Blackmoore(45)

I blushed in spite of myself. My embarrassment was almost too great to allow me to press forward. It was a mark of how much I yearned for this trip to India that I continued. “I am not asking you to court me, Henry.”

He moved closer and looked down into my eyes. “Then what are you asking?”

I took a quick breath and spoke past my embarrassment. “I just need three proposals. And I promise I will reject you. Immediately.

Unequivocally.”

He flashed a small, sardonic smile. “I never supposed otherwise.”

“So you will do it?”

He took a deep breath, and now he looked away. There was such a struggle evident in his expression that I almost felt sorry for him. But whatever his struggle was, I could not believe it could torment him as fiercely as mine did. I could not believe that his reluctance for me to go to India could feel to him as fierce and unyielding as my desire to go felt to me.

Finally he said, “This is a difficult thing you ask of me.” He turned back to me. “But if this is the desire of your heart . . .”

“It is. It truly is, Henry.” I clasped my hands together, in front of me, and felt so impatient and hopeful and fearful at the same time that I hurt all over. “Please. Please do this for me.” His look was tortured.

Impulsively, I reached out and grabbed his arm. “I will pay you.”

His head reared back with surprise. “What?”

Here I stood, desperate, clinging to his sleeve, offering to pay him for a proposal. Three of them, to be exact. And if there had been a wit-ness to this scene, it surely would have seemed that I was doing precisely what I had sworn never to do—to beg and barter and steal in the name of marriage.

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But there was an essential difference here—it would not end in an en-gagement. And this was Henry. If I could ask this of anyone in the world, it was he. He would not misjudge my intentions. But a pang of doubt struck me, as I thought of Eleanor and what Henry knew of her.

“Henry.” I tugged on his sleeve, as if I could pull on his will by doing so. “I promise you that there is no trick at play here. I will refuse you, and no one will learn of this. There will be no repercussions for you. I swear it. I will not entrap you. You will suffer nothing from this. You may be sure of that.”

A sound escaped his lips—a soft, mirthless laugh. “You promise to reject me. You promise that I will suffer nothing. That is your assurance.”

“Yes.” My voice came out low and rough, reflecting the desperation I felt.

He moved even closer. “And what will you pay me?” His voice was suddenly different, and there was something different in the way he moved, closer, as if he was taking charge now.

It made my pulse quicken. I let go of his sleeve. What would I pay him? I had spoken impulsively. I had no money—nothing that I could think of that he would want. But I had to answer him before he changed his mind. At a loss, I finally blurted out, “Whatever you want.”

I immediately wished I could recall the words. But before I could speak again, Henry said, “Then I accept.”

His words surprised me, and I wavered for a moment between feel-ings of relief that he would help me and unease about what he would ask for payment. But then I reminded myself that this was Henry, who was as good a man as one could find in all of England. He would ask nothing of me that I didn’t want to give. I was sure of it.

I reached out my right hand toward him. Henry looked down at it with a look of bemusement. “This is how it is done in business,” I told him. “We shake hands on our bargain. That makes it binding.”

Henry took my hand in his, holding it as if it was a new thing, when in reality he had had many reasons over the years to take hold of my hand.

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n But now he looked down at my hand in his, and he lightly brushed his thumb over the back of it. He might as well have stroked my heart for the way it plummeted at his touch. I had to steel myself not to pull my hand away, not to let on how fast my heart pounded. I was terrified that he would feel my racing pulse for himself.

His thumb traced over the scratch near my wrist. “This is new,” he said in a soft voice. “What did this?”

“The, uh, rose bushes. Outside the window that I climbed through.”

His eyes lifted to mine, full of soft amusement. “I should have guessed.” Then, taking a firm hold on my hand, he shook it once. “There.

The bargain is sealed.”

He was just looking at me, smiling indulgently but there was a twinge to his smile at the same time—as if something in this moment made him sad.

“Well?” I said, gesturing to the empty space in front of me. “Are you going to do it?”

His eyes widened. “What? Right now?”

“Well, yes. Of course.”

He shook his head. “It’s late. Come. Let’s get you back inside.”

I followed him reluctantly as he walked up the beach toward the steps I had used. “But it would be easy. And fast. Just say the words.”

He stopped and turned around, walking back to me, his steps quiet in the sand but sure and long. When he reached me he stopped, so close I could feel his warmth, and he looked into my eyes. The moon shone on us both, and the ocean waves lapped against the sand behind me. His gaze stilled my protest, and his voice, when he spoke, was soft but firm. “No.