Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

“You are right,” he said after thinking again for a moment.

She would have loved to ask if he had had mistresses, but there were some subjects no lady would touch upon. Ladies were not supposed to know even that such persons existed or that many men used their services. Ladies did know, of course. They were not stupid. At least, most of them were not.

“You know exactly what you are looking for in a wife, then,” she said. “You have a list of attributes in your head. You may even have written them down—perhaps during the voyage here.”

Again there was that suggestion of amusement she had detected in him on a number of occasions, though he did not smile. “I have a good memory, Lady Jessica,” he said. “I believe it is women who like to make written lists.”

How did he know that? But of course he was quite right. How else could a woman plan a party?

“But there is a mental list, is there not?” she insisted. “Or was. You looked at me back at that inn and mentally checked off every point. I was even easy on the eyes. I wonder what number on the list that requirement was. Close to the bottom, at a guess, if not right at the bottom. And were there any qualities of character on the list at all? Or are women not supposed to have qualities of character?”

“You are offended,” he said.

“Yes, I am offended.” She looked up to see that the sun was about to break free of that big cloud. At last. “At your presumption and your arrogance in assuming that I will marry you merely because you are prepared to condescend to marry me. And also—”

“It is hardly condescension to decide to marry the daughter of a duke,” he said. “I am not myself a duke or a royal prince or a king. I am therefore somewhere below you on the social scale.”

“I am the daughter of a duke ,” she said, sketching a few circles in the air with one hand. “And that sums it all up, does it not? But that daughter of a duke, Mr. Thorne, is also a person. When you looked at me—at that inn, at the ball two evenings ago, in Avery’s drawing room yesterday, here today—did you see a person ? Did you see me ? I very much doubt it. You saw and you see the daughter of a duke.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and tipped his head slightly to one side. His eyes and the upper part of his face were half hidden in the shade cast by the brim of his tall hat. He looked awfully . . . appealing. Which fact annoyed her more than anything else. She did not know him either. She knew things about him, more now than she had known half an hour ago, but she did not know him . Why should one find another person appealing based entirely upon physical attributes? He might be an axe murderer for all she knew. Or a miserly businessman who cheated his clients and mistreated his employees and spent his evenings counting his cash.

He obviously had nothing to say in reply to her outburst. Perhaps he did not even know what she was talking about.

Did she?

And when had they stopped walking?

“I am not a commodity,” she told him, “to be bought and sold on the exchange. Have I used the right terminology? Do you not think you should hope to marry me rather than intend it? Do you not think you should work a little—no, that you should work hard —to win me? There must be all sorts of deals you have to work hard to achieve as a businessman. Should not I be at least as big a deal as any of them?”

She did not know quite what she was saying. But she had worked herself into a state of considerable agitation, rare for her. She was angry at the arrogance of this man, who had made a list, even if it was only in his head, found that she suited all his requirements, and decided without further ado that he would marry her. The presumption! How dared he?

Perhaps he might not have irked her so much if she did not find him appealing. And that fact infuriated her even more. How could she? Was she that shallow?

“You wish to be wooed, then, Lady Jessica?” he asked her.

Did she? She thought about it. “With a view to marriage?” she said. “That is the end for which a man woos a woman, is it not? It is sometimes a necessary but rather tedious step a man must take in order to persuade her to say yes. As though she lacked the intelligence to demand more?”

He still had his hands clasped at his back. She was still rooted to the spot. She wished she had brought her parasol from the curricle. She could twirl it about her head and give her hands something to do.

“No,” she said before he could answer. “I do not want to be wooed , Mr. Thorne. I am not at all certain it would accomplish its desired aim anyway. Indeed, I am almost certain it would not. But if you want a chance with me, then you will . . . Oh.” She circled the air with her hand again. Where were the right words when one most needed them? “You will romance me.”

His eyebrows rose. His eyes, darker than ever in the shade of his hat, were as intent upon hers as always. “Is it a verb?” he asked. “To romance?”

She stared at him, stupefied. “I have no idea,” she said. “I am no grammarian, Mr. Thorne. But it perfectly expresses what you must do if you wish to persuade me even to consider falling in with your intention. ”

“I must romance you,” he said. “How does it differ from wooing?”

She had no idea. Or, rather, she did, but how could she find the words to explain?

“Its end, its whole purpose, is not necessarily marriage,” she said. “It is about . . . oh, about persons. About feelings. About getting to know another person. Not just facts, but . . . getting to know the person behind the facts. And showing that person that you know and understand and like the whole person, regardless of imperfections. It is . . .”

“Falling in love?” he suggested when she struggled for further words. His eyebrows were still up.

“Oh,” she said, frustrated. “Not necessarily. It is about making the other person feel appreciated. It is about making her feel that she is a person, that she matters, that she is more precious than all the cold facts in her favor. It is about making her understand that she is more precious in your sight than all other women. It is making her feel that she is . . .”

“Loved?” he said when she was lost for words again.

She sighed deeply and audibly. “There are really no words,” she said. “No, it is not about falling in love or about loving. How can one do or feel either of those things in advance? You do not know me, just as I do not know you, Mr. Thorne. It is about the possibility of love. The possibility of friendship and laughter and . . . oh, and something more. Something bright and beautiful. Something that will transform life and fill it with color and . . .”

This time he did not end the sentence for her. Not immediately, anyway. They stared at each other.

“Romance,” he said at last.

What a prize idiot she had just made of herself. And she had no idea where it had all come from. Just an hour or two ago she had been planning a marriage for herself that was every bit as passionless and calculated as the one he proposed. And then she had got angry and . . . and this had happened.

Romance? She was twenty-five years old. Any man looking at her and considering her as a wife would have everything but romantic love in mind. She was horribly, hideously eligible. How could she expect any man to look beyond the facts that she was the daughter and sister of a duke, that she was wealthy, and that she had the upbringing and education and accomplishments of her rank? Romance at her age? Or at any age? It was laughable. It was pathetic.