"Thomas," she breathed, surprise blooming into warm pleasure. Her heart, traitor that it was, lifted instantly.
"Emma," he said, with that restrained intensity that always made her pulse flutter. "I must speak with you."
She ushered him inside, fussing for a towel while he unbuttoned his coat. He declined the towel, but accepted the tea she set before him. He did not touch it. Instead, he fixed her with a direct, solemn look.
"Emma, I need your help."
His voice—deep, steady, unwavering—made something inside her go cold and warm all at once.
"Anything," she said softly, and she meant it. She had always meant it.
He hesitated only a moment. "Then I must marry immediately."
Her heart stumbled. "Oh," she said faintly. "I see. And you need help choosing?"
He shook his head once. "No, I have chosen."
Her throat tightened. Of course he had. Some London beauty, no doubt—someone elegant, accomplished, adorned in pearls. "Very well," she managed. "Whom do you—"
"You."
The word fell like a stone into a perfectly still pond. Emma blinked at him once, twice. "Me?"
"Yes."
"But... why?"