Fairness, of course.
A lady ought to be present if the details of her future were being discussed. Hudson was not an unjust man. Society’s protocols could go hang. For all the roughness and ugliness he had witnessed, he still believed in honor. Honor was why he was here, after all, engaging in this unending interview, intent upon marrying a lady he did not know. Whilst Hudson Stone did not owe anything to the people whose lives he now was responsible for, the Duke of Wycombe did, and Hudson was now, unfortunately, he.
“Father?” Lady Elysande asked, clearly seeking her father’s approval.
Leydon was frowning, but he nodded. “If His Grace wishes you to be present, I suppose there can be nothing untoward about it.”
His Grace.
Wycombe.
By any name, Hudson’s reaction remained the same. The title did not belong to him. It should have been his cousin’s burden to bear. And yet, here he was, about to negotiate that man’s bride as if the proceedings were as natural as breathing.
Lady Elysande nodded, and as she slipped past him to settle herself in the empty chair, the scent of lamp oil reached him rather than sweet perfume. It was odd indeed. What the hell had she been about before she had come rushing to her father’s study? The detective in him, which had yet to realize he was now burdened with a new life role, was instantly on edge.
Curious, that.
Lady Elysande was not all she seemed to be. He was not certain if he ought to be intrigued or concerned about this new discovery.
* * *
Elysande sat,back as stiff as a ramrod, in the chair beside New Wycombe. She was cognizant of her stained skirts and the strong odor of lamp oil she was currently emitting thanks to the unfortunate spill in her father’s workshop. Her hem had soaked up a good portion of the mess before she had been able to properly clean the oil from the floor. That was what happened when one’s workshop was relegated to the stables and there was insufficient light, thanks to the dynamo being reserved for powering prototypes. She had elbowed the lamp—thankfully, one of several which were unlit at the time—whilst working on the design for Father’s influence machine.
Elysande could only hope she could find a more suitable space for a workshop of her own when she married the duke. After Father had inadvertently set the library aflame when he had been attempting to perfect his burglar alarm, Mama had insisted upon him conducting all matters pertaining to his inventions outside the manor house. Dozens of books had been lost. To say nothing of the curtains, the Axminster, and Mama’s prized writing desk. While restored to its former glory, there remained an underlying scent of smoke in that chamber to this day, and Mama never failed to comment upon it. At least it had not been as dangerous as the occasion when the boiler for his steam-powered pram had exploded…
Belatedly, Elysande forced herself to listen to Father droning on about the particulars of the marriage contract. Everything was as she had expected. Strange to think she had not bothered to involve herself in the process with Old Wycombe. Naturally, he had not invited her, and she had been pleased to occupy herself with things that truly interested her.
At her side, New Wycombe was tapping his thigh with his fingers in a steady drum, almost as if he found the minutiae of their nuptials tedious. She did not know why she should find irritation in the knowledge, for she felt the same. However, she could not deny the duke’s lack of emotion concerned her. They were to be wed. Ought he not to feel something? Something more thanennui?
She told herself it did not matter. It was not as if she wanted to marry him. Nor did she harbor any more tender feelings for this duke than she did for the last. Her aim remained the same—happiness for her sister and herself. Izzy could marry Mr. Penhurst. Elysande could devote her time to her own work rather than toying with Father’s. New Wycombe could return to London and brood there as he liked. All outcomes ideal.
“I agree,” Wycombe said, turning to her. “Lady Elysande?”
Either he truly wished for her to be part of this process, or he did not know how extraordinary it was for a lady to be included in such a meeting, or he was attempting to test her in some way. She could not be certain which. There was something very unsettling about his gray-blue stare as it burned into hers now.
But she would not look away. Nor would she admit she had not been listening to a word Father had said.
Instead, she smiled with what she hoped was the vapid serenity she had seen in most debutantes during her comeout days. “I agree as well.”
Father nodded and continued on. “Lady Elysande will receive her annual stipend, to be dispensed as she wishes. She also requests no progeny.”
Elysande stiffened at the mention of the amendment. It was a request she had not made of Old Wycombe, but one she ought to have done. New Wycombe—one hoped—would be more amenable to the terms than his predecessor would have been. He seemed to hold the title in little regard. One could only hope.
“No progeny,” the duke repeated.
Father’s face was flushed, an indication he was embarrassed by her request. He had not been pleased with her idea, and he had made himself clear on the matter. However, he had been reluctantly willing to alter the contract to suit her.
“That is correct,” her father said.
“Is there a reason for this request? Is Lady Elysande in ill health?” Wycombe addressed her father, but even as he did so, he slanted a searching glance in her direction.
“I am in fine health,” she forced herself to say. “However, I do not desire children.”
That was not entirely true. It was not that she did not want children of her own so much as that she did not possess the single-minded desire most marriage-minded females seemed to harbor. Izzy dreamed of children with her Arthur and longed for the day when she could become a mother. Elysande, however, was different. She had aspirations. Plans. Children were not a part of that. Perhaps one day. But not today. Not for the foreseeable future, and she needed to be certain her husband would not make demands of her.
“Never?” Wycombe asked her.
Elysande’s palms went damp, and the scent of lamp oil seemed stronger than ever. One errant spark, and she would be in flames like the library. “Neveris a finite word, Your Grace. However, I would like the reassurance that I will not be pressured into producing an heir and a spare immediately.”
