Page 47 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“No, it isn’t, it’s entirely the point. I don’t dislike you the least bit now. Indeed, I like you very well.”

Clementine snorted. “Well, that is reassuring. I am heartened to discover you do not go about proposing marriage to females you dislike.”

He grinned. “Not usually. Indeed, this is my first proposal, so I beg you will forgive me if I am making a mess of it.”

“Oh, certainly. If you are using me as an exercise to improve your chances with another lady, this makes a great deal more sense,” she said with growing agitation.

She started as he reached out and took her hand. Her gaze flew to his, her heart picking up speed again. The poor thing would run out of steam soon if it kept up this pace. Perhaps that was the best thing. If she fainted, she would miss the rest of his speech. But Clementine was far too sensible to faint and instead got lost his sea-blue eyes again. Drat them for being so pretty.

“Miss Honeywell,” he said softly. “Clementine.”

Her breath hitched. His deep voice speaking her given name gave her chills, and the feel of his hand, oh, his hand, so strong and warm, clasping hers, made her flush. He had removed his gloves, and his bare skin against hers was an intimacy for which she was unprepared. Suddenly she was hot and cold all at once and her insides trembled with… with something.

“No,” she said, and surged to her feet, pulling free of his hold. She shook her head and paced away to stare out of the window, her arms wrapped around her body as if to hold herself together. “No, I cannot allow you to do this, to say another word. I cannot imagine what maggot has got into your head, but this is sheer folly. I am on the shelf, with no dowry worth mentioning, as well as being far too independent and outspoken and… and a meddling busybody. I am a nobody from a town no one has ever heard of, and you would be a fool to ask for my hand when you might have a beautiful, well-behaved young woman with a fortune and…and… what are you smiling at, drat you?”

“I had a horrible feeling you were about to tell me you could not marry me because you cannot stand the sight of me,” he admitted with a shrug. “Because I am a shallow fribble not worth your time. But you said only that you are not worthy of me, which only proves how badly I have upset your equilibrium. Do come and sit down again, my dear. Perhaps a glass of brandy would restore your spirits? You’ll have to do better than that, you know, if you truly wish to be rid of me.”

Clementine did not know what she wanted, but a glass of brandy did not seem a terrible idea. “Brandy,” she agreed, putting a hand to her temples, which had commenced a dull throbbing.

Beaumarsh got up and walked to the decanter her father kept on a small side table for guests in need of a bracer. He poured her a surprisingly generous measure, and one for himself, before sitting down again.

“Are you trying to addle my brain with alcohol?” she asked, regarding the glass sceptically.

“Would it work?”

“Possibly.”

“Excellent.”

He sat down beside her, and they sipped their drinks for a few moments in silence.

“Clementine?”

His caressing voice sent little darts of pleasure rushing beneath her skin, and she closed her eyes, fighting the desire to run from the room. She had not realised how very dangerous he was. Not until now, when it was too late, and she had no defences ready to wield against this unforeseen attack on her emotions.

“Please let me explain.”

She nodded, knowing she must listen, no matter how afraid she was.

“Your father is a wise man, Clementine, and he has helped me more than I realised until I had time to reflect upon his words. You see, I had always viewed marriage as a transaction, for that is what it often is for men of my class. I offer a title and wealth, and the woman offers herself, and her dowry and connections, or land. It matters little if the two people even like each other, only that they increase the value of the earldom. Yet my parents lived that way, two strangers who despised each other, sharing a house. I see it all the time: the bickering, the tit for tat and one-upmanship. It is a wretched way to live, and I do not wish for it.”

Clementine swallowed, horribly afraid of what he might say next.

“Your father said I ought to find my soulmate, but I’m afraid I am too old and too cynical to believe such things exist, at least for me. A good-hearted man like your father, a man who works tirelessly for the benefit of others, a man like that might deserve such things, but not me. And even if I did, I think I might run from it, for fear of how I should feel if it were taken from me.”

“I can understand that,” Clementine said, finding in this at least, something she could comprehend. “Losing Mama nearly destroyed him. All of us, actually.”

“I am not brave enough for such heartbreak,” he admitted. “But all the same, I should like my wife to be my friend, to be someone I like and might share a home with, might raise children with. But she would need to be a rare sort of person. For a start, she would need to be cleverer than me, and sharp-witted, so she might keep me in line when I am getting too top-lofty. It happens, you know,” he added with a wry smile. “When you have a title and everyone agrees with everything you say.”

“You don’t say,” she managed, which made him laugh. Oh, and that laugh, deep and rumbling… it resonated inside her, and the little rushes of sensation seemed to light fires that burned away reason and all her good intentions.

“She must also be interesting, and out of the ordinary, with a mind that will keep fascinating me and keep me on my toes.”

She quirked an eyebrow, but he carried on.

“A managing sort of female, who can entrap murderers, and stave off toadies, and keep my household in order. And me too, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” she replied, sipping her brandy and wondering why his words, rather than the contents of her glass, seemed to be making her feel intoxicated.