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She stared at him as if he were a stranger and beloved both.
“You would not…resent me?” she asked. “If no child came?”
“Resent you?” His voice roughened. “Pepper, I resent the universe for nearly taking you once already. I resent every doctor who made you feel like a cracked plate on a shelf. I resent my own cowardice. But you?” He shook his head. “You I would spend every day thanking the world for.”
A single tear escaped, betraying her. His hand twitched to catch it; he forced himself to wait.
“I am still angry,” she said. “You hurt me. You let me love a man whose name I did not know.”
“I will never cease to seek your forgiveness,” he said quietly. “And you may remind me of it every day, if it helps. I will deserve it for some time yet.”
“And I do not know,” she went on, voice shaking, “whether this is madness. Whether marrying you would mean spending the rest of my life fighting your mother, your peers, Society.”
“Yes,” he said. “It probably will.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “But you have already fought half of Brighton. Perhaps you might consider expanding your campaign.”
A sound broke out of her that was half-sob, half-laugh.
“I can’t promise you ease,” he said, biting his lip. “I can’t promise you children. I can’t promise that the world will understand why a lady with a limp and a French baker for a father ends up duchess of anything. But I can promise this: you will never stand in that fight alone. Not in drawing rooms. Not in kitchens. Not in your own head. If you will have me, I will spend every day proving that I see all of you—Pepper and Barbara—and that I choose you, exactly as you are.”
Her breath came faster now, shallow and a little wild.
“On the beach,” he reminded her softly, “you said you did not know whether you could ever marry a man you liked. That it would hurt too much when he asked you to give up pieces of yourself. I am asking you to consider the opposite. Marry me—and keep all your pieces. I do not want you halved for my convenience. I want you whole, even when it is inconvenient.”
She stared at him. Then slowly, she slipped one hand free and reached into the discreet pocket of her gown.
When it emerged, it held a folded scrap of paper, edges worn soft.
“Papa’s recipe,” she said. “He told me, ‘When you find a man worthy of your heart, you will make him this crème.’”
His heart thudded hard.
“You made it,” he said, “the one I had at the Pavilion?”
She nodded. “Before I knew you were Wyndale. Before I saw your name on the circular.”
“And now?” he asked, barely breathing.
She looked down at the paper, then up. The tightness at her mouth had eased; something fierce and fragile burned in its place.
“Now,” she said slowly, “I think I understand what he meant. It’s not about perfection. It’s about the man who listens when you say, ‘This hurts.’ Who changes. Who arrives with three orphaned girls and his terrifying mother and is willing to pay his respects to a baker in front of everyone for my sake.”
“That,” he said, “I can do.”
“I know.” She turned his hand palm-up and set the folded recipe in it. “So here,” she whispered. “This is my answer.”
His vision blurred. He blinked hard.
“You do realize,” he said, voice not quite steady, “that I am now honor-bound to ask you properly.”
She sniffed. “I am aware, yes.”
He went to his knee.
The hearthrug slipped; his balance wobbled. He did not care.
“Pepper Barbara Beaumont,” he said, looking up at her as if there were no one else, “will you marry me? Knowing that I am dreadfully imperfect and often obtuse and occasionally so afraid of losing you that I forget how to be honest, but that I love you—heart, spine, limp, flour, fury and all—and intend to spend the rest of my life making amends for every moment I did not tell you so?”
Her lips parted; her eyes closed for one brief, blazing second.
