The Arrangement by Mary Balogh

unremarkable and can escape detection even from admirers who are looking for them. And yet all the richness of their talent is contained within themselves.”
    “Oh,” she said, somewhat startled. “Are you saying that I am not
really
a mouse? I know that. But…”
    “Describe yourself to me, Miss Fry.”
    She rubbed her hands along the arms of her chair.
    “I am small,” she said. “Five foot nothing. Well, five foot two. I am small in every way. I have the figure of a boy. I have a nose my father used to describe as a button and a mouth that is too wide for my face. I cut my hair very short because … well, because it curls too much and is impossible to control.”
    “The color of your hair?” he asked.
    “Auburn,” she said. “Nothing as decisive as blond or raven. Merely auburn.”
    She hated talking about her hair. It was her hair that had led to the destroying of her soul—though that was a ridiculously theatrical way by which to describe a little heartbreak.
    “And your eyes?”
    “Brown,” she said. “Or hazel. Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”
    “Definitely not a gargoyle, then,” he said.
    “But not a beauty either,” she assured him. “Not even
nearly
a beauty. Sometimes when my father was alive, I dressed as a boy. It was easier when … Well, never mind. No one ever accused me of being an impostor.”
    “Has no one ever told you that you are pretty?” he asked.
    “I would only have to look in the nearest glass,” she said, “to know that they lied.”
    He did one of those silent stares again.
    “Take a blind man’s word for it,” he told her, “that you have a pretty voice.”
    She laughed. She felt absurdly, pathetically pleased.
    “
Will
you marry me?” he asked.
    Suddenly she was engulfed in a tidal wave of temptation. She gripped harder. She would be leaving permanent indentations in the arms of the vicarage chair if she was not careful.
    “I cannot do that,” she said.
    “Why not?”
    Only for a thousand reasons. At least.
    “You must know,” she said, “that the whole village is buzzing with talk about you. I have not heard much of it, but I have heard enough. It is said that you left home a while ago because your relatives were trying to make you marry a young lady you did not really
wish
to marry. It is said that they have set their minds upon finding you a wife. Everyone here has been speculating about who, if anyone, will suit you among the young ladies with whom you are familiar. And, of course, my uncle and aunt made a determined effort last evening to catch you for Henrietta. You are set about by people who are scheming to get you married, though their motives differ widely. I will not add to that crowd, Lord Darleigh, by marrying you just because you are kind enough to feel responsible for me. You are
not
responsible. Besides, you told me yourself last night that your dream does not include a wife.”
    “Do you have any active aversion to marrying me?” he asked her. “My blindness, for example?”
    “No,” she said. “The fact that you cannot see
is
a handicap, but you do not seem to treat it as one.”
    She did not know him. But he really did look fit and well muscled. She knew he had been blind for several years. If he had sat in a chair or lain on a bed most of that time, he would not look as he looked now. His face was weather-bronzed too.
    “Nothing else?” he asked. “My looks? My voice? My … Anything?”
    “N-no,” she said.
    Except that he was a titled, wealthy, privileged gentleman despite the blindness, and lived in a mansion far larger than Barton Hall. And that he had a doting mother and sisters. And twenty thousand pounds a year. And that he was handsome and elegant and made her want to cower in a corner, worshiping from afar—even from within her mouse hole. Actually, that would make a splendid cartoon, except that she would have to capture his splendor without satire and she was not sure she could do that. Her charcoal almost