“No, you don’t.”
“But all this time—”
“I know. I’ve been utterly unfair. And flighty, and female, and foolish. I’m grateful and flattered that you asked me to marry you. But my answer will always be no.”
For a long time, he studied her. Then he drew himself up to his full height and bowed as if to a stranger. “Very well. I believe I will return home. I have estate business waiting. I wish you a very happy new year, Serena.”
His manner was severe and distant. To her regret, he was upset. Of course he was. And she could imagine his considerable vanity was stinging like blazes.
“You don’t have to go, Paul,” she said, wondering if he’d ever forgive her. His coldness smarted, but not enough to make her change her mind. “Mamma and Papa expect you to stay until after Twelfth Night.”
“Life is full of small disappointments,” he said curtly. “Now if you’ll excuse me?”
Oh, Paul.
But he was entitled to his fit of the sullens. He’d expected his proposal to prosper, and why shouldn’t he? Handsome Paul Garside had probably never heard a woman say no. She couldn’t blame him for being put out.
“Happy new year to you, too,” she murmured. “And…I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he said shortly, and gave her another of those chilly little bows. “Your servant, Miss Talbot.”
He turned on his heel and marched out, every line of his body bristling with offended masculinity. Serena watched him go, then picked up her coffee. Her hand shook so badly, the cold liquid spilled all over the tablecloth.
“Oh, bother,” she choked out and burst into tears.
***
“So this is where you’re lurking.” Paul leaned one brawny shoulder against the doorway to a loosebox in Sir George Talbot’s opulent stables.
Giles didn’t turn from where he tightened his saddle straps, but his mouth thinned in displeasure. Paul was absolutely the last person he wanted to see at the moment.
In fact, make that ever.
“You know,” he said neutrally, “you’re always accusing me of sneaking around, as if I have no right to be here. When I’m just as much the Talbots’ guest as you are.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul wince. “Sorry, old man. Didn’t mean to imply that at all.”
Giles frowned at his gray’s glossy flank. It would be so much easier to hate Paul Garside, if he wasn’t basically a decent sort. Too full of himself, which he couldn’t help when every soul in the entire world fell over themselves to adore him. But still, at heart a good man.
He should be glad of that. He didn’t want Serena matched with a cad.
He sucked in an impatient breath—he’d intended to leave at dawn, but the weather was dangerous for his horse. He didn’t much care whether it was dangerous for him. If he froze to death on the road back to London, it would save him freezing to death over the coming years, when his disappointed love turned cold and sour.
He turned abruptly. “What the devil do you want, Garside?”
“Oh, my good God,” Paul gasped, retreating a couple of paces.
With a self-conscious gesture, Giles raised a hand toward his black eye without touching it. He’d quickly learned touching it was a bad idea. “Pleased with your handiwork?”
“Yes.”
Giles began to wish he’d set off into the blizzard at first light. “Go back to the house, Paul. I’ve no idea why you sought me out. If you’re here to gloat over your forthcoming nuptials, I don’t want to hear it. You’d be much better inside, celebrating with the family.”
Paul straightened and spoke calmly, “There isn’t any celebration.”
“So you haven’t asked her yet.” Wondering why the world continued to torture him, Giles turned to fiddle with his saddlebags. “Are you seeing all rivals off your patch, before you stake your claim?”
“It turns out I have no claim to stake.”