Page 93 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

“Oh?” she replied, her brow lifting as a smile touched her lips. “And what task might that be?”

The light from the fireworks flickered across his face, illuminating the subtle changes in his expression—thoughtfulness, hesitation, something almost uncertain.

“One might say,” he continued, “that it is a rather important question.”

Curiosity stirred, mingled with amusement.

She let out a soft laugh. “And what is this question?”

“I am surprised you have not guessed,” he said lightly. “You are typically quite quick.” A pause. “Though perhaps I shall take this as proof that I am still capable of surprising you. I may need to make note of this moment—so that I might reproduce it later.”

His mention of the future—their future—did not unsettle her as it once might have.

Instead, it settled.

Quietly.

Deeply.

Hope stirred.

And hope—

Hope was dangerous.

She had learned that long ago. To want was to risk losing. To trust was to invite disappointment. And yet she did not push it away. Not entirely.

“You are surprising me,” she admitted. “We are not often out of step. Perhaps it is the fireworks. I find myself … distracted.”

“Perhaps,” he echoed softly.

Then his expression shifted. The lightness faded—replaced by something more serious. More deliberate.

Concern flickered through her. “Is everything well?” she asked.

He let out a quiet breath, a small, almost self-conscious laugh following. “Yes. Entirely well. Forgive me—I am merely attempting to order my thoughts, and I find it more difficult than I anticipated.”

She smiled faintly. “You? At a loss for words?”

“It would seem we continue to discover new ways to astonish one another,” he replied.

His gaze dropped briefly—to their joined hands—his fingers tightening just slightly around hers.

“We came to a mutual decision,” he said slowly. “One that was made with clarity, with reason, and with … a certain degree of inevitability.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “And yet—I never formally asked you.”

Understanding came all at once. Her breath caught.

“I felt,” he continued, “that the question deserved to be spoken. That you deserved the opportunity to answer, not simply to agree.”

He paused, stretching the moment. “And while I shall not kneel—if only because it would draw unnecessary attention and I suspect the ground would not favor me—”

“And I imagine the grass is quite damp,” she said softly, her tone light though something deeper stirred beneath it. “I shall forgive your standing.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

Then he grew entirely serious. “Lady Eliza Montford,” he said, his voice steady, unadorned. “Would you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

The words were simple, direct, and honest. And they struck her with unexpected force. Her eyes stung. It should not have mattered. Not as much as this. Not when everything had already been decided—agreed upon—set into motion. And yet it did. Because somewhere, long before reason and necessity had shaped her choices, there had been a girl who had wondered what such a moment might feel like. And none of those imaginings had ever looked like this.