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“Ask any question you’d like, Your Grace. I will give you the full and unvarnished truth.”
“Did my sister come here under her own volition, and did she remain under her own power?”
The purpose of the question–to find out if he had forced himself upon Annabel–caused bile to rise in his throat, and Ezra answered with such vehemence that if his words were colors, they would have stained the entire room black. “Yes, she came here of her free will and yes, she remained by her choice.”
Relief, there and gone again in the blink of an eye, flickered across Lenora’s countenance. “Is there a risk for pregnancy?”
“No. While we were…intimate, there is no possibility that a child was conceived.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
He gave a clipped nod. “I am.”
“That, if nothing else, is a small reassurance.” She cast her gaze around the room, and a line of bemusement settled between her brows. “You haven’t any furniture. Why haven’t you any furniture?”
“It’s being brought after the holidays. Your Grace–”
“Then your intention is to stay here, at Broadwin House.” She ran a gloved fingertip along the edge of a windowsill. Frowned when it came up smudged with dirt. “You require a staff, Lord Whitmore.”
“My butler is arriving later this morning. If I may–”
“Annabel is not a plaything.” Lenora’s eyes flashed to his and stayed there, unblinking. “Due to personal circumstances beyond her control, she did not have a typical coming out. Her debut was delayed, or else I’ve absolutely no doubt that she would already be married and far beyond the reach of a man such as yourself.”
“I am an earl,” he reminded her stiffly.
“You’re also a scoundrel, a rogue, and a ne’er-do-well. Then again,” she said, almost to herself, “so was my husband. In some ways, he still is. Those were some of the qualities that first drew me to him. His charisma, and his arrogance. You’re charming, Lord Whitmore, and it goes without saying that you are also arrogant, as most young, handsome, entitled nobleman are. It’s not your fault. It’s the way you’ve been raised, with the world at your feet.”
What the devil was she playing at?
“I don’t disagree, Your Grace.”
Removing a linen handkerchief from the flat, rectangular leather reticule she wore on her hip, Lenora began to clean the windowsill. “If it is your intention to make a home of this estate, then what is your intention with my sister?”
“That is what I wanted to speak with you about.” Ezra squared his shoulders. Took a deep breath. “I am those things that you said. I won’t deny it, or try to hide my character. I am not a bad man, or a dishonest one. I strive to treat people with respect and fairness. While I’m far from perfect, I learn from my mistakes, and I rarely repeat them.”
“Are you trying to convince me, Lord Whitmore, or yourself?” she asked, her brow knitting as she turned her attention to the dust-streaked glass pane.
“Both, I suppose. Your sister came here last night to ask me not to attend your dinner party.”
“Apparently she changed her mind.”
“I’m not sure if she has, but I have. About love, and marriage, and the value of having someone by your side that understands you, and will fight for you, as you are fighting for Annabel.”
Lenora’s hand stilled. “Is there something you would like to ask me, Lord Whitmore?”
“Yes, I’d like to ask for your permission.” He resisted–barely–the urge to shuffle his feet as he’d done when he was a young lad at Oxford and the professor called on him to answer a question. “I’d like your permission to court Annabel, and to propose to her. I want to marry her. I want her to be my wife.”
“This is incredibly sudden, Lord Whitmore.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever proposed to anyone before?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to propose to anyone before?”
He started to shake his head, realized that she was still facing the window, and said, “No.”
