“What? I have no idea. The subject hasn’t come up. Besides—” she smirked across at him, “those cats belong to you.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s right.” Musing, he drank half his cupful at one gulp—awkwardly enough, with his left hand. She offered to help but he refused.
During a lengthening pause in conversation, Hannah glanced around the large, sophisticated room. Her only memory of ever having appeared here had to do with her sisters’ weddings, and the celebrations after. And those were busy, raucous affairs, with too much going on to take in all the details. Otherwise, she had not been invited to this lovely dining room, by anyone, whether for tea, or dinner, or a fashionably late supper. Just another spinster, spending her time with a roomful of felines. Poor pitiable Hannah, sob, sob, boo-hoo. She wanted to enjoy a good meal with the doctor and not have to talk about her mail order romance.
“Well, then,” he repeated, and cleared his throat.
The tri-folded screen, with its inserts of shimmering golden gauze folds, shielded the pair from any curious patrons who might wander in. Privacy, indeed. Why? Had he some terrible secret to divulge? Some horrifying revelation to tell her about Camellia’s condition?
If a sigh could ever be considered wistful, certainly this one of Hannah’s was. “Gabriel, thank you for the tea, and the outing—for whatever purpose you had in mind. But I really must—”
“Miss Hannah Burton, will you do me the supreme honor of accepting my proposal of marriage?” he blurted out in a rush.
She stared. Swallowed. Shook her head just a little, in dismay, or disbelief, or both. To give her credit, she dropped nothing, nor did she cause a scene. Completely kerflummoxed, she merely stammered, “You—what?—I haven’t ever—I beg your pardon—?”
Gabriel flashed his trademark grin. “Ah, there. I actually managed to utter the words. Been so nervous I figured all I’d be able to do was babble like a squirrel.”
“Gabe, dear, I—well, thank you. But I can’t marry you. Why, we can barely stand to be in the same room alone with each other!”
“Speak for yourself, lady. I been wantin’ to get you alone in a room since I first laid eyes on you.” Shockingly, he leaned his bandaged torso toward her and leered.
“You think of me in a romantic way?”
“Yes. And why wouldn’t I wanna get you alone in a room?” He was practically smacking his lips with anticipation. “You’re as spritely as a hot pepper, smart enough to make your way into the future, and so beautiful I—” Here he actually paused to suck in a draught of air, “—my mouth goes dry when I look at you,” he finished up in a low, humble voice. “And I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you when I wake up, during the day, and when I go to sleep. I even see your pretty face in my dreams. Don’t you get it, Hannah? You’re the woman I was talking about. I told you that only one woman in this town captured my heart. And it’s you. It’s always been you.”
She touched his cheek. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes. Insofar as the fact that you’ll regret it, every minute of your life, if you don’t accept my proposal, yeah, I am. Otherwise, nope. Because you and I can have us a darn good life together. I promise to be the best husband and the best father when we have children. I promise I will move mountains to make you happy. You mean the world to me and nothing would make me happier than you being my bride.”
“Have you forgotten that I’m promised to another?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, yeah. That Ualraig fellow. The no-show.” The negligent waggle of his left hand indicated what he thought of Hannah’s mail order groom. “It was Ualraig, wasn’t it? Pronounced Walrick, or some such?”
“You know it was.”
“Huh. Well, hold onto your petticoats just a minute.” Clumsily he reached into the breast pocket of his coat to withdraw a compact, leather-bound book, its pages edged in gilt, the lettering of its title and author embossed in black. “Here.”
She smoothed her slender fingers across the slightly roughened outside cover. “From the Earth to the Moon. Jules Verne. Yes?”
Pouring more tea into each cup, he assumed nonchalance. “A book given me by my sainted gray-haired mama. Read the flyleaf.”
“Gabriel Ualraig Havers. Gabriel Ual—”
“Ahuh. You see?” He looked as smug as a cat full of purloined cream.
“Of course,” she said impatiently, returning the missive. “Now I understand why you were familiar with the name.”
“Please let me explain. I put an ad in for a mail order bride. Only a few people knew. It was a secret. I was afraid people would laugh. And I couldn’t believe it when you answered it. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What are the chances?”
“It was fate. I never put where I was from because I wanted to make sure it was a good connection before I told some stranger I was a doctor and from what town I was from.”
“You didn’t want a golddigger?”
“I didn’t know what to expect. I wanted to slowly get to know each other. And when I learned it was you. I didn’t know how to tell you. So I was vague. And I?
?m so sorry. It wasn’t intentional. I never expected you to answer my ad, not ever.”