He stilled. “Forgive me, Lady Elysande, but I do not understand.”
“You wished for a prescribed allotment of time,” she elaborated. “Six months is what I require. The amendment can be altered so that I have six months to myself, our marriage unconsummated. After that time, if you wish for me to bear children, I…will.”
With that maddening thumb, he traced her upper lip, the bow there. “You hardly sound enthused, my lady. But no. I’ll not wait six months. One should be sufficient.”
She required the ability to single-mindedly pursue the completion of her prototype. No distractions, no husband to make demands of her. She would need access to father’s workshop, freedom of movement. Heavens, her poor cousin Lydia had been ill and confined to her bed for the entirety of her pregnancy. Elysande could not afford to be laid low in such fashion. As for the time he suggested? One month would not be enough time for her to perfect her work. Indeed, six was frightfully implausible. One? Utterly impossible.
“Five,” she countered, thinking of all the work ahead of her.
“Two,” he offered, rubbing her bottom lip.
Her lips parted, and he dipped inside for just a moment, so that she could taste the salty tang of him. So strange and masculine and…Wycombe. New Wycombe. Old Wycombe had never dared to place his thumb anywhere near to her mouth, and indeed if he had, she would have been far more likely to bite it off than to find herself helplessly in his thrall.
That explained nothing of what she felt for the duke standing before her on the portico now.
She swallowed against a rising tide of dangerous, unwanted sensation. “Four months, Your Grace.”
“Three, and cease calling me that.” He painted the wetness of her saliva over her lips. “My name is Hudson.”
Three months. Could she do it? Did she dare agree to such a short amount of time, to such a tremendous concession when she had vowed she would allow none? Thoughts of Izzy’s happiness rushed to her mind. How could she bear to face her sister, having refused the only marital prospect she possessed? How could she begin anew, thrust herself into an interminable round of society dances and balls and suppers? She could not.
Hudson.
A curious name for a curious man.
She liked it. And, to her dismay, she was intrigued by him.
She was going to be his wife.
Three months dedicated to completing her design and perfecting the electrical frying pan she had been working on diligently in an effort to have a prototype ready for the London Society of Electricity’s upcoming exhibition. Three months unencumbered by the marriage she was making, by the inevitable duties which would accompany it. She knew what was expected of a woman when she wed, how drastically her life changed, becoming no longer hers. Would that amount of time be sufficient?
Ever since Papa’s doorbell had been shown at the previous exhibition—much to the dismay of some, for its raucous peal had been truly unpleasant—she had been determined to see a design of her own on display. All the inventors at the society’s last showing had been men, and she dearly longed to represent her sex there.
To be taken seriously.
To step out from her father’s shadow and prove to the world that being a lady did not preclude her from having a viable mind or the ability to create something more intricate than embroidery or a sketch.
But she had been having difficulty determining the medium to conduct the electricity and the manner in which she would fasten it to the existing pan. Her attempts thus far had proven unsuccessful. The current had not passed through the pan evenly, leaving her attempt at frying an egg dismal at best. Theoeufin question had been partially scorched and part thin and runny. Quite dreadful. And she had been toying with her prototype for the last year already.
Still, three months would have to be enough. If it was not, there was every possibility she would have to move on from her hopes in that regard. Papa always said that one of the primary elements of success was knowing when to abandon an idea and when to pursue it. Perhaps an electrified cooking vessel was simply not meant to be.
“Three months, Hudson,” she found herself agreeing.
He removed his thumb from her lips and tucked the curl behind her ear once more. “Excellent.”
She stared up into that handsome face, convinced she had just lost in this war of theirs. Helpless to save herself.
Chapter 3
His wedding day had begun just like any other. Hudson had risen at dawn. One difference: he had taken considerable care with his appearance. A man ought to on the day of his nuptials, he supposed. To that end, he had shaved, dressed in his finest coat and trousers, and combed his hair. He’d thought about trimming his hair and decided against it. No need for Lady Elysande to suppose she was getting a gentleman as a husband.
And now, he stood within the Talleyrand Park chapel, sunlight streaming from a massive window over the altar and capturing both himself and his almost-wife in a gilded glow. He was sweating like a convict about to hang from a noose. The day was unseasonably warm. He had no wish to marry. But if he was not mistaken, neither did his bride.
She wore the look of a woman resigned to her fate.
Or mayhap, a woman at the funeral of someone she desperately loved.
They were not the only ones in attendance who were less than enthused about the morning’s ceremony. Indeed, there was a somberness to the entire affair. Her sister, Lady Isolde, pinned him with a glacial glare he felt between his shoulder blades even now. Her mother, Lady Leydon, could be heard lightly weeping. Lord Leydon had been grim yet stoic. Her twin sisters, Lady Criseyde and Lady Corliss, had been whispering to each other with subdued countenances. Her brother, Viscount Royston, had merely seemed as if he suffered from the after-effects of having spent the night cup-shot.
