not been as pleasurable for her as it had been for him.
"Come with me," David said. "Marry me and come with me."
She turned her head to look at him for the first time. "David," she said, "we both know why it might be in my interest to marry you. I am lonely and adrift and need a husband and home. But what about you? Why would you wish to marry me when you might marry whomever you choose? You don't love me."
It was a question that had deeply disturbed her since he first asked.
He knew she did not love him and never could. And yet he was prepared to marry her? It made no sense at all.
I want to start my new life at Stedwell without delay,'' he said.
"After all these years of neglecting it, I can't wait to begin. I need a wife now. I don't want to waste more precious time going about trying to meet someone suitable. You are suitable. I know you. You need me. We need each other."
It still made no sense. Could he be so cold that he felt
78 Mary Balogh no need of love? Or was he naive enough not to believe in love just because he had never yet encountered it for himself?
"But perhaps you would find love if you waited awhile," she said.
He shook his head. "I believe in affection more than love," he said.
"Perhaps you would fall in love with someone else after our marriage,'' she said, ''and it would be too late.''
"I would make you certain vows on our wedding day," he said. "I could not take marriage vows lightly, Rebecca. All my devotion and fidelity would be pledged to you—for the rest of my life and yours."
It seemed somehow cold and unfeeling even though he mentioned devotion. As if devotion could be willed. And as if there were no real emotion involved. And yet it was all she would ever be able to give a second husband. Perhaps it could work. Perhaps her first marriage was not the only kind of marriage that could succeed.
And yet, she almost said aloud, you did not remain either devoted or faithful to Flora. But then he had made no vows to Flora. She wondered how many other women there had been since Flora. There must have been others, surely. She had heard that soldiers, the officers anyway— the unmarried ones—often lived lives of wild debauchery when they were able. It was the inevitable result of the constant threat of death that was a way of life to them, she supposed. David must have had many women. He was such a very handsome and attractive man.
She was aware of his attraction for the first time since his return, of his handsome features and very blue eyes, of his broad shoulders and well-muscled physique. She had fought her attraction to him as a girl, suffering dreadful pangs of guilt whenever she had caught herself gazing at him appreciatively or daydreaming about him. It was not seemly to think of a man in physical terms, especially when one could not like or admire the man himself. She had always turned with renewed adoration to Julian, who deserved her love, and whose whole person she loved.
And now David could be hers. She felt breathless suddenly, as if she had been running hard. It was wrong to
Tangled 79
be attracted to a man's body. The physical did not matter. It was unimportant in life. She had heard that so many times at church and from her parents and her governess when she was growing up that it was deeply ingrained in her very being. Besides, she knew from experience that the physical side of love was not even pleasant for a woman.
It was a duty. It was the price a woman paid for a home and a place of her own in the social order. And for companionship and love and that feeling of oneness with the beloved. And for children if only one could bear them to term. It had been such a small price to pay for Julian. A few minutes of discomfort each night in exchange for long days of his love and for what she had hoped would be a lifetime of companionship.
"Rebecca," David said, breaking the silence, "I would be unhappy at Stedwell, thinking of you pining away alone here. I want us both to
"Come with me," David said. "Marry me and come with me."
She turned her head to look at him for the first time. "David," she said, "we both know why it might be in my interest to marry you. I am lonely and adrift and need a husband and home. But what about you? Why would you wish to marry me when you might marry whomever you choose? You don't love me."
It was a question that had deeply disturbed her since he first asked.
He knew she did not love him and never could. And yet he was prepared to marry her? It made no sense at all.
I want to start my new life at Stedwell without delay,'' he said.
"After all these years of neglecting it, I can't wait to begin. I need a wife now. I don't want to waste more precious time going about trying to meet someone suitable. You are suitable. I know you. You need me. We need each other."
It still made no sense. Could he be so cold that he felt
78 Mary Balogh no need of love? Or was he naive enough not to believe in love just because he had never yet encountered it for himself?
"But perhaps you would find love if you waited awhile," she said.
He shook his head. "I believe in affection more than love," he said.
"Perhaps you would fall in love with someone else after our marriage,'' she said, ''and it would be too late.''
"I would make you certain vows on our wedding day," he said. "I could not take marriage vows lightly, Rebecca. All my devotion and fidelity would be pledged to you—for the rest of my life and yours."
It seemed somehow cold and unfeeling even though he mentioned devotion. As if devotion could be willed. And as if there were no real emotion involved. And yet it was all she would ever be able to give a second husband. Perhaps it could work. Perhaps her first marriage was not the only kind of marriage that could succeed.
And yet, she almost said aloud, you did not remain either devoted or faithful to Flora. But then he had made no vows to Flora. She wondered how many other women there had been since Flora. There must have been others, surely. She had heard that soldiers, the officers anyway— the unmarried ones—often lived lives of wild debauchery when they were able. It was the inevitable result of the constant threat of death that was a way of life to them, she supposed. David must have had many women. He was such a very handsome and attractive man.
She was aware of his attraction for the first time since his return, of his handsome features and very blue eyes, of his broad shoulders and well-muscled physique. She had fought her attraction to him as a girl, suffering dreadful pangs of guilt whenever she had caught herself gazing at him appreciatively or daydreaming about him. It was not seemly to think of a man in physical terms, especially when one could not like or admire the man himself. She had always turned with renewed adoration to Julian, who deserved her love, and whose whole person she loved.
And now David could be hers. She felt breathless suddenly, as if she had been running hard. It was wrong to
Tangled 79
be attracted to a man's body. The physical did not matter. It was unimportant in life. She had heard that so many times at church and from her parents and her governess when she was growing up that it was deeply ingrained in her very being. Besides, she knew from experience that the physical side of love was not even pleasant for a woman.
It was a duty. It was the price a woman paid for a home and a place of her own in the social order. And for companionship and love and that feeling of oneness with the beloved. And for children if only one could bear them to term. It had been such a small price to pay for Julian. A few minutes of discomfort each night in exchange for long days of his love and for what she had hoped would be a lifetime of companionship.
"Rebecca," David said, breaking the silence, "I would be unhappy at Stedwell, thinking of you pining away alone here. I want us both to
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