer to dance with her was a rarity, but this man wanted rather more than a quadrille.
He wanted a marriage.
To her.
Margaret Carberry, wallflower and desperate debutante.
“I need an answer,” he said, his knee wobbling.
Right.
Margaret could answer. After all, she knew the correct answer: yes. Her mother had been striving for her to marry someone all year.
Perhaps Mr. Owens was not a duke. Perhaps he was a younger son of a baronet. But he could hardly be termed a dreadful match. Technically.
Margaret stared at Mr. Owens.
The man wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was at least of an average appearance. Perhaps his features were unremarkable, but they weren’t unpleasant.
She had more issues with his character. Reading had always seemed emblematic of a thoughtful person, but Mr. Owens seemed more interested with memorizing facts, with varying degrees of success, and repeating them at moments he deemed opportune.
And yet... how could she say no?