For a long moment he said nothing. Her hands clenched in her skirt. If he did not apologize—a true apology, not the charming, meaningless drivel that he too often spewed forth—she would throw her tea at him. When her tea actually arrived, that is.
“I did not consider your feelings. I confess, I thought only of my duty and how to resolve the matter as neatly as possible before any word could reach London. But I could have spared an hour to hear your thoughts on the matter.” He blew out a breath then looked up to meet her gaze steadily. “I am sorry, Eliza.”
The honest contriteness in his tone mollified her somewhat. Then the maid arrived with the tray, which improved her mood still further. Eggs and toast and jam and tea. Her stomach curled in hunger.
Wessex gestured for the maid to place the tray on his formidable desk. The desk, Eliza noted, was polished within an inch of its life. On one side of the desk was a chesterfield fit for a duke, of burnished brown leather, shiny brass buttons, and mahogany limbs. The other side was flanked by two dark green chairs that matched the damask drapes. It was clearly a desk that meant business and very serious discussions, for it was angled away from the large window that looked out into the garden.
Had it been Eliza’s desk, it would have faced the window.
She claimed the chesterfield to let him know that, while she deigned to let him live, he was not entirely forgiven. He raised an eyebrow but accepted his punishment with good grace, arranging his long limbs in the smaller green chair.
“I suppose,” she said, pouring the steaming tea into the delicate porcelain dish, “that you intend to discuss the settlement contract with Sir John when he arrives.”
Wessex took the proffered dish of tea, strong and plain as he always requested, and stared at it for a moment before finally giving a resigned sigh and taking a hurried gulp. “Yes.”
“Duke,” Eliza said sweetly, her tone as honeyed as the golden substance she drizzled on her toast.
He jerked in alarm. Tea sloshed over the brim of his cup, landing on his ungloved hand. He hissed in pain and brought his wounded thumb to his mouth, his wary gaze never leaving her face.
“You agree that I am an intelligent, rational person.” It was a statement, not a question, leaving no opportunity to argue. Which of course he wouldn’t, because the Duke of Wessex was a great many things, but fool was not one of them.
“Yes,” he said.
She took a small bite of toast, chewed slowly, and followed that with a sip of tea. “Yes. Strange, then, isn’t it, that a matter that so intimately involves my welfare and happiness shall be entirely negotiated in my absence?”
He carefully placed his tea on the desk. Then he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and studied her. “What do you propose, Sigrid?”
“It is my marriage. It is my life.” She couldn’t help her trembling fingers and hoped he didn’t notice. But his gaze dipped, his lips flattened. Of course he saw. The man saw everything.
She straightened her spine. “It is my life,” she repeated. “I propose to negotiate the terms of it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sebastian considered her proposition, trying to make out whether he was deeply affronted or in complete agreement.
“I am not a pauper. Nor am I shortsighted, greedy, or stingy.” The stiffness in his own voice caught him by surprise. Ah, so he was affronted, then. “You can trust that my duchess will be well cared for and have an allowance that surpasses any of her friends.”
“Yes, yes. Dowry, pin money, a jointure should you meet an untimely demise with a cuckolded husband at dawn. I trust you to take care of all that.” She dismissed the obscene amounts of money he intended to settle on her with a wave of her hand.
He opened his mouth to argue that there would be no cuckolded husbands, but then clapped it shut again. Best not to make promises he might not keep.
“That is all just money,” she continued. “Which is important, and I don’t claim not to care about earthly possessions, but it is the sort of thing that matters only if one doesn’t have it. I have it, whether I marry you or not.”
Her words gave him pause. Whether I marry you or not. As though she considered the issue to be not entirely settled. And since he considered the matter to be as settled as Perivale Hall in the hills of Kent, this caused him a moment of disquiet. He looked at her questioningly.
She returned his gaze with unblinking blue eyes. “We do not have to marry. There would be consequences if we did not, but it would be I who bore the worst of them, not you. My brother won’t call you out, as he does not believe two wrongs make a right, and dueling is worse even than gambling. You will still be welcome in society, even though I would be banished. It stands to reason, then, that the decision should be mine. And I am not altogether convinced that the ton’s good opinion is worth giving up the life I hoped to lead.”
Her words stung him like a sharp slap on his cheek. She wanted…something…and it wasn’t him. It oughtn’t be a surprise. She had always made that abundantly clear. What he hadn’t known was the lengths she would go to in order to avoid him. As though he were entirely incompatible with whatever it was that she did want. That hurt a bit, actually. In his ego, of course, not his heart. His heart was…well, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to think on that at this present moment, and so he would not.
He leaned back casually as though none of this mattered. “If only that were true, fair Sigrid, I would send you on your way, to the life you hoped to lead, with nary a qualm. However, you are mistaken in your belief that I would not suffer. Sir John may not call me out, but Abingdon would lock me in the dungeon of Haverly and throw away the key. Or worse, he might give the key to Lady Abingdon. Lord only knows what torture she is capable of.” He shuddered.
Eliza smiled in agreement. She didn’t seem at all alarmed by the notion that he might be locked away. No, his darling harpy seemed rather taken with the idea, in all honesty.
He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps a different tactic was in order.
“And besides, I think remarkably well of myself, and I would hate to tumble in my own esteem, which I fear would be the case if I were the cause of your ruination. How am I to admire my reflection in the looking glass if I cannot bear to look myself in the eye?” He was quite in earnest about that.
Eliza pursed her lips, as she did when he was being most ridiculous. “Well, we can’t have that. Shall we negotiate the terms of my surrender, then?”
“By all means.” Thank God.
She held his gaze for a brief moment before sliding away to focus on the window. “I should like a room of my own.”
He frowned at her in true consternation. “You need not bargain for that. Naturally you may have your own room. I would never require you to share mine.”
Her forehead knit in confusion. Then enlightenment dawned, and she blushed. “No, not my own bedchamber. My own study. A room like this.” She gestured to their surroundings. “With a desk and a chair and a window. It is to be entirely mine, you understand. It is not yours. You must knock before you enter, and you may not enter at all if I do not bid you to do so. Will you agree to that?”
It was a strange request, in that he hadn’t heard of other brides-to-be ever making such requirements. What could she want with such a room? A duchess would have no business that couldn’t be best conducted in the parlor. But was it truly that odd? He had a study, after all, and expected her to knock before entering. She wasn’t asking for more than he had himself.
He nodded brusquely. “Go on. What else?” No doubt there was much, much more.
Her forehead puckered in deep thought. He watched, fascinated, as she picked up her spoon, gave her tea a needless stir, and set it down again. She knew what she wanted, of that he was certain. Her only quandary was whether she would trust him with the information. As though she wondered whether he might purposefully be an impedim
ent between her and whatever she desired. As though she did not know he would always give her whatever she wanted.
He absorbed the blow quietly and waited for her to continue.
“I have an account at Drummond’s,” she said at last. “Although legally it will belong to you after we wed, I ask that you pretend it does not exist. It is no great sum; I am not trying to cheat you out of a fortune. And it is rightfully mine, if not legally so. No one gave it to me. It is the result of my own efforts. My brother…” She bit her lip. “Sir John does not know of it. In fact, I would not tell you about it, at all, except I know you also have an account at Drummond’s, and I thought it possible they would mention mine to you after our marriage.”
Sebastian’s jaw was hanging open by the time she had finished. Of her own efforts, she had said. What exactly did those efforts entail? Good God, his future wife had secrets.
How irresistible.
She was watching him watch her, he realized, no doubt trying to read his thoughts as he tried to read hers. A pity they both failed. He felt a slivery pang of regret that neither would allow those thoughts to become actual words. Life might be infinitely more interesting if they spoke their minds more frankly.
“Well?” she prodded. “Aren’t you going to ask?”
“No, because you would not answer. But one day you will come to me willingly and tell me all about it. I should like that.”
“We shall see,” she said, in the manner of when cows walk on water. He grinned. “But you will promise now not to pry into my affairs?”
“I promise not to investigate your account at Drummond’s, and of course I will not claim it.” He neatly dodged her question, as he could promise nothing so vague as not to pry. Prying was his great joy. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one.” Her gaze faltered, and color rose high on her cheeks.
Sweet God. Eliza was nervous, which in turn made him doubly so. She had already demanded her own study and bank account and admitted to withholding a secret that she might very well take to her grave. And he had agreed! What could she possibly have to be nervous about now? Had she a body she needed buried somewhere?
He would agree to that, too. He would bury any number of bodies, take the secret to his grave, whatever she asked.
He was somewhat alarmed by his willingness.
She looked to the window, and he had the odd feeling that she was seeing past the dark green draperies to some faraway distance in her memory, as she spoke. “Women die, and that is unfortunate. It was a terrible thing for you to say, but it is not untrue. I thought I could avoid the danger by simply embracing spinsterhood, but clearly marriage is harder to dodge than I had imagined. It all seems so inevitable now, that this was my fate all along, and it was hubris to think I could escape.”
Sebastian said nothing, several times over. His stomach felt as though it had been replaced with a heavy ball of ice.
Then she tossed her head, her shoulders squared. “Perhaps hubris is my fatal flaw, for I find myself unwilling to fully yield just yet. I will do my duty. I will give you an heir, as much as I can promise to do so. But only one. Whether the child is a boy or a girl matters not. I will not bear a second.” Her mouth tucked up in a mirthless smile. “Assuming I survive the birth, of course. That is my offer. You can accept it or find another bride, the choice is yours.”
Sebastian contemplated the ceiling for a long moment. He heard the quiet noises of Eliza continuing her breakfast and wondered how she could swallow eggs at a time like this. His own stomach had now thawed, the ball of ice leaving a tempestuous ocean in its stead. It was a strange, inwardly sort of seasickness.
He thought of the way her hands had trembled when she said my life.
“You will not die, Eliza.” He knew this was true. It had to be true, because he would never be able to take her to bed if it were otherwise.
Her blue eyes filled with disdain. “Likely my father said something similar to my mother, just before he disappeared to the library to drink brandy and drown out her screams as she labored with me. I wonder if he repeated those words to my stepmother, before she followed my mother across the veil.” She took a delicate sip of tea and raised her brows at him. “Hmm. I just thought of one more thing I require.”
Sebastian barked a laugh. “I have not yet agreed to your last requirement.”
She waited complacently, blue eyes meeting his over the rim of her teacup.
Her demands were preposterous. One child! Regardless of sex. What was a duchess for if not to birth future dukes? Neither Lady Louisa, Lady Abigail, or Lady Jane would have given him half this much trouble.
But he had already decided that Eliza would be his wife, and he could no longer fathom any other course of action. They would marry. That was all.
“All right,” he said crossly. “What is it, then?”
“I should like you to be with me while I labor to bring your son or daughter into the world. I won’t ask too much of you, Sebastian. I won’t ask you to care. But by God”—her hands gripped the teacup with such determination that her fingertips turned white—“I won’t suffer alone, with strangers. And if I should die, at least the memory of it will haunt you for the rest of your days.”
He breathed in.
Do I ask too much? she had asked.
No, so long as you don’t ask it of me.
He breathed out.
“Fair enough,” he said quietly.
He had surprised her, but she recovered quickly and stretched her arm across the desk. “Then we have a marriage.”
Something was rising in his chest, threatening to overwhelm his calm. He took her hand, but instead of meeting it in a handshake, he turned it over and pressed his lips to the soft flesh of her palm, silencing and relegating it to that dark hole in his soul.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sir John arrived just after luncheon. He was shown immediately to Wessex’s study, where he remained enclosed for the next hour while Eliza paced the hallways anxiously.
“You will wear a hole in the duke’s carpet,” Riya said. “It looks to be from China. That is a very long way for a carpet to travel, only to be worn to threads by his future duchess.”
“He will not care,” Eliza said distractedly. “Besides, it is no less than he deserves.”
Riya arched a brow. “Yes, because this is all his fault, even if we haven’t determined how yet.”
Eliza stopped pacing and found herself face-to-face with Wessex’s portrait. She stared blankly at his image. It was a very good portrait, commissioned about five years ago, judging from the cut of his jacket. He was out of doors, one hand resting on a fence post, and he leaned forward, his lips tilted up and parted slightly as though he meant to say something that amused him. She was far too fond of that mouth and the absurd words that came from it.
Kiss me, he had said, and she had run to him—flinging herself into his arms like an antelope joyfully embracing death by a lion’s mighty jaws.
She sighed. No, she was just as much to blame as he.
“Do you have any idea how it feels to awake one morning to find all your dearest dreams and desires in tatters, and no one to blame but yourself?” she asked.
“Oh, no. I am here thousands of miles from my family because all my own actions have been entirely without fault.”
They smiled blackly at each other.
The door opened, and they both gave a startled jump. Eliza glanced from the duke to her brother and back again. Sebastian looked as unconcerned as ever, but John looked as solemn as she had ever seen him.
“Eliza, will you accompany me on a walk in the garden?” John asked.
She nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. She looked searchingly at Sebastian as they passed, needing reassurance, but he merely gave an amused shake of his head. Exasperating man. Was nothing serious to him? But naturally he would
find the whole situation diverting. Sir John was not his brother, after all.
When they were alone, John turned to her and clasped her hand in his. “My dear sister. How are you?”
She blinked up at him, startled. “I am…” Dear heavens, how was she? To say she was well would be an audacious lie. But despite that her dreams were ash and her reputation besmirched, she was not altogether terrible, either. She was in no danger of throwing herself down a well. “I am…persevering,” she said cautiously.
Sir John looked very grave.
“Did he…” Her brother struggled mightily with the words. “Did he force himself on you, Eliza? You know I am firmly against duels, as they are merely murder by a different name. But if he forced himself on you, if he harmed you— Murder is not ideal, and he is a duke, but—”
She gave a shocked laugh. “No! Most certainly not.”
Her brother studied her carefully, as though to ascertain the truth of her statement. When he was satisfied, his forehead puckered. “I cannot understand it! Of all the men, he is your choice? I was told that you were seen in an embrace, but that you had already accepted his offer of marriage. Clearly you care for him. I had thought you immune to his charms. Other women might make themselves silly for such a man, but you were too practical.”
She did not correct him. The truth would change nothing and only lower her brother’s esteem even further. Better that he believed in their mutual affection than to discover they had succumbed to… What, exactly, had overwhelmed them? Lust and despair?
She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t understand it myself.”
This seemed only to dismay him further. “You must realize that though he is above you in title, when it comes to character, he is by far your inferior. Eliza, he is nothing more than a popinjay! Has a more conceited, shallow man than the Duke of Wessex ever walked the earth? Why, even marriage, which should be undertaken soberly and in all seriousness, is naught but a lark to him. I asked him, how will you make her happy? And do you know what he said?”
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