“Papa?”
“Rose, you have put this off all day. No longer. You will meet me in my study as soon as you have finished your pudding.” His words left no room for argument, his face a stolid mask as he stood, laid aside his serviette, and left the dining room. Rose’s heart clutched at the hard dip of his limp.
Cecily watched him leave. “What was that about?”
Lady Dorothea cleaned her spoon of tart. “I’m sure I have no idea.” But her tone and arched eyebrow told Rose that her mother knew exactly what it was about.
Rose stared down at her plate, no longer interested in the pudding, which had suddenly soured in her stomach.
“Rose. Don’t keep him waiting.” Her mother’s words were gentler than expected, and she looked up. Dorothea nodded at the door. Rose finally dabbed her mouth with her serviette and left.
Her father’s study door stood half open, and Rose knocked once before entering. He sat at his desk, reading a folded sheet of foolscap, but he motioned for her to come closer. “Shut the door, please.”
She did, perching on the very edge of one of the two chairs in front of his desk, a spring of nervous energy making her leg bounce. A hundred different sentences begged to spout from her, and she bit her lower lip hard, containing them.
“Rose—”
“I truly do not care what he has to say, Papa.”
He raised his eyes to peer at her. “Rose—”
“What happened last night—I am not ruined, I promise you, not in the real way, you know what I mean—but it was awful, and I want nothing to do with him. Ever.”
“Rose—”
“Ever.” She stood and began to pace behind the two chairs. “What happened—I know I should be ashamed—but it just confirmed that I was right about going to be with Aunt Sophie—what he wants I cannot do. Ever. I could not do it in the past and I cannot do it now. Not with him, not with any man—I just cannot.”
“Rose—”
“He has a silver tongue, Papa. He says all these pretty things, but he’s like any other man”—she glanced at her father—“almost every man—and what he says and what he wants, they are just different, and I cannot—”
“What he wants is marriage.”
Rose’s feet skidded on the carpet as she jerked to a halt. She stared at him. “What?”
He picked up the paper in front of him and waved it. “This is an offer for your hand. In marriage.”
Rose snatched the paper, holding it at first as if it were poisoned. “Marriage?” The word emerged on a mousy squeak.
Edmund nodded. “Read for yourself.”
Rose hesitated, then spread the page on the desk, immediately recognizing the left-slanting letters of Thomas Ashton, yet it was more formally styled than his missives to her, starting with her father’s full name and peerage title before moving into the meat of the communication.
My lord H—
I respectfully request a meeting with you to discuss the possibility of a betrothal between your daughter, Lady Rose Timmons, and myself. If you agree to bless this union, I will propose directly to the lady, in hopes she will accept me.
I fully understand this is an unusual request, in that I have not formally paid suit to her, but I believe Lady Rose and I are well known to each other, so that such a delay is unnecessary for either of us.
I realize that it may take some time to draw up the marriage contracts, but I want to suggest that Lady Rose’s dowry, which you have generously set up in honor of her, be set aside into an account for her personal use. I will be glad to consider all other standard terms before any final agreements are signed.
I look forward to hearing from you on this request.
Newbury
Rose read the note twice, letting the words soak in, as unbelievable as they were. She sat down finally. “It sounds like a business arrangement,” she whispered.
Edmund tugged the paper away from her. “Of course, it is, my dear. All betrothal requests are business arrangements, even the love matches. This sounds precisely—except for that part about your dowry—like my request to your grandfather and the requests I received on behalf of Beatrice and Abigail. As well as the ones Albert and James presented to their brides’ fathers, which I helped them write.”
