“Please, call me Ash,” he finally replied.
She pressed her lips tight. “Mr. Hawkins,” she repeated, delightfully stubborn. “As you know, I am of a scientific mind, and so you will also understand that I cannot make such a decision in haste. I need to weigh the pros and cons of the situation.”
“Of course,” he murmured, keeping his expression neutral, though disappointment crashed through him. There was no reason for it, of course. She was not saying no, and so he had hope. And he would lose nothing if she did decide to refuse him. They didn’t know each other, after all.
But now that he had decided on the course to take, now that he had planned on making this woman his wife, he found he wanted it, desperately.
“Only, I don’t have long on Synne,” he continued. “The sooner I receive your answer the better.”
She nodded, seemingly all business but for her tightened grip on the strap of her bag. A tell that betrayed her unsettled state of mind. “Of course,” she said. “You may visit my family’s home tomorrow afternoon, number seven Knighthead Crescent. I shall have your answer for you then.”
With that she dipped into a quick curtsy and spun about.
Ash watched her as she fairly sprinted across the ground, climbed into her carriage with a quick goodbye to the girls, and departed with nary a look his way.
“Tomorrow, then, Miss Pickering,” he murmured with a strange anticipation as he watched her carriage rumble away.
***
The moment Bronwyn departed Caulnedy Manor—fighting the urge to look back at Mr. Hawkins with every bit of willpower she possessed—she had known she would refuse him. It was a ridiculous idea to even think she might accept him; they had met one another a total of twice, both times by chance. And he wanted tomarry her?
Mr. Hawkins, she surmised, would soon see the folly of such an idea. He had acted without thinking; no doubt having a night to think it over would have him comprehending the utter stupidity of his suggestion. He would not be visiting her house the next day to renew his proposal. She was certain of it.
Why, then, did the idea of him forgetting the entire thing leave a lump in her throat she could not seem to swallow down no matter how hard she tried?
But regardless what the man decided to do on the morrow, it would make no difference to her future, considering she had no intention of accepting him. During the ride home, seated across from her disapproving maid, she told herself she would not think of it any longer.
When she walked in the front door of her parents’ fashionable town house, however, the decision to forget was taken right out of her hands. Never in her life, not all those years ago when they had been forced to flee London to avoid the scandal of her betrayal and heartbreak, not even when she had lost the hand of a literal duke the summer before, had she seen her parents so enraged. Between her mother’s hysterics and her father’s ranting over being forced to miss the luncheon at Lady Tesh’s because of Bronwyn’s tardiness—how would they react if they knew that part of that tardiness was because a stranger had proposed to her?—Bronwyn did not have time to think, her entire focus on repeatedly apologizing well into the night. By the time she fell into bed, utterly exhausted from the emotional toll of the day, Mr. Hawkins and his ridiculous suggestion had completely fled her thoughts.
Well, perhaps not completely. He remained firmly planted in the back of her mind, a tempting thought. Like the idea of a slice of lemon cake waiting for her, dripping with icing and candied fruit, delicious and decadent and utterly mouthwatering…
Which was probably why she hadn’t slept well. And woke much later than usual, craving sweets.
She thought perhaps her tardiness the day before, a mortal sin in the eyes of her social-climbing parents, would nevertheless be quickly forgotten. Mr. and Mrs. Pickering, while ridiculous, were not ones to hold grudges. Therefore, when she descended to the first-floor drawing room the following morning, ready if not quite willing to discover what plans her mother had made for the day, she was shocked to find that her parents were not through with their offense.
“Sit down, Bronwyn,” her father said in a voice that brooked no refusal as she entered the room.
Alarmed, for her father was not one to use such firm tones even when deeply upset, Bronwyn approached and sat in the chair facing her parents. What the devil was going on? Was there to be a punishment then for yesterday’s thoughtlessness? Whatever it might be, she prayed it was over and done with quickly.
Her parents, however, were not about to make this easy on her.
“We are still very much upset by your actions yesterday, Bronwyn,” her mother said, visibly nervous. She shot her husband a quick look. He nodded, as if to encourage her.
Filled with a sudden dread, Bronwyn gripped her hands together in her lap. Silly and gregarious and outrageous attitudes from her parents she could handle. But she had never in her life seen them in such a serious, solemn state.
“It was utterly irresponsible of you,” her mother continued. She held a handkerchief in her hands and was systematically twisting it, as if strangling the life out of it. “And after all we have discussed in the past days and weeks, how we expect you to comport yourself in a proper manner in order to find a husband.”
“We had thought you would finally heed our wishes on the matter,” her father chimed in, heavy brows drawn low over his eyes. “Surely our Bronwyn would not wound her parents by purposely ruining all chances at finding a match. But no, you are even more determined to break our hearts.”
“Why, when I think of my mortification, the utter embarrassment of having to send a letter of apology to Lady Tesh.” Her mother sniffled loudly, bringing her crushed handkerchief to her eyes to wipe at nonexistent tears. “She will think we have snubbed her. And so will everyone else, for it surely must be all over the Isle by now.”
“There, there, dear,” her husband murmured, placing an arm about his wife’s shoulders. He shot Bronwyn a furious look. “Do you see what you have done to your mother? Her nerves are frayed beyond bearing.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Bronwyn managed, feeling as low as she ever had. Yes, her parents frustrated her more than not. She was nothing like them, after all; their personalities mixed about as well as oil and water. Yet she loved them dearly and had no wish to give them pain. But she seemed to be doing just that more and more frequently.
“Sorryis all well and good,” her father said. “But it does nothing to repair the damage you caused yesterday. You are completely unaware of how your every action affects all of our futures. In truth, I don’t think you shall ever see the importance of it.”
“It’s thoseOddments,” her mother bit out, raising her face from her handkerchief, anger stamped across her features. “They’ve put strange ideas in our girl’s head. Oh, Mr. Pickering,” she wailed, her mood changing in an instant to one of utter misery. “Those girls have ruined our dear daughter.”