“It would indeed,” he agreed.
Miss Challoner hunted for her handkerchief, and blew her little nose defiantly. It was a prosaic action. In her place Sophia would have made play with wet eyelashes. Further, Sophia would never have permitted herself to sniff. Miss Challoner undoubtedly sniffed. Lord Vidal, whom feminine tears would have left unmoved, was touched. He dropped his hand on her shoulder, and said in a softer voice: “You’ve no need to cry, my dear. I told you I don’t ruin ladies of your quality.”
She said, with a challenging gleam in her eye: “I am rather tired or I assure you I should not indulge in a weakness I despise.”
“Egad, I believe you wouldn’t,” said his lordship.
Miss Challoner put the handkerchief away. “If you know what I must do next, I wish you would tell me, sir.”
“There’s only one thing you can do,” said his lordship. “You must marry me.”
The inn parlour spun round before Miss Challoner’s eyes. She shut them, unable to bear a sight so reminiscent of all she had undergone aboard the Albatross. “What?” she said faintly.
Vidal raised his brows. “You seem amazed,” he said.
“I am amazed,” replied Miss Challoner, venturing to open her eyes again.
“You have a remarkably pretty notion of my character, ma’am,” he said ironically.