Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(99)

“I did not.” She came one step closer. “I told you I needed to go home. I felt disconnected from my family and my life. I was afraid because my life had become so vivid and so happy and I was so in love with you and I knew it was not in the rules of the game to become too emotionally involved. I sensed the end coming, and out of a sense of sheer self-preservation I wanted some control over how it ended. I thought perhaps I could keep my heart from breaking if I ended it.”

“You did not say you had tired of me?” he asked, frowning more deeply and trying to remember her exact words.

“No,” she said.

He closed his eyes and tried hard to remember, but all he could recall was the terrible hurt and the inevitable anger.

“I lashed back at you, did I not?” he said.

“You told me you were glad I had said it first,” she said, “because you never liked to hurt your women.”

“Oh yes. I did.” He closed his eyes as if to shut out the horrible, embarrassing memory of his pettiness. “Why did you not shoot me between the eyes at that very moment?”

“I had no pistol with me,” she told him.

“You must hate me by now,” he said.

“Why must I?” she asked. “What have you been doing for the past two months, Marcel? Punishing yourself with riotous living in London?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I have been lashing out at Redcliffe, setting everyone and everything to rights, sending Jane and Charles and Ellen home, attending Margaret’s wedding and seeing her on her way. Sending my aunt and Isabelle and Ortt to live at the dower house. Sending my steward into retirement and putting Oliver in his place. Getting to know my children, being tyrannized by them.”

“You stayed home?” She frowned. “But now you have left your children alone for Christmas?”

“They are here, at the village inn,” he said. “We went to London first. It occurred to me that I would need to bring a special license with me if we are to be married over Christmas as originally planned. And then we came here, hoping we would beat the snow, which we did. I spoke with the vicar here, and tomorrow will be fine with him. I had a talk with your son, who gave his blessing to the extent that he threatened to throw me out if I tried to bully you and to do dire and painful things to my person if I should ever cause you pain.”

“Marcel,” she said, “I am a tainted woman.”

“Good God,” he said. “I suppose you are referring to what that scoundrel did to you and your children. The taint is not yours, and I will be interested in having a word with anyone who says it is. Don’t be ridiculous, Viola. The only thing that matters to me is you. Do you recall telling me that what you wanted most in life was to have someone who cared for you? You. Not a tainted woman or a former countess or a mother or grandmother or a woman two years older than myself. Well, you have what you wanted if you choose it. You have me. I do not only love you. I care for you.”

He watched her swallow and sighed. “I almost forgot to explain that,” he said. “I believe it was to have had a prominent role in my speech. In my imagination this was going to be a fearful but wondrous scene, Viola. It was to be romantic. It was to be touching. It was to proceed in an orderly fashion. It was to culminate in a proposal upon bended knee and then the affecting revelation that I had brought my children and a special license with me. And it was to end up with us locked in an embrace.”

“And?” she said.

“And?” He raised his eyebrows and looked blankly at her.

“I have not seen the bended knee yet,” she said.

“Viola.” He frowned. “Do you love me?”

Her eyes, gazing at him, grew luminous. “Yes,” she said.

He drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out on a silent sigh. “And will you marry me?”

“I will have to think about it,” she said.

“Have mercy,” he said. “Knees become rheumatic, you know, when one passes the age of forty.”

“Do they?” She smiled. And, God help him, he was a slave to that smile. It got him every time.

And so he did it. And did not even feel too much of an idiot. He went down upon one knee and took her hand in his.

“Viola,” he said, looking up into her face, “will you marry me and make me the happiest of men? And that is not even a cliché in this case. Or, if it is, then it is a true one.”

Somehow this time her eyes and her face smiled before her lips caught up to them. She had never looked more dazzlingly beautiful.

“Oh, I will, Marcel,” she said.

And he remembered to fumble in his pocket for the box with the diamond ring he had bought in London, using Estelle’s finger and both her and Bertrand’s opinions to estimate the size. He slid it onto her finger, and it neither got stuck on her knuckle nor fell off again.

“The diamond is not as big as the other one I bought you,” he said, “but this was all I could afford after that extravagance. Now, would you like to tell me how I am to get up again?”

“Oh, silly,” she said. “You just turned forty, not eighty.”

And she came down on both knees before him and wrapped both arms about him and smiled into his eyes. And he wrapped his arms about her and kissed her.

And everything was perfect after all. Just as it was. He was home. At last. And safe at last. And at peace at last.