Simon’s brain was soporific from sated pleasure. His arms were limp, his legs were limp, his—ahem. Everything had been quite the opposite of limp just a few moments earlier.

For being his first time performing that particular dance, he rather thought he’d acquitted himself quite satisfactorily. And if there was room for improvement, well, that his favorite way to interpret until death do us part. He and Dahlia could spend the next thirty years perfecting the art of giving and receiving pleasure.

Then again, he hadn’t yet spoken the words. He’d meant to—tried to, in fact, repeatedly—but somewhere between reaching for the ring downstairs and reaching for his cock upstairs, he’d lost sight of the script and become distracted by what was happening on the mattress instead.

Now that they’d snuck the cart before the horse, however, it was past time to put things to rights.

He pushed himself up on one elbow and smiled. “Darling?”

She closed her eyes.

He cleared his throat and frowned. He’d been hoping for at least a modicum of visual reciprocity. Then again, perhaps this way was easier for her.

“I realize I’ve bungled the order of events,” he tried again, “but I’m hoping from now on, we can do things right.”

She grimaced as if beset by a sudden toothache.

He soldiered on. “It would make me the happiest of men, if you would do me the honor of—”

“No.”

The word was so soft, it was barely audible over the pounding of Simon’s heart and the rushing in his ears, and yet no whispered syllable had ever been louder or more devastating.

His knee! He had failed to propose on one knee. He was indeed bollixing the whole thing.

He leapt off the bed and nearly smacked face-first into the wall when he realized his breeches were still somewhere about his ankles. Cursing silently, he yanked the buckskin back up to his hips and carefully buttoned the fall before dropping to one knee directly in front of Dahlia’s field of vision.

If she were to open her eyes, that was.

“My darling Dahlia,” he said far more loudly than he intended.

Her eyes flew open, took in his genuflecting posture, and snapped shut even tighter than before.

The knee wasn’t working. The words weren’t working. He was going to have to try harder.

He grabbed her hands and yanked her into a seating position without releasing her fingers. She couldn’t ignore him now. They were practically holding hands. She was pale and stark naked, but he was still down on one knee, so perhaps this time his proposal would work.

“Marry me,” he said, skipping over the flowery bits. Perhaps the happiest of men line had become outré.

She tugged at her hands.

He refused to let her go.

Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” he repeated, baffled. “Are you already married?”

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Are you underage?” he asked, recoiling in horror.

“No!” She jerked her hands free and rubbed at her face. “Simon, I can’t marry you. I cannot.”

“Of course you can,” he stammered. “There’s three weeks of banns, and if that’s too rushed, we can have as long of an engagement as you desire.”

“There’s no point to an engagement,” she said miserably. “We’re not getting married.”

“Listen,” he said quickly, then paused when he realized he had never worked up a compelling speech to persuade her to his point of view. “I don’t have a title loftier than ‘Inspector’ and I’m afraid I haven’t a palace, but my home is truly quite pretty. Its only lack is that you aren’t there to—”

“I don’t even know where you live,” she interrupted, reaching for her trousers. “And you are never there. This is my home. Bow Street is yours.”

“Well,” he stammered as he searched in vain for a rejoinder. “All right, that’s not a bad point. But it’s also not the only point. I like you, Dahlia. I’ve enjoyed every moment I have spent with you. Er, possibly excepting this one. You have a quick mind and a bottomless heart. I think your school is wonderful. I think you are wonderful. I like your earnestness and your empathy and your unpredictable nature. I don’t want to change you from who you are. I’d just like you to also be my bride.”

“You’ve no idea who I am,” she said with a sigh. “You think you do, but headmistress-in-trousers is possibly the smallest part.”

“No one is their job,” he assured her. “Being an inspector isn’t the sum total of my life either.”

Except it had been. Right up until he met her. She had helped him become a complete person. And was now tearing his heart into tiny pieces. His throat tightened.

She pulled her shirt over her head without comment and began to methodically fasten the buttons.

His neck heated. He was still bare chested. Here he was, trying to be devoted and romantic, and he looked about as presentable as some vagabond drunk on Blue Ruin.

Simon yanked his wrinkled shirt on as elegantly as could be expected, then shoved his clammy hands through the arm holes of his waistcoat and the sleeves of his rumpled tailcoat.

Clearly Dahlia was unsure about him. He either needed to become a better man or prove to her he was already a good one. Thus far, luck had not been with him.

She moved toward the bedchamber door and twisted the key in the lock.

His opportunity was quickly dwindling.

“Are you afraid I’m asking only out of obligation, because of what we just did in your bed?” Simon pulled the ring from his waistcoat pocket and brandished it with shaking fingers. “Dahlia, look at me. I love you. I always meant to ask.”

“I love you, too.” She swallowed visibly, her eyes glossy. “The answer is still no. It will always be no. I’m sorry, Simon. I am resolute.”

Her words slammed into his gut like cannon fire. That was that. He had failed.

He gave a stiff nod and dropped the ring back into his pocket. If love wasn’t enough to sway her, he had nothing left to offer. He held his head as high as he was able, rolled back his shoulders, and marched out of her bedchamber…

And out of her life for good.