“You are extremely obliging, Marcus, but we were speaking of your marriage,” she said, nettled.
“You were speaking of it,” he corrected. “I was trying to—er—turn the subject.”
She got up from the sopha and took an impatient step towards him.
“I suppose,” she said breathlessly, “you did not think the fair Massey worthy of so signal an honour?”
“To tell you the truth, my dear, my modesty forbade me to suppose that the fair Massey would—er—contemplate marriage with me.”
“Perhaps I would not,” she replied. “But I think that was not your reason.”
“Marriage,” said his lordship pensively, “is such a very dull affair, you know.”
“Is it, my lord? Even marriage with the noble Earl of Rule?”
“Even with me,” agreed Rule. He looked down at her, a curious expression that was not quite a smile in his eyes. “You see, my dear, to use your own words, you would have to love me—only me.”
She was startled. Under her powder a faint flush crept into her cheeks. She turned away with a little laugh and began to arrange the roses in one of her bowls. “That would certainly be very dull,” she said. She glanced sideways at him. “Are you perhaps jealous, my lord?”