The Proposal by Mary Balogh Page A

to go.”
    All she had to do was say no. He would surely go away and stay away.
    “How would I get out there?” she asked instead and then could have bitten out her tongue since the answer was obvious.
    “You could crawl on your hands and knees,” he said, “if you wished to be as stubborn as you were yesterday. Or you could send for a burly footman—I believe one of them carried you down this morning. Or I could carry you if you trust me not to become overfamiliar again.”
    Gwen felt herself blushing.
    “I hope,” she said, “you have not been blaming yourself for last evening, Lord Trentham. We were equally to blame for that kiss, if blame is the right word. Why should we not have kissed, after all, if we both wished to do so? Neither of us is married or betrothed to someone else.”
    She had the feeling that her attempt at nonchalance was failing miserably.
    “I may take it, then,” he said, “that you do not wish to crawl out on your hands and knees?”
    “You may,” she said.
    No more was said about the burly footman.
    He turned and strode from the room without another word, presumably to go and fetch her cloak.
    That had been nicely done of her, Gwen thought with considerable irony.
    But the prospect of some fresh air was not to be resisted.
    And the prospect of Lord Trentham’s company?
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
     
    It was chilly. But the sun was shining, and they were surrounded by primroses and crocuses and even a few daffodils. It had not occurred to Gwen before now to wonder why so many spring flowers were varying shades of yellow. Was it nature’s way of adding a little sunshine to the season that came after the dreariness of winter but before the brightness of summer?
    “This is so very lovely,” she said, breathing in the fresh, slightly salty air. “Spring is my favorite season.”
    She drew her red cloak more snugly about her as Lord Trentham set her down along a wooden seat beneath the window of the morning room. He took the two cushions she had carried out at his suggestion, placed one at her back to protect it from the wooden arm, and slid the other carefully beneath her right ankle. He spread the blanket he had brought with him over her legs.
    “Why?” he asked as he straightened up.
    “I prefer a daffodil to a rose,” she said. “And spring is full of newness and hope.”
    He sat down on the pedestal of a stone urn close by and draped his arms over his spread knees. It was a relaxed, casual pose, but his eyes were intent on hers.
    “What do you wish for your life that would be new?” he asked her. “What are your hopes for the future?”
    “I see, Lord Trentham,” she said, “that I must choose my words with care when I am in your company. You take everything I say literally.”
    “Why say something,” he asked her, “if your words mean nothing?”
    It was a fair enough question.
    “Oh, very well,” she said. “Let me think.”
    Her first thought was that she was not sorry he had come to the morning room and suggested bringing her out here for some air. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had been disappointed when it was a footman who had appeared in her room this morning to carry her downstairs. And she had been disappointed that Lord Trentham had not sought her out all morning. And yet she had also hoped to avoid him for the rest of her stay here. He was right about words that meant nothing, even if the words were only in one’s head.
    “I do not want anything new,” she said. “And my hope is that I can remain contented and at peace.”
    He continued to look at her as though his eyes could pierce through hers to her very soul. And she realized that though she thought she spoke the truth, she was really not perfectly sure about it.
    “Have you noticed,” she asked him, “how standing still can sometimes be no different from moving backward? For the whole world moves on and leaves one behind.”
    Oh, dear. It was the