Authors: Mary Balogh
He had arrived from London
an hour ago
? He had taken tea with Viscount and Lady Darleigh and had stepped out immediately after to come . . .
here
? Perhaps he brought a message from Agnes?
“I will not sit,” he said. “This is not really a social call.”
“Agnes—?” Her hand crept to her throat. His stiff, formal manner was suddenly explained. There was something wrong with Agnes. She had miscarried.
“Your sister appeared to be glowing with good health when I saw her a few days ago,” he said. “I am sorry if my sudden appearance has alarmed you. I have no dire news of any kind. Indeed, I came to ask a question.”
Dora clasped both hands at her waist and waited for him to continue. A day or two after the dinner at Middlebury last year he had come to the cottage with a few of the others to thank her for playing and to express the hope that she would do so again before their visit came to an end. It had not happened. Was he going to ask now? For this evening, perhaps?
But that was not what happened.
“I wondered, Miss Debbins,” he said, “if you might do me the great honor of marrying me.”
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