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holding her hand, he realized. He squeezed it and raised it to his lips once more.
    â€œI am,” he said. “Quite sure.”
    He wondered what she would say or do if he dipped his head and kissed her lips. She could hardly object—she was now his affianced bride. The shock of that thought caused him to pause, and he wondered for a moment if he really
was
sure. It was suddenly difficult to picture himself kissing her, making love to her, becoming as familiar with her body as he was with his own. But he did know that he would have been horribly disappointedif she had said no. For it really was not just marriage itself that had come to his mind a few nights ago in London. It was Miss Dora Debbins and the strange, unexpected yearning to be married to her.
    â€œWhen?” she asked him. “And where?” She bit her lower lip as though she feared she was displaying an inappropriate overeagerness.
    He patted her hand and released it, and she sat down again. Rather than loom over her, he resumed his seat too. Idiot that he was, he had not thought much beyond the proposal itself. Or, at least, he had not thought of the actual process of wedding her. His mind had been focused more upon the imagined contentment of the years ahead. Yet he had just been caught up in all the frantic busyness of a wedding and knew it did not just happen without planning.
    â€œOught I to go to Lancashire,” he asked her, “to speak to your father?” It had not occurred to him until now that perhaps he ought.
    â€œI am thirty-nine,” she reminded him. “My father lives his own life with the lady he married before I moved here. There is no estrangement between us, but he has little or nothing to do with my life and certainly no say in how I live it.”
    George wondered about that family situation. He knew some of the facts but not the full reason why she had left home and moved so far away. It was an unusual thing for an unmarried lady to do when there were male relatives to support her.
    â€œWe have none but our own wishes to consult, then,it would seem,” he said. “Shall we dispense with a lengthy betrothal? Will you marry me soon?”
    â€œSoon?” She looked across at him with raised eyebrows. And then she lifted both hands and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, what will everyone think? Agnes? The viscount and viscountess? Your other friends? The people in the village here? I am a
music
teacher. I am almost forty. Will I appear very . . . presumptuous?”
    â€œI believe,” he said, “indeed I know that my friends will be more than delighted to see me married. I am equally sure they will approve my choice and applaud your willingness to have me. Your sister will surely be happy for you. I am not a bad catch, after all, am I, even if I am nine years older than you? Julian and Philippa—my only nephew and his wife—will also be pleased. I am certain of it. Your father will surely be happy too, will he not? And I believe you have a brother?”
    Her hands fell to her lap. “This is all so very sudden,” she said. “Yes, Oliver is a clergyman in Shropshire.” She worried her lower lip again. “We will marry soon, then?”
    â€œIn a month’s time if we wait for banns to be read,” he said, “or sooner if you would prefer to marry by special license. As to the where—the choices would seem to be here or in Lancashire or at Penderris or in London. Do you have a preference?”
    Her sister and Flavian had married here at the village church last year by special license. The wedding breakfast had been held at Middlebury Park, and Sophia had insisted that the newly married couple spend theirwedding night in the state apartments in the east wing there. It had all been lovely, perfect . . . but did she want to do exactly what her sister had done?
    â€œLondon?” she said. “I have never been there.