Free Only a Promise by Mary Balogh Page B

Neither of them expected or even wanted love or romance or any of those finer sensibilities some people of a romanticdisposition deemed necessary for a good marriage. He had nothing whatsoever to offer along those lines, and she did not want anything. She was done with love.
    He carefully kept his mind away from what George had had to say on the topic.
    She was ineligible, yes. But unfairly so. In all the admittedly unsavory events in which she had been involved during the past six years, she appeared to have been quite blameless. And, he had recalled as a final point in her favor, she wanted to live a quiet life in the country. She wanted nothing more to do with London and its myriad entertainments. Neither did he.
    However it was, no matter how much he was rationalizing instead of using plain common sense, he had come. He had sought her out, and he had told her quite baldly
why
he had come.
    I came back here to offer you marriage, Miss Muirhead.
    But he had said it only after she had had her own say on the subject.
    I have had time to reflect upon what I suggested, and I have changed my mind. It was nothing but foolish impulse. I have forgotten it.
    He liked her the better for her spirited words, for thumbing her nose at him to all intents and purposes. He liked her better for the fact that her chin had jutted upward and an almost martial gleam had lit her eyes.
    “Why?” she asked him now.
    It sounded like a challenge.

5
    C hloe’s hands were still clasped behind her back. Tightly. For some reason the third finger of each hand was crossed over the forefinger.
    “I have to marry,” he said in answer to her question. “Given that fact, I would rather it be to someone who neither expects nor craves what I cannot give. I
can
give my name with all it entails at the present and promises for the future, and I can offer security and respectability and protection. I can give a home and children. Indeed, the latter is what I will work most diligently to give. But you know all this. I can offer all the material benefits of my wealth and position. I will allow you freedom within the bounds of respectability. I will
not,
however, give love or romance or even a feigned affection I do not feel, though I
will
show unwavering respect and courtesy. You informed me a few mornings ago that you wish to be married, to have a secure home of your own, to have children of your own. You informed me that you have no wish for any emotional bond within marriage. Is this correct, Miss Muirhead?”
    His eyes and his voice were quite devoid of emotion.Yet he was speaking of marriage—his own and hers. He could not have made it sound more impersonal if he had tried. But of course she was the one who had started it all. She had overheard what he said to his grandmother, and, remembering his words during the night that followed, she had seen the faint chance of improving her situation.
    Improving?
    I will
not
, however, give love or romance or even a feigned affection I do not feel.
    What had happened to him? He had not been like this when he was a boy at school. Graham had always described him as a vibrant, charismatic figure, as a passionate leader everyone wanted to follow.
    “Yes,” she said, matching the tone of her voice to his, “it is correct.”
    “Then I offer you marriage,” he said.
    Just like that. With a simple
yes
she could be a wife and mother. She could have a home of her own, the security and respectability of being a married lady. Never again, even if he predeceased her, would she feel essentially homeless and rootless and without identity. She would be Chloe Stockwood, Countess of Berwick. She would discover what it felt like to be with a man. For years she had wondered and ached with the secret and very unladylike longing to find out.
    Then I offer you marriage.
    She closed her eyes and wondered if being married under such bleak circumstances would actually be worse than remaining as she was. But how
could
it? Nothing could