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Burning Soup
My Candidate For The Week
“Saint took a seat at the main faro table at the Society club. “What the devil is a ladies' political tea?”
Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, finished placing his wager, then sat back, reaching for his glass of
port.
“Do I look like a dictionary?”
“You're domesticated.” Saint motioned for a glass of his own, despite unfriendly looks from the tables'
other players.
“What is it?”
“I'm not domesticated; I'm in love. You should try it. Does wonders for your outlook on life.”
“I'll take your word for it, thank you.”
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For a long moment the butler sat in silence, his jaw hanging open. “I . . . my lord, I simply don't feel
qualified
to advise you about such matters.”
“Don't tell me that,” Saint protested. “Tell me whether you can imagine me as a married man or not.”
To his surprise, the butler set aside his brandy snifter and sat forward.
“My lord, I do not wish to
overstep my bounds, but I have noticed a ... change in your demeanor,
of late. The question of whether
anyone can imagine you married or not, however, is one I believe must be answered by you. And the
lady, of course.”
Saint frowned. “Coward.”
“There is that, as well.”
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“I told you I didn't have a heart. I do have one. I just didn't know it until I met you. You are my light. My soul craves you, and I love you with every ounce of the heart you've awakened in me. I...I could live without you but I wouldn't want to. Will you marry me, Evelyn Marie?”
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