have a new life. The roses will be dying soon, won't they? Soon it will be autumn and then winter. But spring will come again. It always does. When the roses bloom again, you could be mistress of your own home. You could have a new and meaningful life. You could have something to replace the grief and the emptiness. For Julian's sake I want to give you security and a chance at least for contentment.''
"For Julian's sake?" she said. "Is that what this is all about, then, David?"
"And for mine," he said. "I need you."
That was what did it finally, that repeated assertion that he needed her. It was so long since she had been needed, since she had felt that her existence mattered to at least one other person. Julian's all too few letters from Malta and Varna had been filled with love and longing, but he had not needed her enough to send for her. That was unfair, of course. He had denied himself and insisted she stay at home because she had just miscarried and had not fully recovered either her health or her spirits before he left. But she had searched his letters for need, for some sign that he could not live without her, just as she could not live without him. She would have gone at a moment's notice.
And since Julian's death? Louisa had needed her, at
80 Mary Balogh least financially, for a while. But no longer. The earl had been kind to her. But he did not need her. No one had needed her for a long time.
"David—" she said.
But he would not let her finish. He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it tightly. "Rebecca," he said, "I need you. I need you to say yes more than you can possibly realize." Just as if he knew what argument would finally tell with her.
She looked up into his eyes. They gazed back intently and—anxiously? He really did want to marry her, she realized. And she thought of how it must be for him to be home in England again, alive and safe after the horrors of one of the worst wars in English history. She thought of how eager he must be to put it all behind him and start the new life he had decided upon. A new life in which he would undoubtedly need a woman's help. She could understand his impatience, his unwillingness to look about him for the uncertain advent of love. And for the moment she gave in to the temptation to block from her mind the knowledge that he should cultivate patience, that he should give himself the time to choose with greater care.
He needed a wife. And he needed one now. He had chosen her because he knew her and felt a certain degree of affection for her. And because of Julian. But most of all because he needed her.
"You need not fear that I will pine for him or talk of him or even think of him," she said. "When I become your wife, David, you will have all of me. As it should be. As it must be in marriage." She was not sure if she was offering the impossible.
"When?" he said. "Are you saying yes?"
She nodded.
He squeezed her hand a little more tightly. "I'll see the vicar this afternoon," he said, "and have him begin calling the banns next Sunday.''
"Yes," she said. "I'll see the dressmaker and have new clothes made.
It would be disrespectful to you to wear even half-mourning after our marriage.'' She looked down at her hand when he released it and drew off her wedding ring, teasing it slowly over the knuckle it had
Tangled 81
not passed since Julian has put it there on their wedding day. She dropped the ring into the pocket of her dress, aware of David's eyes on her. Her hand felt suddenly and appallingly naked. Her finger was white and dented where the ring had been.
"Thank you, Rebecca," he said quietly.
She smiled fleetingly at him. He was a serious and stern man, as his father had always been. As her father had been too. Though there had been that strange wild-ness in David too—all the more disturbing because it never seemed quite to fit his outer aspect. It almost seemed that he must be two people. She could not quite picture him with Flora. ... He
"For Julian's sake?" she said. "Is that what this is all about, then, David?"
"And for mine," he said. "I need you."
That was what did it finally, that repeated assertion that he needed her. It was so long since she had been needed, since she had felt that her existence mattered to at least one other person. Julian's all too few letters from Malta and Varna had been filled with love and longing, but he had not needed her enough to send for her. That was unfair, of course. He had denied himself and insisted she stay at home because she had just miscarried and had not fully recovered either her health or her spirits before he left. But she had searched his letters for need, for some sign that he could not live without her, just as she could not live without him. She would have gone at a moment's notice.
And since Julian's death? Louisa had needed her, at
80 Mary Balogh least financially, for a while. But no longer. The earl had been kind to her. But he did not need her. No one had needed her for a long time.
"David—" she said.
But he would not let her finish. He took one of her hands in his and squeezed it tightly. "Rebecca," he said, "I need you. I need you to say yes more than you can possibly realize." Just as if he knew what argument would finally tell with her.
She looked up into his eyes. They gazed back intently and—anxiously? He really did want to marry her, she realized. And she thought of how it must be for him to be home in England again, alive and safe after the horrors of one of the worst wars in English history. She thought of how eager he must be to put it all behind him and start the new life he had decided upon. A new life in which he would undoubtedly need a woman's help. She could understand his impatience, his unwillingness to look about him for the uncertain advent of love. And for the moment she gave in to the temptation to block from her mind the knowledge that he should cultivate patience, that he should give himself the time to choose with greater care.
He needed a wife. And he needed one now. He had chosen her because he knew her and felt a certain degree of affection for her. And because of Julian. But most of all because he needed her.
"You need not fear that I will pine for him or talk of him or even think of him," she said. "When I become your wife, David, you will have all of me. As it should be. As it must be in marriage." She was not sure if she was offering the impossible.
"When?" he said. "Are you saying yes?"
She nodded.
He squeezed her hand a little more tightly. "I'll see the vicar this afternoon," he said, "and have him begin calling the banns next Sunday.''
"Yes," she said. "I'll see the dressmaker and have new clothes made.
It would be disrespectful to you to wear even half-mourning after our marriage.'' She looked down at her hand when he released it and drew off her wedding ring, teasing it slowly over the knuckle it had
Tangled 81
not passed since Julian has put it there on their wedding day. She dropped the ring into the pocket of her dress, aware of David's eyes on her. Her hand felt suddenly and appallingly naked. Her finger was white and dented where the ring had been.
"Thank you, Rebecca," he said quietly.
She smiled fleetingly at him. He was a serious and stern man, as his father had always been. As her father had been too. Though there had been that strange wild-ness in David too—all the more disturbing because it never seemed quite to fit his outer aspect. It almost seemed that he must be two people. She could not quite picture him with Flora. ... He
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