She remembered that he had had a son who had been killed in Portugal or Spain during the wars. The duke must have been very young when that son was born. Then she recalled what he had said earlier about not having made a marriage proposal since he was seventeen.
“It is a companion I want,” he repeated. “A friend. A woman friend. A wife, in fact. I do not have grand romance or romantic passion to offer, I am afraid. I am past the age of such flights of fancy. But though I do not know you well or you me, I believe we would deal well together. I admire your talent as a musician and the beauty of soul it suggests. I admire your modesty and dignity, your devotion to your sister. I like your appearance. I like the idea of looking at you every day for the rest of my life.”
Dora gazed at him, startled. She had been pretty once upon a time, but youth and she had parted company long ago. The best she saw in her glass now was neatness and . . . ordinariness. She saw a staid spinster in her middle years. He, on the other hand, was . . . well, even with his forty-eight years and his silvering hair, he was gorgeous.
She bit her lower lip and gazed back at him. How could they possibly be friends?
“I would not have any idea how to be a duchess,” she said.
She watched his eyes smile, and she smiled ruefully back at him and then actually laughed. So, incredibly, did he. And she was glad yet again that she was sitting. Was there a word more powerful than gorgeous?
“I grant,” he said, “that if you were my wife you would also be my duchess. But—I hesitate to disappoint you—it does not mean wearing a tiara and an ermine-trimmed robe every day, you know. Or even every year. And it does not involve rubbing shoulders with the king and his court every week. On the other hand, there may be some amusement to be derived from being addressed as ‘Your Grace’ instead of just plain Miss Debbins.”
“I am rather fond of Miss Debbins,” she said. “She has been with me for almost forty years.”
His smile faded and he looked austere again.
“Are you happy, Miss Debbins?” he asked. “I recognize that you may well be. You have a cozy home here and productive, independent employment doing something you love. You are much appreciated both at Middlebury and, I believe, in the village for your talent and for your good nature.” He paused and met her gaze again. “Or is there a chance that you too would like a friend and companion all your own, that you too would like to belong exclusively to one other person and have him belong to you? Is there a chance that you would be willing to leave your life here and come to Cornwall and Penderris with me? Not just as my friend, but as my life’s partner?” He paused once more for a moment. “Will you marry me?”
His eyes held hers. And all her defenses fell away, as did all the assurances she had given herself over the years that she was happy with the course her life had taken since she was seventeen, that she was contented at the very least, that she was not lonely. No, never that.
She did have a cozy home, a busy, productive life, neighbors and friends, an independent, adequate income, family members not too far away. But she had never had anyone of her very own that she would not have to relinquish at some time in the future. She had had her sister until Agnes married William Keeping, and she had had her again for a year before she married Flavian. But . . . there had been no one else and no one permanent to fill the void. No one who had ever vowed to cleave unto her alone until death did them part.
She had never allowed herself to dwell upon how different her life might have been if her mother had not run away from home so abruptly and unexpectedly when Dora was seventeen and Agnes was five. Her life had been as it had been, and she had made free choices every step of the way. But was it possible that now, after all . . . ?
She was thirty-nine years old.
But she was not dead.
She would not marry, though, just out of desperation. A poor marriage could—and would—be far worse than what she already had. But a marriage to the Duke of Stanbrook would not be from desperation, she knew without having to ponder the matter. She had dreamed of him for a whole year—fourteen months to be precise. Oh, not in that way, she would have protested even just an hour ago. But her defenses had come tumbling down, and now she could admit that, yes, she had dreamed of him in that way. Of course she had. She had walked beside him all the way from Middlebury on that most vividly wonderful of all the afternoons of her life, her hand through his arm as they talked easily to each other. He had smiled at her and she had smelled his cologne and sensed his masculinity. She had dared to dream of love and romance that day and ever since.
But only to dream.
Sometimes—oh, just sometimes—dreams could come true. Not the love and romance part, of course, but he had companionship and friendship to offer. And marriage. Not a platonic marriage.
She could know what it was like . . .
With him? Oh, goodness, with him. She could know . . .
And someone to share my bed.
She became aware that a longish silence had succeeded his proposal. Her eyes were still locked upon his.
“Thank you,” she said. “Yes. I will.”
3
George had been taken rather by surprise when he first stepped into the room and set eyes upon Miss Debbins once more. He had thought he remembered her clearly from last year, but she was a bit taller than he recalled her being, though she was not above average height. And he had thought her a little plumper, a little plainer, a little older. It was strange in light of his purpose in coming here that she was actually more attractive than he recalled her being. One might have expected it to be other way around.