Page 105 of Again, Scoundrel

The Marquess harrumphed. “Call for your mother.”

“No need,” the Marchioness said, gliding into the room. She smiled fondly at her husband.

“What your father means to say is that he is sorry. For that summer—and let me be clear how absolutely wrongheaded he was then—but also for the pressure he has put on you to marry and stay in London. He wanted you to be happy, as we have been happy.”

“And because I’m the spare,” Alistair said.

“Yes. For that reason, too. Your brother will not have children, and you are the future of the Timsbury Marquessate, whether you want to be or not.”

“I’ll have my own life, thank you.”

“That has never been in doubt,” the Marquess said. “But certainly, there is a way for your life and our lives to intersect. Darius told me of your shipping and trading company plan. And how it could be put into effect here in Kent.”

The Marchioness laid her hand on the Marquess’s arm. “That can be a discussion for a later time. For today, Alistair, know that you have our blessing. And our love. You always have. And we hope you will be deliriously happy with that young woman out there.”

The Marquess cleared his throat and smiled at his wife. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

Alistair looked from his mother to his father. He was so surprised he barely knew what to say to either of them.

“Thank you,” was all he managed to get out, but he thought it would be enough for now.

Chapter

43

Violet recovered slowly with Alistair by her side. Often, he read to her from any text in the Rosehips library he could find that mentioned medicine. Herodotus, Aristotle, and bits and pieces of Shakespeare. The apothecary from Romeo and Juliet and certain lines in Measure for Measure were among their favorites.

But often they just spoke. Of her dreams for a hospital for expecting mothers, of his plans for a shipping and trading company based wherever they decided to build their future.

“Your mother will be here tomorrow,” he said a week into her convalescence.

“You wrote to her?”

“I did.”

“And did you tell her about the betrothal?”

“What betrothal, Violet? I will not demand that you marry me. Only that you love me. I thought I had been very clear on that subject.”

A smile quirked up the side of Violet’s mouth. “I know,” she said. “You were transparently clear. That’s why I’m asking you. I know it’s not how things are normally done, but Lord Alistair Crawford, would you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

She’d been tossing around the idea of marriage all week in her mind. Once the pressure had been removed, she could imagine it differently. Marriage wasn’t a heavy weight around her neck; it was a future with the man she loved. A future in which both of them could be happy and chase their dreams.

Alistair’s smile was more than she could have hoped for. “As I told you, my love, I’ll be by your side however you’ll have me.”

“Like a barnacle.”

“Exactly.”

“Mother will be thrilled.”

“And why shouldn’t she be? I will make an excellent husband.”

“You, my love,” Violet said. “Are an asshead.”

Alistair stood and closed the door to the bedchamber before he eased his long body down next to hers.

“What did you call me?” he asked, his finger playing at the edge of her matronly nightgown.