Chapter Sixteen
When the coach stopped, Madeline approached Arthur as he waited for the horses to be changed. He gulped water from a pump outside and then splashed the liquid over his face. Beads of water dripped over his unshaven cheeks and glistened under the bright sunbeams.
He still wore rumpled evening attire. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous, but he appeared magnificent. He’d flung his tailcoat off, and his shirt sleeves billowed in the breeze.
He couldn’t look less appropriate, but the farmers stopping at the inn seemed much less taken in by the indecent manner the sun shone on his pantaloons, the thin material highlighting every curve of hard muscle.
She averted her gaze from him quickly. No need to linger on symmetrical features or sturdy torsos. She focused her attention on the crumbling stone inn, shading her eyes from the sun.
“Admiring the scenery?”
“Er—yes. The inn is quite intriguing.”
“Indeed?”
She despised the glimmer of amusement that danced in his eyes. Men weren’t supposed to have blue eyes. They were supposed to have brown eyes, preferably one of the duller versions of that less than vibrant color.
She approached him. Hesitation would not help her, no matter how much her heart seemed to desire to pitter patter in unusual rhythms in his presence as if it were practicing to be one of the overly romantic pianists common on the continent.
He smiled when he noticed her. “Wanted to stretch your legs?”
“Mm-hmm.” Somehow even that sound came higher than intended.
Never mind.
She surveyed the field, on the off chance she might see someone suspicious, but the few men in the area, dressed in leather breeches and sturdy shoes, seemed focused on chatting to one another over pitchers of ale.
No excuses.
This should have been a good thing, but broaching the topic of their possible marriage could not be a more unwelcome conversation topic.
Perhaps she’d misheard him, and he’d descend into laughter.
Marrying her of course would be ridiculous. Men weren’t prone to marrying women they couldn’t abide.
She’d had a marriage for purely practical inclinations, and she was in no hurry to repeat it. She was a widow and afforded more independence than other women.
“You told them we would get married,” Madeline said.
He didn’t laugh.
In fact he did the reverse—his face sobered, and he shifted his feet on the gravel ground in a manner that seemed almost embarrassed.
“Oh,” Arthur said. “I am sorry about that. Admiral Fitzroy rather assumed you were my fiancée, and naturally I didn’t want to contradict him.”
“I gathered they were under that impression.” Memories of Arthur’s lips on hers invaded her mind, and she glanced downward as if to feign interest in the ochre colored water pump. She inhaled. “But now that we are not being chased by angry Frenchmen—”
“We don’t know that,” Arthur said seriously.
Oh.
“Well we’re probably not being chased by them.”
“Hopefully not,” Arthur corrected.
“Well, I just didn’t think that was still the plan. Anyway. I’m just surprised that you still want to—”
“It’s not a question of want,” he said hastily. “It’s of duty.”
She blinked. “You know what I am. What I did.”
“The collection is complete now,” Arthur said. “Do you intend to move on to other jewel collections?”
Madeline shook her head, and outrage coiled through her body automatically. “Of course not.”
Arthur smiled satisfactorily. “Then we’re all set. I told Admiral Fitzroy I would marry you and I damned well will do so.”
She blinked. “You should work on your proposal skills.”
“Say yes, and I won’t have to.”
The air seemed to thicken.
“Look,” he said. “You do know how important he is? If he told a single member of the ton I was visiting you late at night… That I dragged him out of bed to rescue you—”
“You did?”
“I promised you I would take care of you.”
“Thank you,” she said reluctantly. That had been nice of him.
She was silent.
“I’m sorry we won’t have time to get you a proper gown made,” Arthur said. “I asked Fiona in my letter to bring something for you.”
“That’s nice.”
He smiled. “I think you are more romantic that you let on.”
“Nonsense.” She lifted her chin. “I am practical. Utterly practical.”
The words came naturally to her. She’d used them many times before.
She’d been proud to be practical and had even spoken dismissively of the more romantically inclined of her gender, who could often be seen circling the Serpentine or spotted under fruit trees in full blossom, as they quoted poetry, unconcerned about dragging the hems of their dresses over England’s oft-muddied ground.
Practical women married the men their aunts and mothers found for them. Practical women knew their dreams should be sacrificed if it led to the greater happiness of their families. Practical women knew to find contentment in doing what was proper.
There was more she wanted to say. Marriage shouldn’t be purely about convenience, should it?
But she’d always told herself, and anyone she felt who might benefit from thoughtfulness in the area, that marriage should be for practicality.
Arthur and she were suitable. And he was clearly convinced they needed to marry for her own safety.
Since she cared about her safety as well, shouldn’t she take advantage of his offer?
“Very well,” she said with a great deal more firmness than she felt.
She strode away from him.
She’d stated her objections, and he’d stated his opinion, dismissing them.
That was that.
After all, what greater incentive for marriage could there be than to protect one’s own life?
I’m getting married.