"Then you ought to marry me."
"One does not repay a rescuer's kindness by destroying one's rescuer."
"You think marrying you would ruin my happiness?"
She nodded. "You can't realize it now. Now you are too hurt by Maria's rejection. But pain lessens over time, and when it does you will want to love again. You'll want a wife worthy of you, and I'm not that wife."
"I beg that you not put me on some pedestal. I would wager I come from far more humble origins than you. Tell me, Miss Hastings, is there any member of your extended family who bears some kind of title?"
She bit her lip. "My mother's great uncle is Sir Arthur Lippincott, a baronet."
"There you have it! Your family’s more illustrious than mine."
"I still refuse to make your life miserable."
Why in the devil was he pleading with this woman to marry him? He'd never wanted marriage. Or, as Nick had told him at White's last night, he didn't want to marry until he met The One, and Emma Hastings was most certainly not The One. This woman was giving him the chance to bow out gracefully and preserve his cherished bachelorhood. Yet he kept begging her to marry him.
Had he taken leave of his senses? Since Maria had run off with Count Cuomo, he had been convinced he would never know happiness again. Why not bring some happiness into this lady's life? Even the small services he'd been able to perform for her today had made him happy. He would seek his happiness by helping to fulfill this young woman's dreams.
"It would give me great pleasure to be the author of your awakening womanhood, to introduce you to the world's greatest city, to have some small part in your transformation from pretty young thing from Upper Biddington to London's most fashionable matron."
"Barrington. Upper Barrington," she said with a mock indignation that was belied by her furtive smile.
Ah, a smile! He'd managed to pull her from the doldrums! Perhaps his job was done. No need to keep hounding her to wed him.
Her voice sounded youthful when she wistfully said, "I had always hoped to marry for love."
So had he.
"But, my dear Mr. Birmingham, had I to choose between forfeiting love or forfeiting London, I choose to forfeit love."
Had she just accepted his offer of marriage? His stomach plummeted. Oh, God, what did he do now?
He took her hands in his and spoke huskily. "I hope to make you very happy, my dear."
"Please," she whispered hoarsely, "call me Emma."
"And you must call me Adam."
"It's not to be a real marriage, is it?"
"Of course. I will procure a special license and marry you at the earliest convenience. I will make all the proper financial settlement on you.”
“That’s not what I meant by a real marriage."
He suddenly understood. Unaccountably, his gaze flicked to her modest bosom. She was a woman, after all. And he was a man. He should have anticipated her query. "Quite right."
"What do you mean by quite right? Will you or will you not take your conjugal rights?"
How in the blazes did a girl from Upper Something or Other know the meaning of the word conjugal?
"I should think that one day you'll want children," she said.
Oh, God. He'd forgotten about that. He did want children one day. But he did not want to force himself on this poor maiden. "I shall conduct myself as a gentleman. The discussion of children can be dealt with at a time in the distant future."
As unsettled as he was, he needed to be pragmatic. He must discount that gloom which hung over him because he was entering a loveless marriage. He must back up his well-meaning proposal with a plan of action. The girl needed a strong, commanding man in her life right now, and that is exactly what he meant to be.
Despite his creeping misgivings.
"Well, then, my dear M-m-, er, Emma, I will need to procure a special license—and I shall need to install you in respectable lodgings until I have the honor of claiming you for my wife. You will, of course, stay here at my brother's opulentacious house. I think you will be happy with his wife. But before you do, I believe you would prefer looking a bit smarter."
* * *
Nothing was to be done today about her modest dress, but dear Mr. Birmingham spared no expense in purchasing for her a half a dozen new bonnets—one of which perfectly complemented her sprigged muslin, making her dress appear far lovelier than it actually was. He also bought her a new Kashmir shawl the colour of freshly churned cream, and he took her to what he said was London's finest modiste.