Laura had never expected Richard to be the one to break their arrangement. Somehow, she had always thought she would be the one to end it. The first day after his proposal, she went about numb and shocked, hardly daring to look him in the eyes. She felt abandoned. Lost. Rejected.

On the second day, she came to her wits once more, and attempted to persuade him to change his mind. But he was firm and gentle, and she knew it was impossible. She must leave him. Or marry him.

She thought she had already decided. She should have told him then that no, she could not marry him, they must part ways. But she found she could not. She could only leave the room to pace the terrace outside, her mind revolving around the choice: leave or marry.

He would treat her decently either way. She knew that now. But that didn't mean they would always be as happy as they had been the past six months. That didn't mean she should marry him. There had been nothing in his proposal — in any of his proposals — to suggest he loved her. And despite everything, despite all her experiences, her beliefs, her own feelings, she did not think she could marry a man who did not love her.

The week passed with Richard making no further attempt to persuade her, and Laura still unable to decide. She did not want to leave Richard. She had grown fond of him. Fonder than she wished she had allowed. Fond enough that she could not do as she thought she must and leave him — not without hurt.

On the last Wednesday, she woke with a feeling of dread hanging over her. When she came down to breakfast, Richard greeted her with an apprehensive good morning. It was not a good morning. It was a grey, drizzly, unexpectedly chilly morning, and as the day passed the clouds grew blacker and the rain heavier. In the early evening, the servants lit the fires in the dining room and drawing room though it was only the first week of September. Richard asked her again at dinner what she was choosing, and again she was able to give him no reply. After the meal, she went into the drawing room and sat by the fire and tried, futilely, to come up with the courage to tell him she was leaving. She must leave. They could not marry.

He gave her perhaps half an hour's contemplation before he followed and sunk down into an armchair. It was dark outside now, though not more than eight o-clock. Richard met her eyes once and then looked away.

"Have you decided?"

"I can't decide."

He looked at her again, then at his watch. "At midnight, I will decide for you, my— love."

Laura could not tell if it was merely an endearment —said before often enough— or something more. She stared into the fire, watching a splinter of a log blacken, crinkle, and fall with a hiss of sparks.

"I want to promise you one thing," Richard said. "Regardless of whether you are my wife or only my... ex-mistress, I will always be your friend. And that means that if you are ever in trouble of any kind, I will help you the moment you ask."

"I know." She didn't need him to tell her that. Richard was everything kind and helpful. Even if the time came when she could not call him friend, she would never hesitate to rely on him. A strange, full-body relief came over her, and with it the impulse to throw herself into his arms. She suppressed it. She could not marry him.

She could not leave him.

The rain continued to drum outside. At one point, Richard got up and went upstairs. It was black outside when he came back down, a dressing gown over his unbuttoned shirt and the fuzz of dark hair on his chest visible. Laura looked away.

"It's past eleven," Richard said and sat down. A few minutes later, a maid brought him a nightcap of spiced warm milk, and he offered Laura a cup. She laughed, because it seemed so normal and normal seemed so strange, and refused it.

The clock ticked. The rain drummed. Richard finished his milk and the maid came and removed the empty tea tray. And then Laura knew she had decided — decided when Richard had first asked her — but could not utter it. Dared not. She could only watch and wait as Richard shifted uneasily in his chair. He was not even pretending to read or occupy himself. He waited only for her. And she could not bring herself to speak and end his suspense.

The clock struck midnight.

Laura turned to Richard. He kept her gaze a moment then shut his eyes. The clock kept sounding. And then, with a grind of the mechanism, it went silent. Richard opened his eyes.

"That's it then." He seemed to be trying to smile, but his lips were pressed whitely together. "I won't change my mind— I won't let you be my mistress anymore."

"I know." Laura felt the weight of her feelings roll off her. It was over. She thought she should apologize. Instead, she stared into the dying flames so that she wouldn't have to see Richard leave the room.

The door opened behind her.

"Then I wish you goodnight. And that shall be the end of all this."

Laura said nothing and the door shut behind him. She was alone in the room except for the faint hiss of the fire and the steady dripping of rain outside. She was rather shocked, which helped to numb the pain — but there was a lot of pain all the same, dull and throbbing in her chest. She felt as though if she tried to stand her knees would give out, so she stayed on the hearthrug, her fingers tangled in the coarse hairs. Tomorrow she'd have to start packing her things, she supposed. Or perhaps he would go back to town again, and remove himself from her presence, give her a little more time to—

The door opened again, slamming into the wall. Laura jumped as Richard strode back into the room.

"No," he said, almost to himself. "This cannot be it. I must try again. I don't care how many times it is — I will try again—"

He threw himself to the floor, so heavily Laura was sure it hurt him, and very awkwardly, with his bad leg straight out in front and his left shaking beneath him, knelt before her. Laura scrambled to her feet, startled.

"I will beg," he said. "I will plead. I don't care how many times it is — I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife — none other. I never— I never meant to marry — but you— you and me — we're perfect. We're both broken. We're both trying. I'll give you every happiness I can — Laura, please will you marry me? I don't— I don't want to let you go."

Laura looked down into his eyes, and was shocked to see they were bright with tears.

"Is it that you love me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

He stared up at her and a strange confusion settled over his features. Then he looked away, frowning.

"May I stand?" he asked eventually. "My leg hurts."

She helped him stand up and he paced a little to stretch his legs, wincing.

"You didn't have to kneel," she said quietly.

He met her eyes. "I thought it was worth a shot. I— I meant never to ask again but I really do want to marry you. I think our best chance of happiness lies in each other. And I don't— I don't think I can say that isn't love." He shook his head, the way a dog shakes water from its coat. "I'm not in love with you. I missed it, somehow. That moment where somebody seems perfect, where you can see no wrong, where you think of them every minute. I never felt that about you. So you need not fear I'll be disappointed in the end."

She didn't know how to feel about it. She had once thought that falling in love would be the end of them both, but here she was, hurt that he was not in love with her, relieved to find that— what was it, that it was not not love? What a double negative that was. Could he not have said it plainly?

"You're not... in love with me?" she repeated, aware she was begging for the compliment and hating herself for it.

"No..." He limped heavily to the window and stared out into the wet darkness of the garden. His dressing gown was cut narrow, the slenderness of his waist emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, and she had the sudden impulse to put her arms around him and rest her head against his back. But she couldn't. Not when she was no longer his mistress. Not when she would not be his wife.

"You ought to know this. I shouldn't have asked you without telling you."

Her heart quickened.

"I'm in love with someone else."

And skipped a beat.

"She doesn't love me, and it's impossible anyway. But I'm in love with her. I've been in love with her for years. I'll go to my grave in love with her." He looked over his shoulder at Laura. "I would go to the altar with you, being in love with another woman."

Once, that might have been a relief, but it wasn't now. The stab of jealousy came clean and sharp as a needle in her belly. She breathed out slowly, the air guttering against her teeth. But it was stupid to be jealous. She wasn't going to marry him. What did it matter who he loved?

She waited until her heartbeat slowed before speaking again.

"Who is she?"

"It doesn't matter. She will never be mine. So I can be all yours except for that one small part of me." He managed a smile at last and touched his heart. "Just one corner of it. The rest is all yours."

She laughed, even though as she did she was still wondering if she'd ever met the woman Richard loved.

"I'm very fond of you," Richard said. "Don't think I'm not. I didn't come dashing back in here because I was indifferent."

Her heart lightened a little. "Oh, I'd never have guessed."

He was smiling properly now, like he thought he was winning her around — and he was, she knew. "You're the only woman I've ever been this good friends with. You're the only woman in the world I've ever wanted to be my wife. The one I love — she's not for me and I always knew that. And every other woman who's scorned me over the years — they were proper choices and nothing more. But you're improper, darling, and you're the only one I've ever met who makes me think, 'yes, she's for me.'"

She laughed and sobbed at the same time. Richard, throwing caution to the wind, came closer and took her hands in his.

"I'm not Maidstone," he said in a low voice. "I will never hurt you. And I trust you."

"I know. I trust you too."

"Before I kiss you again," he said, "I must know — tell me — will you be my wife?" He tugged her closer. "Will you be my wife yet?"

She met his eyes and knew it was over — it had been over since the moment he'd slammed open the door. Or perhaps even before then. There was a hope, deep within her, despite all he said, despite all she was, that maybe this time it would be love. A hope like that could not be ignited in a moment.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," she said helplessly.

"Darling, I'm flattered, but that is not an answer. Will you marry me? Is this is the dozenth time I've asked?"

"I've lost count," she said dazedly, and dimly realized that was not an answer either. "Richard, darling. Ask me one more time and I'll say it properly."

He pulled her close and cupped her face in his hands, looking down into her eyes. His chest against hers was heaving and his heart was thumping against her own. But he had to know it was over too, she thought, because it was excitement that moved him, not uncertainty.

"Will you marry me, my love?"

"Yes." Her breath came deep and fast. "Yes. I'll be your wife. I'm yours."

The words made her happier than she expected. He kissed her — an urgent, excited kiss, all awkward gripping hands and force, raising her even off her feet, pressed against his chest. When he let her go again he held her a moment, looking into her eyes, and then laughed for the pure joy of it.

She found herself smiling too — anxious, yes, but happy above that, and tugged him closer again. Outside, the rain stopped, and inside, the fire died, leaving the room dark with no one to see.

It was the last time she made love to him as his mistress.