“Our courtship may have begun as an act,” he told her, “but nothing in me remained false for long.”
Aurelia felt the words like warmth spreading through cold hands.
“Owen—”
“Please, just listen,” he murmured, though his eyes did not leave hers. “You brought lightness into my life. I had not thought such a thing possible.”
Her throat tightened.
He smiled faintly, but his eyes were grave. “And then there you were, with your composure and your courage, your stubbornrefusal to surrender to fear, and I began to understand that a life need not be diminished because it has known suffering.”
The music swelled, while the room brightened and blurred.
“You were never diminished,” she whispered.
His gaze deepened. “I was.” His hand touched hers again as the dance drew them together. “You have been a balm to what was damaged in me, Aurelia, not because you tried to mend me, but because you saw me as I was and did not turn away.”
She could not answer. Then the last notes sounded. The dancers separated amid applause and laughter, the room resumed its ordinary shape. Yet Aurelia could not quite step back into it.
“Miss Finch,” he asked quietly, “will you permit me to escort you to where it is less warm?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
He led her from the edge of the dancers toward a quieter part of the room. They were still within the boundaries of propriety, but the bustle faded enough that she could hear her own breathing.
“I have asked much of you,” he spoke. “More than any man had a right to ask. I asked you to stand beside me before the world, atfirst for appearance, and then because I discovered that I could not bear the thought of you standing anywhere else.”
Aurelia’s heart was beating so violently that it seemed impossible he did not hear it.
“I told myself,” he continued, “that I would wait, that after everything that happened, you deserved peace before another claim was laid before you. But I find I am not so noble as I hoped.”
A breath escaped her, half laugh and half ache. “No?”
“No.” His mouth softened. “I am selfish enough to want my answer.”
She looked at him, unable to move. He took one step nearer.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you because you are brave when frightened, tender when you wish to appear severe, and honest even when truth has cost you dearly. I love the steadiness of you. I love the fire you hide beneath all that admirable restraint. I love you, Aurelia, and I would be honored beyond anything I deserve if you would be my wife.”
For several seconds, she could do nothing but look at him. All her life, or so it felt, she had been learning not to expect love or safety. Even when she had begun to love him, she had heldsome portion of herself back, prepared for the possibility that what had bloomed between them belonged only to the fever of a shared cause.
But there he stood, in the open light of a ballroom, asking for her hand. Her eyes stung.
“Owen,” she whispered, “you must know that I cannot bring you an easy life.”
“I do not want an easy life.”
“You would have my history attached to yours.”
“I would have your future attached to mine.”
A tear slipped before she could prevent it. He saw it, and his face softened with such tenderness that it nearly undid her.
“And my mother?” she asked, though her voice shook. “My family? All that has been said?”
“All that has been said has been answered,” he replied. “And whatever remains, we shall answer together.”
Together.
