The parlor door of Gran’s townhouse slammed behind her. “Raining,” she announced, breathless and dripping, to no one in particular.
“I had noticed,” came the gritted reply.
Alaric Ward stood from the settee like it had personally insulted him. His coat was still damp from his ride over, his cravat half undone, the brim of his hat crushed in his hands like he’d strangled it for courage. His hair, dark and gleaming from the rain, clung in defiant waves around his temple, and his jaw clenched as if he were holding in something enormous and deeply unpleasant. Like words. Or feelings.
“Miss Blackwood.”
“Detective inspector,” she said with a smile, tugging off her gloves. “What a surprise. Were you waiting long?”
“An hour,” he said tightly.
“Oh. That explains the scowl.”
“No,” he said, eyes briefly flicking—unintentionally, surely—to the way her wet dress hugged the curve of her hips. “That’s just… my face.”
She gave him a bright grin. “Charming as ever.”
He cleared his throat. Loudly. Adjusted his ruined hat. Did not meet her gaze, or any part of her, really, except the fireplace. “I came to speak with you,” he said, stiff and official, as if reciting a crime report.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Am I being arrested again?”
His eyes snapped to hers. Hot. Startled—then flicked away just as quickly, as if he’d seen something dangerous in her expression and regretted ever looking. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she said sweetly. “I trespass a lot.”
He exhaled like she exhausted him. Which, to be fair, she did.
“I spoke with your grandmother,” he said abruptly. “And mine. Before they passed.”
“Oh good, starting a conversation with the dead. Very healthy.”
He ignored that. “They were friends. You know that.”
She nodded.
“They had… a wish.”
“Oh no,” she said, one brow rising. “You’ve come to fulfill a deathbed promise, haven’t you?”
Alaric’s hands clenched around his hat brim. “I know I’m not,” he began, and immediately looked pained by his own words, “I’m not the most…” He paused, floundered. His jaw clenched again. He gave up with a grunt and started over. “They wanted us married,” he said finally, blunt and awkward. “You and me.”
Thea blinked. “Is this your way of proposing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Another drop of rain trickled down her spine.
He tugged at his cravat. “It’s a matter of… honoring their wishes. Our grandmothers would’ve been pleased. They were good women.”
“Dead women.”
“Yes. But good ones.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
