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‘And you refused him? But, Laurel, why?’ Phoebe stared at Laurel in dismay. She was sitting up in bed, her hair in curl papers that escaped from under her nightcap, the cup of hot chocolate in her hands tilting dangerously. ‘I am appalled.’
Laurel had tapped on her aunt’s door in her nightgown and robe to catch her at an hour when they could be sure of being alone, before the start of the household’s morning routine.
Phoebe sounded both horrified and dismayed, as well as appalled. Laurel had expected astonishment that she had turned down such an eligible suitor, had been braced for a lecture on the foolishness of such a decision, but she had not expected quite such a strong reaction and it threw her off balance. After an almost sleepless night spent tossing and turning until her bedclothes were as tangled as her thoughts, she was not ready to explain herself clearly.
‘I did not exactly refuse him, it is more that I did not accept him,’ she said, gabbling a little in the face of Phoebe’s shock. ‘It took me by surprise, you see. I had never imagined that he would propose to me. I said I had to have time to consider.’ And one night was not enough, it seemed.
‘But, Laurel, how could you hesitate?’ Her aunt put down her chocolate cup, held up one hand dramatically and began to count off on her fingers. ‘Giles is an earl and will, one day, be a marquess. You have known him all your life and you would be living in, as near as makes no difference, your old home. He is an exceedingly handsome, intelligent young man, in good health, and he brings back a most excellent reputation from the Peninsula. Those are six very good points in his favour.’ She threw up her hands. ‘Do you want to wait until we can enumerate ten?’ She narrowed her eyes and studied Laurel’s face. ‘Has he done anything to his discredit since you became reacquainted?’
‘No.’
‘He has not tried to take liberties with you?’
‘No.’ Laurel considered the truth of that statement. ‘Well, none that I did not welcome.’
Phoebe’s cheeks turned pink. ‘Oh, dear. What have you done, Laurel?’
‘Nothing too naughty, Aunt, I promise you. Just that I know that we can add that he is very good at kissing to our list of positive attributes.’
Phoebe went even pinker, but then she smiled. ‘I make that seven then.’
Laurel found she was smiling back.
‘So why do you hesitate, dearest? I am sure we can find another three good points to convince you.’ Phoebe wriggled up against the pillows, the smile vanishing.
‘I do not say you should marry him if you do not want to, or have taken him in dislike, but you reached an understanding the other day, you made up your quarrel. I do not understand why you would not wish to accept Lord Revesby. Why any woman not in love with someone else would not wish to, come to that,’ she added.
Perhaps I am in love with someone else, with the image of the young man I thought would be mine, the young man I told myself I hated for all those years. Can I love the real man?
‘Because I do not know why he wants to marry me,’ she said, producing the practical, sensible answer. ‘I am twenty-five, nearly twenty-six, and there are many much prettier, much younger, ladies in the Marriage Mart for him to choose from. We have spent nine years apart after a ghastly quarrel and neither of us knows the other as an adult. So, why me?’
‘He is in love with you?’ Phoebe looked hopeful.
‘He has not said so.’ Her aunt’s face dropped. ‘And you would think that if he does then he would say so when he was proposing, wouldn’t you?’
‘Most certainly. Why would he not? Any young lady would be delighted with a declaration like that from such a man. Not that love is essential for a good marriage, of course,’ she added, apparently remembering her duty to see her niece well married. ‘And it is no excuse for a bad one. Do you love Lord Revesby, Laurel?’
She almost denied it, but surely she could be honest with her aunt? ‘I...I did, long ago, before he left. Not as an adult, of course, but I was sure we were meant for each other. I suppose that was why it hurt so much when I thought that he and Portia were...involved. But that is different from what an adult woman should feel for a man.’ She found that her hands were tangled and knotted in the skirts of her robe and made herself relax her grip. ‘I really thought I would be happier unmarried, happier forgetting him.’
‘You were making the best of things bravely,’ Phoebe pronounced. ‘And now you are not sure how you feel.’
Laurel did not like the idea that she had somehow talked herself into pretending opposition to marriage, just to make the best of things. ‘I am not at all certain. If I am honest with myself—and I suppose that if I am not there is really no hope for me—if Giles had said he loved me, then I would have accepted him.’
‘Men are not good at understanding their own feelings, which does make everything more complicated, of course,’ Phoebe said sagely. ‘My dear Cary would have sooner shot himself in the foot than admit that he loved me, but he showed it every day, bless him.’ Phoebe reached out and tugged the bell pull. ‘We need more chocolate.’ When her maid came in she sent her for another cup and a fresh jug and they talked of the reception until it came and they were alone again.
‘You think Giles might love me?’ The chocolate was soothing and invigorating at the same time.
‘It might be that he does and feels awkward about saying so, although I doubt that young man has a bashful bone in his body.’ Phoebe looked approving at the thought.
She likes a rake, Laurel realised and bit her lip to hide the smile.
‘Or he loves you but simply does not recognise it,’ her aunt continued. ‘Or he is not in love, but feels the two of you would rub along very well together and he would rather that than take a risk on an unknown, probably immature, young lady.’
‘If it is the first, that he feels awkward, then he would soon get over his reticence if I encouraged him,’ Laurel pondered. ‘If the second, then surely that would emerge once we are married. And the third, I suppose, would not be the end of the world if it were not for the fact that I hate the idea of just rubbing along, as you put it.’ Giles had produced all those sensible, practical reason
s for their match and they had felt as though something joyous in her soul was being smothered. ‘I might—’
‘Love him as a grown woman should?’ Phoebe had turned pink again.
