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“No, but as you can see, it already looks better.”
“It looks quite as red at present as it did last night.”
“Well, it hurts far less.”
He looked up. “So you admit that it hurt last night? Why did you insist otherwise?”
“Because I could not have you storming into the ballroom in search of ointment.”
“I can see that we will not have a boring marriage, Miss Thurston.”
“I did not realize we had agreed to have any marriage at all,” I whispered.
James held both of my hands, still on his knees. It was the most romantic gesture of my two and twenty years, and I forced myself to recall that he had no choice in the matter. This was not about me, not really.
“Why are you agreeing to this?” I asked. “Surely you could leave Town for a few months and return next Season, your reputation intact.”
“Potentially, but I once made a promise to my mother, and it requires that I not walk away from you. I could not live with myself otherwise.” He gave a little smile. “I did come to London with the intent of finding a wife, so it is not as odious an arrangement for me as you might believe.”
I nodded. Curiosity nipped at me to ask him the nature of the promise he made to his mother, but it seemed an intimate question, and I could not bring myself to speak it aloud.
There was something oddly relieving in the knowledge that James felt himself ready to be married, that I had not forced him into a situation that he was not yet prepared to be in.
He squeezed my fingers. “Miss Thurston, will you agree to become my wife?”
My stomach swooped like a flying dove, and I sucked in a breath. I was ill prepared for how this would feel. Despite my protestations, I enjoyed the way James lifted my spirits with seemingly little effort.
“Yes, James. I will.”
He smiled softly, and I continued. “But only if our situation appears irreversible on its own.”
He tempered his smile and nodded. “Very well. I will see you tonight at the Pickerings’ ball.”
He stood and crossed to the door, and I stood as well. “James?”
“Yes?” He turned and waited.
“What is your surname?”
He smiled. “I am certain in all of your childhood fantasies of what your wedding would be, you did not imagine that you would need to ask your groom to supply his surname after becoming engaged.”
I chuckled softly. “No, I did not.”
“It is Bradwell, Miss Thurston. My name is James Bradwell.”
Robbed of speech, I could do no more than nod while James dipped a soft bow to me and let himself from the room.
It turned out I was meant to become Felicity Bradwell, after all. The trouble was I was marrying the wrong Mr. Bradwell.
