Or did he just think she was a big, stupid baby who needed to be constantly coddled and reassured—which, when she got right down to it, would be the worst thing of all. She wasn’t a child. She didn’t wish to be thought of as a child, treated as a child. She was a woman. Or at least, she thought, feeling her cheeks grow hot, she would be by Monday morning.
“It’s because of how I look that everyone treats me like a child, even Bailey,” Alana said aloud as she sat in the garden, having decided that Redgrave Manor, all seventy-two rooms of it, was too small to contain both her and Miss Sylvia Wise at the same time. “I am a Lilliputian in a land of giants.”
She loved the Redgraves, she really did. Gideon, the earl of Saltwood, had taken her in three years previously when her parents had perished in that horrible accident—which hadn’t been Gideon’s fault, no matter what anyone said!—and she had instantly been clasped to the collective Redgrave bosom, as it were. She was a delicate rose among the thistles, or so Kate said, petite and blonde and well-mannered, as opposed to her new family, which was collectively tall and hearty and boisterous—and at times even a bit hey-go-mad.
And she had felt protected, cosseted. Loved. Perhaps at times overwhelmed, but definitely loved. From the moment she’d bumped into Bailey at the book repository—literally bumped into him, so that he’d quickly grabbed at her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall—he had made her feel the same way.
She barely came up to his shoulder, and she liked that. She could step into his embrace and all but disappear into his solid, sheltering arms. Bailey liked that, too. He’d told her so when they’d kissed that single time. He said she made him feel strong and powerful, and that he was certain he had been put on this earth expressly to always take care of her, and to love her all the days of his life.
When Alana had told Kate what he’d said, she’d rolled her eyes comically and groaned as if in pain, but that was all right. Alana already knew that the Redgraves were the least romantical family in all of England. It was enough that she felt sure she had been put on this earth expressly to be with Bailey, and to love him all the days of her life.
Or so she’d believed until she’d seen the look on his face two nights ago, when he’d turned away from Miss Wise to see his betrothed standing in the drawing room, probably looking very much like a stunned kitten.
Was she out in the gardens because she wished to avoid Miss Wise? Or was she hiding out here because she wished to avoid Bailey? Was she now not only small and petty—and what was that last one? Oh, yes, very, very vulnerable—or had she also overnight become suspicious and distrusting of this man she loved so much?
Alana swiped at her damp eyes with her handkerchief before quickly replacing it in her pocket when she heard footsteps on the path. “Alana? What are you doing sitting out here alone? I’ve been looking all over for you, sweetheart.”
“And now you’ve found me,” she said as brightly as possible as Bailey sat down beside her on the stone bench. What a mess she was—she couldn’t even hide properly! “I thought you’d gone out riding with Max.”
“Nobody rides with Maximillian Redgrave, Alana. They eat the dust that black monster of his kicks up until they decide there are more pleasant ways to spend a lovely afternoon.” Bailey lifted Alana’s hand to lightly touch his lips to her fingertips. “Like being with you.”
Oh, how smooth he was, Alana thought, wondering where that particular revelation had come from. Never at a loss for something to say; making all the right moves, tossing off compliments with such ease.
He was so handsome. Blond as was she, but his eyes were such a deep and lovely green to her own pale blue shade. His smile could melt stone, his manners were impeccable, and although he was quite tall, like the Redgraves, he was much more gentle-natured; his heart touched by a pretty verse, his voice never raised, his temperament even, no matter the situation.
Her wonderful, dependable rock. Her safe harbor. He was everything she’d ever hoped for, everything she wanted him to be.
Had he also been everything Sylvia Wise had wanted him to be?
“Alana? Is something wrong? You’re…well, you’re looking at me as if I may have just grown an extra head.”
“I am? Oh, yes, I suppose I am,” she answered, hating herself for her terrible thoughts. “Bailey? May I ask you a question?”
He took her hands in his, nearly destroying her resolve. “You can ask me anything, sweetheart. I can see something’s troubling you.”
She took a deep breath and asked her question. “If…if you and I had not met that day…would you have proposed to Miss Wise?”
His grip momentarily tightened on her fingers. “Would I…what? Would I have married her, exchanged my title for her fortune? Is that what you’re asking me, Alana?”
She lowered her head, no longer able to look into his eyes. “No, I don’t think it is. I think I already know you would have married her in order to repair your family’s fortune. That is your duty as the heir, isn’t it? I’m…I’m not a complete goose.”
Bailey let go of her hands and got to his feet, clearly not able to sit still any longer. He knifed his fingers through his hair, leaving those smooth golden locks looking adorably disheveled and eminently touchable, which she would do her best to ignore.
“There’s another term for that besides doing my duty, Alana. And that’s fortune hunter.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she said, adding hastily, “but I fully understand that you had little choice. I mean, there’s the matter of your mother, and your three dowerless sisters all needing successful Seasons in a few years. And then there’s the estate, and all those who work there—I know you feel responsible for them as well. My fortune will solve all of those problems for you.”
“God,” Bailey said, looking at her as if now perhaps she’d grown a second head. “I had no idea you were thinking things like that. You think I proposed marriage to you in order to take control of your inheritance?”
Alana got to her feet. He was tall enough when she stood beside him, but when she had to look up at him while she was seated, she could easily develop a crick in her neck. “I’m sorry, Bailey, I’m not saying this correctly. I suppose what I want to know is this—if you were prepared to marry Sylvia Wise for her fortune, how do you know you aren’t marrying me for mine?”
For a moment he looked as if she’d just physically slapped him, and she wanted to die, just die. But she had to know.
“How do I know, or how do you know? Is that it, Alana? You’re doubting my affection for you?”
Being closer to him wasn’t helping, so she sat down again. “Miss Wise took me aside yesterday, Bailey. I tried to avoid her—I’ve been trying very diligently to avoid her—but she…she cornered me in the music room. She told me she felt sorry for me.”
Bailey muttered something pithy concerning Miss Wise, and probably best reserved for times he was in strictly male company. At any rate, it didn’t sound like a very pretty word.