Madeline waited for Mr. Bray in the grand entry hall, watching as a footman helped him don his great coat, hat, and scarf. She did a slight turn, taking in the magnanimity of the space. There was a sweeping, triple staircase that led up to the top floor of the house. Art collected by seven generations of Corbin’s adorned the walls, stretching up to the domed ceiling.
With her head craned back, she didn’t notice at first that Mr. Bray was ready and waiting for her. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing towards the door.
Madeline nodded, flipping up the hood of Rosalie’s old cape, feeling the tickle of the silver rabbit fur under her chin. Geoffrey, the same footman from the night before, opened the door, ushering them out into the bitter cold. As she stepped through the door, she felt Mr. Bray’s hand settle at the small of her back. It was a simple gesture, but it had her body going stiff. Not for the first time, she was reacting to his closeness.
In all the husband-hunting discussions, Madeline had left out one critical detail. It was a truth she’d worked hard to conceal, even from herself. It was too difficult to admit this truth, not when it would most likely end in further disappoint. But it was getting harder to deny the fact that Madeline harbored a secret fondness for Mr. Bray.
They first met in this house during that fateful summer she spent being forced to court George Corbin. That was the same summer she met Rosalie. Madeline had never fallen so easy into conversation with a man as she had Mr. Bray. He had such a calming manner, and she appreciated the way he seemed to listen with his whole body. The talked of books and music. He made no secret of his love for gothic romance. Rosalie had even darted to the library after dinner, determined to pick up a book that Madeline could give to him.
Did he remember her the way she remembered him? Did he ever think of her? It was dangerous to consider him for this proposition. Life would be so much easier if she picked a man to whom she had no attachments. A man the fickle ton would more readily accept.
But attachments can feel so good, came the quiet voice in her head. She blushed, knowing it wasn’t the cold, as her mind filled with the memories of another man. She remembered how Mr. Warren had teased her. He challenged her and bullied her and made her laugh all at once. He was so completely different from the kind, unassuming Mr. Bray.
The strange truth was that she felt at ease with Warren too, disarmed by his wholly unassuming manner. He didn’t care for social rules and conventions. He lived his life out loud, leaping off hay carts and dragging damsels onto his lap.
And his kiss, so claiming and fierce. She’d felt it through her whole body. It echoed now, leaving her tingling. It was all she could do not the raise her fingers to her lips and brush them over the ghost of his kiss.
She glanced to her left, using the brim of her hat as a shield as she took in Mr. Bray’s stately profile. Unlike Mr. Warren, the kind curate did follow society’s rules. He knew all the right words, the genteel looks. Certainly, he would never drag her onto his lap or kiss her senseless behind a hay cart. He would court her like they do in poetry—walks through a twilight garden, whispered words in a crowded room.
Why did the thought not stir her? She didn’t want polite drawing room chatter. She didn’t want Mr. Bray’s hand to brush her shoulder in a dance. She’d had enough of that style of courting to last three lifetimes. And where had it gotten her? Nowhere.
Maybe Mr. Warren had the right idea. He saw what he wanted, and he took it. Could Madeline ever dare be so bold? She glanced over again. What might Mr. Bray’s kisses feel like? Would he be kind and gentlemanly, or would he seek to ravage and claim like the bold gamekeeper? His hands at least must surely be softer—
“Lord, how I would love to know your thoughts at this moment.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Mr. Bray laughed, his walking stick clicking against the fine gravel of the drive. “I asked what business brings you to Finchley,” he replied. “And when you did not answer, I asked if the cold had frozen your ears.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bray,” she stammered. “I was…”
“Distracted,” he replied with another soft laugh. “Enjoyably so from the fine blush on your cheeks…or perhaps that is merely the cold.”
“It is the cold,” she said quickly.
“I remember you, you know,” he went on. “We met at the Michaelmas Ball, did we not? It was a few years ago now.”
“Yes.” She was fighting to control the racing of her heart, her mind still flashing to thoughts of Mr. Bray kissing her as soundly as the gamekeeper.
“You are a fan of Ann Radcliffe, if I remember.”
Literature! Thank heavens for easy distractions. She let out a breath, forcing all thoughts of kissing from her head. “Yes, sir.”
“And have you read The Castle of Wolfenbach?”
“I have, sir,” she replied. “Though, I preferred The Orphan of the Rhine. And my new love is poetry…Shelley and Coleridge come to mind.”
“Ah, yes. ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,’” he recited. “Coleridge’s recent work is unmatched, you’re quite right. I wish I could remember more.”
Madeline chewed her lip before reciting softly, “Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea.’”
He smiled. “That’s very good. I was hoping the first line might be enough to impress you.”
She couldn’t help but lean away, too nervous at feeling him so close. The last time she let a man get close, she found herself wrapped around him like bark on a tree. Heavens, there’s a reason she ought to be chaperoned. She cleared her throat. “Do you memorize poems to impress people then? What if I said my favorite poet was Lord Byron?”
Mr. Bray’s smiled widened. “Then I would say, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.’”
“And how does it go on, sir?”
“I told you, I only memorize the first lines,” he replied. “That is enough to impress most people. But I am sure Lady Madeline Blaire can finish it for me,” he added, leaning his face close enough that his warm breath ghosted over her cheek.
She pursed her lips, torn between wanting to play the game and being careful not to appear too well-versed. Her mother’s voice rattled in her head. Men do not like a well-read wife, Madeline. Put that book down and do something useful!
Luckily for Madeline, her mother wasn’t here. She cleared her throat. “I believe it goes on to say, ‘And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in the aspect of her eyes.’”
Mr. Bray positively beamed at her. “I’m sure you must be right.” They walked quietly for a few yards before he added, “I like this game. Shall we do a little Shelley next?”
“I—Mr. Bray, can I ask…” She had to just get this done. “Would you considermeafriend?”
He paused in his steps, glancing down at her. “Pardon?”
He didn’t understand her. How could he? She spoke the words in one muttered exhale. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, pulling the edges of her cape close. “I…um…are we friends?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Well, our acquaintance has been a short one,” he replied honestly. “But anyone who has read as widely as you must surely be considered a friend worth having.”
She glanced around. They hadn’t quite reached the edge of the manicured lawn. Just beyond the trees sat the little village of Finchley. A gazebo sat at the tree line offering a place to rest in the heat of summer. Madeline had sat there many times before with Rosalie or the Swindon sisters. Now it was empty, slicked with a thin layer of frost.
“Can I put something to you, Mr. Bray…as a friend?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Though, if we are friends, I wish you’d call me Charles. If a duke lets me call him James, it feels only right that you should enjoy the same right.”
Her mind rushed with memories of two nights ago, when Mr. Warren so forcefully shut her down, determined that she not use his Christian name. Why were men so mercurial? How was she supposed to make sense of them when each one was so very different?
But they were friends. Charles Bray was her friend. Surely, that had to be a better start than marrying the likes of Lord Everton. Madeline could do this. She could marry a friend. Whatever else came of the match, they could begin there.
Oh god.
Was she doing this now?
She glanced around. Surely, she couldn’t do it here. Not out in the open in the middle of the road. No, she needed privacy. No wandering eyes. No listening ears. Heavens, she could just imagine Rosalie standing at the window watching her, fingers crossed in anticipation.
Before he could stop her, Madeline veered off the manicured path, marching towards the Grecian gazebo.
“Uhh…Lady Madeline?” he called, following after her. “What are you doing? We need to get you into the village before you freeze to solid ice.”
She marched right up the marble steps, not pausing until she reached the opposite edge of the dais, her arms wrapped tightly around her inside her wooly cape. She could scarcely catch her breath. There had to be a right way to do this. How was a lady expected to propose to a gentleman?
Oh god—was she proposing to him right now? No, Rosalie said to talk. Only talk. But what good was talking when she had such a limited window of opportunity?
“Lady Madeline, are you unwell?” he called after her.
She turned sharply around, heart thundering in her chest, lips parted on a breath as she took in his startled gaze. He was so handsome—his caramel curls flipping out beneath the brim of his hat, his amber eyes wide with concern.
Not waiting a second longer, she blurted out, “Mr. Bray, will you marry me?”
