Page 165 of The Wallflower Takes All
Gabriel's throat tightened.
“She chose a solicitor over comfort, over expectation, over people who believed she had lost her senses.” His father smiled faintly. “Do you know what she said to me soon after we married?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“She said she finally felt she had come home.”
The words landed with astonishing force. Gabriel swallowed.
His father continued. “She never—not once—spoke a word of regret. Not in lean years. Not when clients could not pay. Not when she couldn’t buy new frocks or when she buried relatives who had turned away from her. And certainly not after you were born.”
Gabriel lowered his gaze. He had never considered any of that. He’d just assumed she’d regretted her choice from time to time.
“You have spent half your life mourning sacrifices your mother never asked anyone else to mourn.” His father stepped nearer. “And now you are making the same mistake with Miss Montfort.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“She has told you she loves you,” Father added.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes.”
“She has told you she wants a future with you.”
“Yes.”
“And still you insist you know her heart better than she does.”
Gabriel closed his eyes.
“I only wished to protect her.”
“I know.” His father’s smile became gentler. “But protection is not the same thing as permission.”
Silence stretched.
Then the elder Mr. Ashby gave an exasperated sigh.
“Go back to Miss Montfort,” his father said. “And this time propose like a man in love, not like a solicitor offering a contract.”
Pembroke laughed aloud.
Vanover’s mouth twitched.
“Go tell the woman,” his father continued, “that you love her. Then”—his eyes narrowed affectionately—“have the good sense to let her decide whether that is the life she wants.”
Gabriel drew a slow breath. He could not promise Poppy a life without sacrifice. He could, at last, trust her to choose it. For the first time since she’d refused him, Gabriel felt the weight of fear give way to purpose.
He swiftly moved toward the door and reached for his coat.
The Montfort house was in a state of upheaval.
Trunks lined the hall. Rolled carpets leaned against the wall like exhausted soldiers. A stack of books waited near the library door, tied with cord and labeled in Poppy’s neat hand. The green fabric Lord Montague favored had been dragged halfway beneath the hall table, where Freddie worried at one corner with grim determination.
Lady Viva sat upon a trunk in peach silk, directing two footmen with a fan. “No, darling, the feathers cannot go beneath the books. Feathers have sensibilities. Books have opinions. They must be arranged by temperament.”
The footmen looked thoroughly confused.
Jenkins looked as though he had aged several years since breakfast.
