The Proposal by Mary Balogh

and all but unthinkable. There is trust in this house. We all trust one another here, and no one has ever betrayed that trust. Did you go on that mad ride when Lord Muir was in one of his excitable moods?”
    “At that time in my marriage,” she said, “I still clung to the belief that I could avert his black moods by humoring his wild whims. He wanted me to ride with him that day and brushed aside all my protests. And so I went, and I followed wherever he led. I was terrified that he would hurt himself. What I thought I could do to keep him from harm just by being with him I do not know.”
    “But it was not he who was hurt,” he said.
    Except that in many ways he had been hurt as badly as she. And neither of them had been hurt as badly as their child.
    “No.” Her eyes were shut tight again. Her spoon was clutched, forgotten, in one hand.
    “But it was he who got hurt on the night he died,” he said.
    She opened her eyes and turned her head to look coldly at him. What was he? Her inquisitor?
    “That is enough, ” she said. “He did not abuse me, Lord Trentham. He never raised a hand or voice to me or belittled me or lashed out at me with words. I believe he was ill, even if there is no name for his illness. He was not mad. He did not belong in an asylum. Neither did he belong on a sickbed. But he was ill nevertheless. That is hard for anyone to comprehend who did not live with him constantly, day and night, as I did. But it is true. I loved him. I had promised to love him in sickness and in health until death parted us, and I did love him to the end. But it was not easy, for all that. After his death I grieved deeply for him. I was also weary of marriage to the marrow of my bones. That one marriage brought me great joy, but it also brought almost more misery than I could bear. I wanted peace afterward. I wanted it for the rest of my life. I have had it now for seven years and am perfectly content to remain as I am.”
    “No man could change your mind?” he asked.
    Even just yesterday she would have said no without any hesitation at all. Even this morning she had been in denial of the essential emptiness and loneliness of her life. Or perhaps that brief moment on the beach had been instigated by nothing more serious than her quarrel with Vera and the bleakness of her surroundings.
    “He would have to be the perfect man,” she said, “and there is really no such thing as perfection, is there? He would have to be an even-tempered, cheerful, comfortable companion who has known no great trouble in his life. He would have to offer a relationship that promised peace and stability and … Oh, and simplicity with no excessive highs and lows.”
    Yes, she thought, surprised, such a marriage would be pleasant. But she doubted there was a man perfect for her needs. And even if there was one who seemed perfect and who wished to marry her, how would she know for sure what he was like until after she had married him and lived with him and it was too late to change her mind?
    And how could she ever be worthy of happiness?
    “No passion?” he asked her. “He would not have to be good in bed?”
    Her head snapped around in his direction. She felt her eyes grow wide with shock and her cheeks flame with heat.
    “You really are a plain-spoken man, Lord Trentham,” she said, “or else an extraordinarily impertinent one. Pleasure in the marriage bed need not involve passion, as you put it. It can be simply shared comfort. If I were looking for a husband, I would be happy with the shared comfort. And if you are looking for a wife who is practical and capable, passion cannot count a great deal with you either, can it?”
    She was feeling horridly discomposed and had spoken quite indiscreetly.
    “A woman can be practical and capable and lusty too,” he said. “She would have to be lusty if I were to marry her. I am going to have to give up other women when I wed. It would not be seemly to seek my pleasure outside my marriage