Only Beloved Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “Yes. I will.”

3
    G eorge 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.
    She was a good-looking woman for her age despite the primness of the clothes she wore and the simple, almost severe style of her hair. She must have been very pretty as a girl. Her hair was still dark, with no discernible signs of gray, and she had a flawless complexion and fine, intelligent eyes. She also had an air of quiet dignity that she maintained despite the shock of his unexpected appearance and his sudden, abrupt question to her. Overall, she looked like a woman who had come to terms with her life and accepted it for what it was.
    It was that air about her, he recalled, that had drawn his admiration last year. It had not been just her musical talent or her sensible conversation or her pleasant looks. He had told her a few moments ago that he did not know why his sudden idea of marrying and the image of her had come to him simultaneously, the one inextricably bound up with the other, neither one possible without the other. But he
did
know why. It was her air of serene dignity, which must not have come easily to her. There were doubtless some women who remained single purely from choice, but he did not believe Miss Debbins was of their number. Spinsterhood had been forced upon her by circumstances—he knew some of them from her sister. She had, however, made a rich and meaningful life for herself despite any disappointment she may have suffered.
    Yes, he admired her.
    Thank you. Yes. I will,
she had said.
    He got to his feet and reached out a hand for hers. She stood too, and he raised her hand to his lips. It was a soft, well-cared-for hand with long fingers and short nails. That at least he remembered accurately from last year. It was a musician’s hand. It created music that could bring him to the verge of tears.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “I will do my utmost to see that you never regret your decision. It is unfortunate that in almost any marriage it is the woman who must relinquish her home and friends and neighbors and all that is familiar and dear to her. Will it be very difficult for you to give up all this?”
    Most people would think it an absurd question to ask when he had Penderris Hall in Cornwall to offer her andStanbrook House in London and wealth untold and the glamorous life of a duchess, not to mention marriage itself to replace her spinsterhood. But she did not rush her answer.
    â€œYes, it will,” she said, her hand still in his. “I made a life for myself here nine years ago, and it has been good to me. Not many women have the privilege of knowing independence. The people here have