Mary dropped her hands to her lap. She turned to him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
"I find," she whispered, "that I prefer the waltz to dirges these days."
Charles moved around the curve of the Broadwood. He placed a hand on the wood.
"A waltz," he murmured, his fingers tracing the grain. "I expected a storm. I expected thunder."
"The storm has passed." Mary kept her hands still. "Or perhaps I am simply tired of the rain."
Charles stopped beside the bench.
"I have spent months trying to be a man of gravity," he confessed. "I read journals I did not understand. I dug ditches that ruined my boots. I bored your father with lectures on manure. I did it all to prove I was substantial enough to stand next to you."
Mary turned on the bench. Her eyes, stripped of their usual guarded cynicism, searched his face. "You succeeded. You are a man of substance, Charles."
"But I do not want to be a man of substance." He dropped to one knee. He took her hands, holding them in his own warmth. "I am tired of being deep. I am tired of being strategic. I just want to be Charles."
Mary blinked, her breath hitching. "Charles is sufficient. Charles is... adequate."
"Adequate?" He laughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. "Mary, you are the scariest woman I have ever met. You dissect the world with a scalpel. You catalogue human folly in a mental ledger. You frightened me in London. You frighten me now."
He squeezed her fingers.
"But when you play, or when you smile at me across a crowded room... This is the depth. This is the anchor I need. But I do not need only that."
"What else do you need?"
"I need a wife." He leaned forward. He released one of her hands to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed the pale skin beneath her ear, producing goose flesh on her arms.
"I love your mind." He was whispering, his gaze on her lips. "I love the way you frown when I say a foolish thing. But I also love this." His hand moved to her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark, loose waves. "I love the way you look in that serious grey gown. I love that you are small, and fierce, and that you tended for your father sleepless. And I want you. In my house. In my life. In my bed."
Mary went still. The Ledger in her mind attempted to process the input.
Variable:Desire.
Status:Overwhelming.
Logic:Failed.
She stared at him. This was not the polite courtship of society. This was not a strategic alliance. This was a man kneeling on a rug, offering her his heart with shaking hands.
"I am plain," she whispered, the old insecurity rising one last time. "I am the drab sister. I am the one who reads sermons."
"You are the sun," Charles corrected, his voice fierce. "And I have been freezing in the dark until you played that waltz."
He did not wait for an answer. He leaned up and kissed her.
