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MARGARET’S HEARTBEAT hammered, and her chest squeezed. She opened her mouth to speak, but the effort evidently required superhuman strength, for nothing came out. She had the horrible sense her eyes were bulging, and that her face had adopted an unflattering pallor that only appeared during occasions of stress.
“Miss Carberry?” Mr. Owens glanced about the room, as if searching for the bell pull.
She straightened her shoulders.
He was not going to usher in any servants.
He was going to assist her, and he was going to be happy about it.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Owens, though we have not known each other for long, I confess I have noticed that we have certain mutual interests. Books, for instance. And er—indoor pursuits.”
In truth, her favorite things to do this weekend had been outdoor pursuits, but now was not the time to linger on that.
He narrowed his eyes. “I am not a Jonathan Swift devotee.”
“Er—yes. I meant books in the general sense.”
He nodded, retaining a suspicious gaze.
“Circumstances have—er—occurred, and I find myself in immediate need of a husband.”
“Every young lady is in immediate need of a husband,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she squeaked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Now was not the time to disagree with him.
He gave her a patient smile. “My dear child, it is a pity that intelligence is not evenly distributed between man and woman. It is not your fault though.”
Heavens.
She’d thought Mr. Owens perfect when she’d first met him. The mere fact that he’d been in a library had seemed a cause for approval. Even his imperfect physique, which reminded her of her own, had made her feel safe. She’d been suspicious of anyone unlike her.
She wavered.
For one moment.
One moment in which she wanted to leave the library and wait for everyone to return.
But then she remembered Jasper’s expression when her parents and his friends had discovered them. She remembered the paleness of his face, the odd tremor in his otherwise sturdy jaw, and his protestations.
No.
She wasn’t going to condemn him to a fate he didn’t desire.
She assessed Mr. Owens. Perhaps this man didn’t make her heartbeat quicken, but quickening hearts weren’t practical.
“Before I say something,” she said, “you should know I don’t intend to love you.”
The man’s eyes widened.
Perhaps she hadn’t broached the subject with sufficient delicacy.
Fiddle-faddle. She hadn’t been taught to say such things.
And yet, he was her only hope, and she needed to ask him. She needed to rescue Jasper from an unwanted marriage.
“Nevertheless,” she continued, “I believe that we are not entirely unsuited for each other.”
“Do you have a point?” he asked. His visage had darkened, and his eyes, that had seemed mostly neutral, if not precisely genial, had a distinct moody edge. It was the sort of look one wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alleyway. Thankfully, they were in a reasonably well-lit library, and she thought he would like what she would say next.
After all, Papa was not exactly poor.
“I have reconsidered your offer from earlier. I would like to marry you,” she said quickly.
The man looked appalled.
“You’re proposing to me?” Mr. Owens asked finally.
“Er—yes.”
It was too late to take the words back, and she needed to remember that the reason why she’d said the words in the first place—Jasper’s happiness—had not changed. She rather wished though that Daisy were here. She would like to confer with her.
“So, what do you say?” she asked.
Mr. Owens was silent.
Not good.
“I do have a dowry of course. It’s—er—rather sizable. People think it’s not large because my parents aren’t like the other parents here, but it’s—er—pretty big.”
“Your father is in industry.” Mr. Owens face contorted.
Why did people’s faces always do that when they spoke of her father? Perhaps he wasn’t the youngest son of a baronet, but he’d done more than any of those sons had ever done. More than go to war and spend the rest of his time prancing about in a uniform. More than becoming a bishop and patronizing everyone with his supposed words of wisdom.
“He’s in industry, yes,” she confirmed.
Mr. Owens didn’t blush, but he did avert his eyes. Margaret took that as a triumph. But she didn’t have time to celebrate it.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for a woman to ask a man to marry him,” Mr. Owens said finally. “Not something I would care to share with others.”
“For goodness’ sake.” Margaret quelled the instinct to roll her eyes. “You propose to me again in that case. And then we’ll have to leave.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting a hasty wedding,” Mr. Owens said. “It’s not appropriate.”
Margaret chewed on her bottom lip. “Did you truly have so many people you wanted to invite to your wedding?”
Mr. Owens was silent. He gave her a wounded look and pressed his lips together. She suspected that if they were married, he would not be so restrained in his commentary.
“So, you’re proposing we elope?” he said finally. “That we depart in the most scandalous manner possible? And then we spend the rest of our lives together, even though, as you said, we are not in love?”
Margaret’s lower lip wobbled.
He was correct. The idea was mad. The only thing she’d accomplished was to horrify him and make her demeanor seem tawdrier. What sort of woman went about proposing to men she barely knew?
“I-I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”
He shrugged. “No, no. I’m just making certain I understand everything. Normally, being in love is a requirement for eloping couples. The process is so foolish.”
Margaret swallowed hard. “Of course. And if you marry me, you wouldn’t be able to marry someone to whom you were more suited. I shouldn’t have asked you.”
“Nonsense. You think I believe in such sentimental drivel?” He shook his head. “Women’s novels. An entirely abhorrent influence on the weaker sex. Come now, child. There is nothing to worry about. I will marry you.”
This was when Margaret’s heart should have been soaring, but instead it felt tighter in her chest, as if it had turned to glass and might easily shatter.
Her plan had worked.
“Because of the money?” she asked.
“That helps. Besides, like you said, I don’t think I was expecting to marry anyone better, and this saves me the trouble of courting. Women can be quite demanding. All those visits to a girl’s parents’ house with conversations that last as long as it takes to empty a teapot.”
She turned to him. “In that case, we’ll need to act now.”
“Right.” The man frowned with the air of someone who has hitherto prided himself on taking his time, and now is required to hurry and must imagine what that process looks like.
Mr. Owens touched his cravat, and she gritted her teeth. Ensuring he had a straight cravat was not an essential part of the elopement process.
“Please,” she implored. “Once they return from the garden—”
He sighed. “Go upstairs, bring as much attire as you can as quickly as you can. I’m not going to wait for some modiste to make new clothes for you. Then come down. I’ll tell the footman that I need my carriage. I hope he can get hold of my groom quickly. I’ve been using the Duke of Jevington’s valet, so at least I won’t have to wait for him. Understand?”
Her shoulders sank in relief. This was happening. This was good.
“Now do not tarry,” Mr. Owens said, “or there will be much explaining to do.”
Margaret turned and rushed from the room. She sprinted up the stairs, quickly found her room and began to pile clothes into her suitcase. Her fingers shook, and she wished she had her maid to help her. No doubt she was assisting the servants here.
“Margaret?” Juliet stared at her. An odd expression drifted onto her friend’s face. “Are you quite well?”
“Naturally,” Margaret said, blinking rapidly. She refused to cry.
Juliet drew her eyebrows together with the knowing air of a governess who suspected a frog, temporarily masked by papers, might be hopping on her desk.
“What’s wrong?” Juliet asked sternly.
“Nothing!” Margaret squeaked. She continued to throw clothes into her valise.
“Should I ring for the maid?” Juliet asked.
“There’s no time,” Margaret said. “The thing is—I’m eloping.”
Juliet’s eyes goggled. “With whom?”
“A Mr. Owens,” Margaret said.
“Where does he live?”
Margaret scrunched her forehead. “I forgot to ask him. Well, there will be much to learn about him on our journey to Gretna Green.”
“You mustn’t do it,” Juliet said. “I haven’t heard you mention this man. You can’t love him.”
“I’m not you,” Margaret said. “I have fewer options.”
“Just because a man proposes, doesn’t mean you need to accept,” Juliet said.
“I didn’t. Not at first,” Margaret said. “I—er—just told him I changed my mind.”
“So you mean to travel alone with this man to Gretna Green?”
“Yes?”
“Travel for over a week alone?”
“Yes.” Margaret nodded rapidly.
Juliet sighed. “I’m coming with you.”
“But you mustn’t!” Margaret exclaimed.
“You won’t be married. You require a chaperone.”
“But you’re unmarried. Your reputation—“
“I’m betrothed,” Juliet said. “Besides, you’re more important.”
Margaret blinked, stunned.
Juliet tossed her hair, proceeded to drop her clothes into Margaret’s valise. “I’m ready.”
“G-Good.”
Juliet smiled, opened the door, and Margaret then rushed back downstairs, hauling her luggage with her. She’d packed lightly, despite Mr. Owens’ words. There were only so many ball gowns one could wear when eloping.
“Miss Carberry!” The butler uttered a startled cry. “What are you doing?”
Fiddle-faddle. “Just—er—bringing this valise to put in Mr. Owens’ carriage.”
The butler furrowed his brow. “Mr. Owens tasked you to carry one of his valises?”
The statement was absurd, but Margaret forced herself to smile. “Just from the landing. I’m afraid I—er—took the initiative. It’s really not important.”
“A helpful person. Hmph.” The butler firmed his lips. “We have footmen for that.”
He snapped his fingers, and a footman appeared from an adjoining room.
“Carlson, see that Mr. Owens’ valise is placed in his carriage,” the butler said. He then turned back to Margaret. “I was not aware Mr. Owens was leaving.”
“I do not believe Mr. Owens had planned to leave so early,” Margaret said, and the butler inclined his head, evidently accepting her statement.
Mr. Owens proceeded down the steps as the footman returned inside. Relief swept through Margaret. No more awkwardness with the butler.
“Ah, another valise, Mr. Owens?” the butler asked.
“Quite,” Mr. Owens said with an unctuous smile.
The marriage would be fine. He was in possession of a modicum of intelligence. Nevertheless, happiness didn’t exactly thrum through Margaret.
She wondered when it finally would.
Mr. Owens opened the door for her, and Margaret scrambled inside the carriage. Mr. Owens followed her and settled onto the seat opposite. Then Juliet slid in beside Margaret.
“Who are you?” Mr. Owens stammered.
“I am Lady Juliet,” Juliet said. “Miss Carberry’s chaperone.”
Mr. Owens’ mouth fell.
The driver opened the latch. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Owens managed to say.
“Very well, sir,” the driver said, and in the next moment, the carriage moved.
Too late, Margaret realized it was customary for a woman in her situation to write a note. Her mother would be confused.