The Proposal by Mary Balogh Page B

house, he had said last evening, that inspired such confidences.
    “You have been left behind?” he asked.
    “I was the first of my generation in our family to marry,” she said. “I was the first, and indeed the only one, to be widowed. Now my brother is married, and Lauren, my cousin and dearest friend. All my other cousins are married too. They all have growing families and have moved, it seems, into another phase of their lives that is closed to me. It is not that they are not kind and welcoming. They are. They are all forever inviting me to stay, and their desire for my company is perfectly genuine. I know that. I still have remarkably close friendships with Lauren, with Lily—my sister-in-law—and with my cousins. And I live with my mother, whom I love very dearly. I am very well blessed.”
    The assertion sounded hollow to her ears.
    “A seven-year mourning period for a husband is an exceedingly long one,” he said, “especially when a woman is young. How old are you?”
    Trust Lord Trentham to ask the unaskable.
    “I am thirty-two,” she said. “It is possible to live a perfectly satisfying existence without remarrying.”
    “Not if you want to have children without incurring scandal,” he said. “You would be wise not to delay too much longer if you do.”
    She raised her eyebrows. Was there no end to his impertinence? And yet, what would undoubtedly be impertinence in any other man she knew was not in his case. Not really. He was just a blunt, direct man, who spoke his mind.
    “I am not sure I can have children,” she said. “The physician who tended me when I miscarried said I could not.”
    “Was he the man who set your broken leg?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “And you never sought a second opinion?”
    She shook her head.
    “It does not matter, anyway,” she said. “I have nieces and nephews. I am fond of them and they of me.”
    It did matter, though, and only now at this moment did she realize how much it did. Such was the power of denial. What was it about this house? Or this man.
    “It sounds to me,” he said, “as though that physician was a quack of the worst sort. He left you with a permanent limp and at the same time destroyed all your hope of bearing a child just after you had lost one—without ever suggesting that you consult a doctor with more knowledge and experience of such matters than he.”
    “Some things,” she said, “are best not known for sure, Lord Trentham.”
    He lowered his eyes from hers at last. He looked at the ground and with the toe of one large booted foot he smoothed out the gravel of the path.
    What made him so attractive? Perhaps it was his size. For although he was unusually large, there was nothing clumsy about him. Every part of him was in perfect proportion to every other. Even his cropped hair, which should lessen any claim to good looks he might possess, suited the shape of his head and the harshness of his features. His hands could be gentle. So could his lips …
    “What do you do?” she asked him. “When you are not here, that is. You are no longer an officer, are you?”
    “I live in peace,” he said, looking back up at her. “Like you. And contentment. I bought a manor and estate last year after my father died, and I live there alone. I have sheep and cows and chickens, a small farm, a vegetable garden, a flower garden. I work at it all. I get my hands dirty. I get soil under my fingernails. My neighbors are puzzled, for I am Lord Trentham . My family is puzzled, for I am now the owner of a vast import/export business and enormously wealthy. I could live with great consequence in London. I grew up as the son of a wealthy man, though I was always expected to work hard in preparation for the day when I would take over from my father. I insisted instead that he purchase a commission for me in an infantry regiment and I worked hard at my chosen career. I distinguished myself. Then I left. And now I live in peace. And contentment.”
    There