She slipped her arm into his. “An excellent plan.”
Once they were in the library—which unlike Windmere Abbey’s library, contained very few books—they dropped onto a fern-colored sofa.
“I perceive that Mr. Birmingham means to offer me the twenty-five thousand pounds again,” she said.
Trevor’s mouth puckered in concentration as he got up and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Madeira would do your nerves good,” he said, turning toward Fiona.
She favored him with a smile. “I believe I would like a glass.”
He poured the two glasses and returned to sit beside her. “Daresay you’re wrong about Birmingham.”
“I’m rarely wrong about men,” she argued. “My perceptions of men come from having an older brother and a younger one, neither of whose behavior ever surprises me.”
“Be that as it may,” Trevor said, his fingers flicking away lint from his golden breeches, “you’ve missed the mark this time.”
She set down her glass and faced him. “What makes you think so?”
“The flowers.”
Her brows lowered. “I don’t follow you.”
“A man don’t send flowers when he plans to give away his money.”
“Then?” Suddenly, Fiona understood. A man sends flowers when he is courting. God in heaven, did that mean Mr. Birmingham was going to accept her pathetic proposal? She spun to Trevor. “Surely you don’t think . . .”
His slender hand holding the stemmed glass, his pinky finger extended, Trevor swished the wine around in his mouth. “Methinks the man has changed his mind about marrying you.”
A pity the entire spectrum of emotions collided within her. Why could she not be perfectly blasé about Mr. Birmingham’s probable interest in wedding her? Her pulse pounded, her chest tightened, her stomach sank—at the same time her heart was skipping with a lighter-than-air fluttering—all of this while picturing the darkly handsome Mr. Birmingham’s black eyes regarding her. The very memory of him had the oddest physical effect upon her. Her meager breasts seemed to swell, and a tingling settled low in her torso.
Marriage to Mr. Birmingham, she decided, held far more appeal than marriage to bald-headed, potbellied Lord Strayhorn, whose fortune had placed him at the top of her list of matrimonial prospects.
Livingston tapped at the door, then entered. “A Mr. Birmingham to see you, my lady.”
Her heart thumped as she and Trevor exchanged wide-eyed glances. “I really must be going,” Trevor muttered. “The man can’t offer for you when another man’s in the room,” he whispered.
She supposed he should go, though she was rather reluctant to face Mr. Birmingham alone. Not that the man was in the least bit terrifying. Fiona’s apprehension had less to do with Mr. Birmingham’s presence and a lot more to do with her own embarrassment at facing him after this morning’s fiasco. “Show Mr. Birmingham in,” she told the butler.
She sucked in her breath as she watched the two men—Trevor quite short, Mr. Birmingham rather tall—exchange greetings. The top of poor Trevor’s head came only to Mr. Birmingham’s chest.
Once Trevor had departed, Mr. Birmingham came to stand before her, and she was powerless not to gape at his magnificence. From the tip of boots so shiny she could see her face in them, up long, sinewy legs to his trim waist and sloping upward to a manly, though not bulging, chest clothed in an exquisitely cut frock coat, she gaped, coming to settle on his sinfully handsome face and the tuft of dark hair that carelessly spilled onto his forehead.
She offered her hand and prayed he would not detect its tremble when his enclosed it, and he bent to kiss it. Why had she never before noticed how completely provocative a kiss on the hand could be? “Please sit down, Mr. Birmingham. Won’t you join me in having a glass of madeira?”
“An excellent idea, my lady,” he said, his eye roaming to the decanter on a nearby table. “Allow me to get it myself.”
To her utter surprise, after he filled his glass he came and sat next to her on the sofa. Her gaze dropped to his smoothly muscled thighs, which ran parallel to hers but were many inches longer than hers. Why had she never before noticed how utterly provocative a man’s thighs could be? She quickly forced her gaze to his face. “I’m indebted to you for all the lovely flowers, Mr. Birmingham,” she began.
“It seemed the least I could do after my shabby treatment of you.”
Her heart fluttered as he nabbed her with those pensive black eyes of his. “Your idea of shabby and mine must be vastly different,” she said. “I don’t think offering me twenty-five thousand could be considered shabby.”
He shook his head. “Not that. The other part.”
The other part? Her heart thudded. Her marriage proposal. His quick refusal. Her complete humiliation. That “other part.” She gathered her courage. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Mr. Birmingham. You weren’t interested in marriage. I was.” She shrugged. “End of scenario.”
“I’m somewhat distressed over your use of the past tense, my lady,” he said.
Her use of the past tense? She thought back to try to remember her exact words. I was. She was interested in marriage. But no more? Is that what it sounded like to him? And that distressed him? How perfectly wonderful! “I still am,” she said cryptically, hoping she would not once again be forced to brazenly declare her bizarre proposal to the almost-complete stranger.
“Then I must tell you,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze, “that I regret my hasty refusal. Attribute it to my utter surprise and previous hostility toward matrimony—a hostility I no longer possess.”
This was without a doubt the most deuced peculiar sequence of vague proposals she had ever heard of. What was needed at this juncture was a clear declaration, but far be it from her to set herself up for ridicule twice in the same day. No matter how much the man squirmed, she was not about to offer for him again. This time, he must do the asking.
So they sat there, as silent as a long-married couple in church, neither of them so much as glancing at the other. From the corner of her eye she saw that he took a long drink from his glass, then spent an inordinate amount of time twirling around his glass, the liquid swishing until it lapped at the glass’s rim.
For some unaccountable reason, she pictured the beautiful actress who was his mistress. Was Miss Foley responsible for his reluctance to marry? For his reluctance to spell out his intentions toward Fiona?
No sooner had that thought taken root than he removed himself from the sofa, dropped down on one knee, took her hand in his, and blatantly met her gaze. “I would be the happiest of men if you would consider being my life’s partner,” he said, his thumb stroking sensuous circles on her palm.
“I will not refuse your generous offer, sir, but you must tell me why this change of heart.”
He continued holding her hand but did not respond for a very long while. She was beginning to think he might reverse his reversal when he finally said, “It suddenly became clear to me that marriage to a woman of your . . . your background is precisely what I should like most in a wife—not that I ever would have been so presumptuous as to seek out one of your pedigree, you understand.”
The tables had truly been turned. She fully understood how vulnerable he must feel at this moment, for she had been every bit as nervous this morning when she tossed aside her pride and begged him to marry her. “You may get up, dear sir! I assure you I have no intention of turning down your welcome offer, and there are many things we must discuss if we are to marry.” She could scarcely credit her own words. Was this man really to become her husband?