“I don’t particularly care to hear the details of your marriage to her,” Isabel said quickly.
“Not of my marriage toher. My marriage toyou.”
“If you will recall, there was no marriage tome.”
Percy jerked his thumb toward the shop. “That’s not what that lot in there believe.”
“And why is that? I had a rather strange conversation with your daughter.”
“What with managing Montfort and his official story, then hieing off to Spain, I never found the time.”
It wasareason, but not the truest one. Why was he avoiding what he’d come here to say and . . .ask? Because she had every reason to reject him, that was why.
“Thank you.”
“What areyouthankingmefor?” Percy asked, exasperated. A feeling of indebtedness wasn’t how he wanted to approach what he’d come here to say.
“For protecting Eva.”
“The bullet that finally found Montfort had been on its trajectory for decades. Your sister only pulled the trigger.”
“Will he—?” Isabel began and stopped, unable to ask the terrible question aloud.
“Report it to a magistrate?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
Percy shook his head. “He doesn’t want his good name blackened by the revelations that would follow.”
“What an ugly situation.”
She was correct, but Percy didn’t want to talk about ugly situations, but, rather, potentially beautiful ones. He tried again. “Aboutourmarriage.”
“I won’t hold you to it, of course. It wasn’t real.” An uncertain beat of time passed. “None of it was.”
“None of it?” he asked. “Some of it felt very, very real.”
Subtle pink brightened Isabel’s cheeks. “You take my meaning, Percy.”
“What if—” He held her gaze steady. “What if I enjoyed being falsely married to you?”
“Enjoyedit?”
Her breath hitched in her chest on a swift intake, and his heart raced like a green youth’s. “What if—?” he began again.
“Yes?”
“What if I want you to hold me to it?” He reached out and tucked an errant wisp of hair behind her ear. No longer could he not touch her. “What if I would like to stop pretending and make it the truth?”
“Impossible,” she uttered on a whisper.
Impossible was such a definite word, but the way she spoke it left an opening. He intended to slip inside it. “What impossibilities stand in our way? In case you don’t remember, I’m the son of a duke, there isn’t much in this world that isn’t possible for me.”
Gone was her breathlessness. In its stead had settled her familiar quiet resolve. “I won’t marry you simply because you don’t want to admit to your family that we aren’t truly wed.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“We knew each other for such a short time. Was it long enough to know if it isn’t only desire? If it is truly—”
