Page 61 of The Chaperone
‘But you have not lost me, my lord.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Technically, of course, you have not had possession of me to lose.’
‘I do not yet have your hand, but, is it presumptuous of me to ask, do I have your heart, Sophy?’
‘Yes, oh yes, you do.’
He touched her hand, fleetingly.
‘I am sorry. This was not the right place or time, but I was so impatient to know. Forgive me that. I shall not be found beating upon the door as soon as your father sets foot in his house, but the next day, I shall request an interview with him, and then I shall speak with you privately, and ask for the hand that accompanies the heart, ask for all of you, to be my wife.’ His voice, barely above a whisper, trembled as he gave a little laugh. ‘And that is surely the length of time this sofa permits.’
He rose, taking her hand once more, bent over it and kissed it, then left her before the urge to kiss more than the fingers overwhelmed him. He could have danced a jig in the middle of the dance floor. She had said yes, informally, but yes.
For her part, Sophy sat very still for a minute, marshalling her thoughts, which had been scattered like the seeds of a dandelion in a summer breeze.
Sir Esmond Fawley looked down at the beautiful face of Miss Tyneham, with her perfect features, framed by raven hair, and her very blue, and very wary, eyes.
‘You appear very thoughtful this evening, Miss Tyneham.’
‘I am wondering, Sir Esmond, why you want to dance with someone of whom you disapprove, and why I agreed to let you lead me into this set.’
‘I cannot provide the answer to the latter, but as to the former, “disapprove” is not accurate. I shall not explain further, but I do have a question for you.’
‘For me, Sir Esmond?’ Her finely arched brows drew into a small frown.
‘Yes. Why, exactly, do you hate all men, Miss Tyneham?’ He made it sound quite a casual enquiry, but she gasped, and it was a moment before she responded.
‘You have met my brother, Tyneham. Surely that suffices as an answer, sir.’
‘No. Hating him is something easy to understand, and if most people merely dislike him, you have the disadvantage of having been in closer proximity to him for longer. However, to expand this hatred to cover the entire male sex appears – a trifle excessive.’
‘I do not “hate” all men. I simply see them for what they really are – selfish, heartless and arrogant.’
‘And so choose to counter that by exhibiting those same traits? I see.’
‘How dare you.’ Her hand, clasped in his far larger one, tensed.
‘Ah, now you are going to say that in my case you do hate me. Yes, I did rather fall into that one.’ Sir Esmond smiled, a little ruefully.
‘I am not going to say anything at all, sir,’ she countered, proving herself wrong in the process. She coloured, which was odd for Susan Tyneham.
‘Then I shall take the opportunity to say something. Devoting yourself to avenging your mama is not going to give you a life you will look back upon with pleasure in the years to come. Nor is alienating those family members who might otherwise have shown you kindness.’
‘You mean pity. I would rather be hated than pitied, as my mama was pitied.’ Susan’s lip curled.
‘Would not being liked, being loved, be better than both?’ The question was put gently enough.
‘Those things are transient, or feigned. My mama told me how my father wooed her, and once he had won her, all sign of love or liking disappeared. I will not be fooled as she was.’
‘And could it not be that she was an unfortunate case and not the norm? Look about you, and ask yourself if all the married ladies you see here tonight look ignored, disliked, unloved.’
The frown grew deeper. She looked at him, more closely than she had ever before, and acknowledged a truth. Sir Esmond Fawley, the mere baronet who showed no fawning devotion to her, no sign of being in thrall to her, was dangerous. He was dangerous because he seemed so unthreatening – too … genuine, too nice. What he said had to be wrong, for if he was not – no, she could not believe she was so wrong.
‘I think you are trying to persuade me, sir, for the sake of my cousin.’
‘I am trying to persuade you for your own sake, if you would but believe it.’
‘I do not.’ The voice was firm, but Sir Esmond thought, hoped, that there was just the smallest hint of doubt.
When she was claimed by another at the end of the dance, and appeared almost ferociously bright and flirtatious, he sighed, and shook his head. He must be a fool.
