The compromise is a standard historical romance trope. And, of course, they then fall in love, because this is a romance. So it is in Chaos Come Again, my June release.

Dorothea screwed up her courage. “You said ‘betrothed’,” she said.

Colonel O’Toole shrugged. “I know I should have asked properly before announcing it,” he said, “but your former companion’s intrusion, followed by that of Lady Blaine, rather forced the issue.”

Dorothea did not know what to say. He had intended to ask her before Mrs Austin burst in?

He misunderstood her silence, because he rushed into speech. “If you do not like the idea, I will understand.” It was the first time she had seen him discomposed. “I know I am much older than you, and I should also tell you that I am not legitimate. My father was the eldest son of the Earl of Ruthford, but he was not married to my mother, who was the daughter of an Irish soldier and his Indian wife. So I am not actually even English.”

Her own remembered rejections told her he was trying to discourage her, but she recognised the pain of old hurts in his eyes and they emboldened her to say, “I am a merchant’s daughter, tainted with trade. One of my grandfathers was a farmer and the other a shopkeeper. My father started as a millworker, and is a coarse man, unfit for polite company. I am not pretty—too short, too plump, and ordinary in every way. If I marry without my father’s approval, I will not even have a dowry to make me attractive. I will be twenty-one in three months—which is old for an unmarried woman. You cannot possibly want to be burdened with me. No one else ever has.”

His gaze heated. “I don’t care about your ancestors or your dowry,” he countered. “I have money enough to keep us both in comfort. You are very pretty, at least to me. I prefer brown hair and dark eyes, and a complexion with a little colour in it to the pale wraiths that are fashionable.” His eyes dropped lower, to her breasts, and then he met her eyes again. “You are not plump, you are delightfully curved.” He chuckled. “I will allow that you are short, Dorothea. May I call you Dorothea?”

He reached out a hand to her, and she accepted it, though his touch scrambled her wits and it took her a moment to order her thoughts enough to say, “I do not care about your ancestors, either,” she admitted. “And you are just the right age. Did you really think of marriage before Lady Blaine came?”

“Yes. Almost from the first.”

There was nothing but sincerity in every line of his face.

“I am no prize, Dorothea,” he warned. “I was reluctant to ask. I hoped to find a solution that would not burden you with me.”

“It would not be a burden, but a privilege,” she protested.

“I am a military man, and must go back to war as soon as I have seen my grandfather.”

“I would not mind living in a tent and travelling with the army. Not if I can be with you.”

“Ah, Dorothea,” he said, and he lifted her hand to place a kiss within the palm. “Is that a yes, then? You will marry me?”

“If you truly want me,” she agreed.

He kissed her palm again. “Then eat your meal before it gets cold, my love. We have a long way to go and must be on our way soon.”