Zachary could have argued the two were not synonymous. Indeed, not long ago, he would have done. But now, he was no longer sure. Last night had altered much for him. In a sense, this sea change had begun the moment he had accepted he would marry.
An alarming moment of clarity hit him just now.
“I do intend to be faithful,” he said. “I would not expect anything less from myself than I would demand from my wife.”
And demand her faithfulness, he would.
He understood that now. The tawdriness of Beatrice’s intrusion had made that abundantly clear. He wanted to protect Izzy. But he also wanted her to be his and his alone. The thought of another seeing her so intimately, in the throes of passion, made him want to retch. And the thought of another man ever touching her so intimately, making her come undone beneath his tongue, worshiping her generous curves with his hands, sinking his prick into her hot, wet cunny—that made him want to slam his fist into an unsuspecting face.
But he was not, nor had he ever been, a man given to violence. Even when Horatio had laughed in his face, mocking him for supposing anyone would choose a poor third son over the heir, Zachary had refrained from striking his brother. Never had there been, in the history of despicable kin, a sibling more deserving of a facer.
“I will admit to my surprise,” Wycombe was saying, bringing him back to the present and tearing him from the murk of the past. “I had expected you would not wish to change your ways.”
He flashed his friend a grim smile. “Say what you mean, old chap. We have never danced about the truth, have we? You thought I would continue fucking half the ladies of London despite the fact that I was a married man.”
His friend cleared his throat and averted his gaze, clearly embarrassed. “Of course not.”
“Look at me,” Zachary bit out. “Look me in the eye and tell me the same.”
Wycombe sighed and met his gaze. “I consider you a brother, and you know that. I have entrusted my wife to your care. But as to the manner in which you intended to conduct yourself in your marriage, I could not be certain.”
And Zachary did not blame him. What had he done to prove himself a worthy husband? Unintentionally have a drunken innocent fall atop him at a ball?
“I understand that you have an obligation to Izzy,” he said earnestly. “She is your sister now. But I promise that I will do my utmost to be the best husband I can to her.”
It occurred to him then that this was a speech he ought to be making to his bride’s father. But Lord Leydon, Izzy’s sire, was rather an eccentric man. During their lone interview, the man had seemed more concerned with the marriage contract and the promise that his daughter would possess her own means than Zachary’s intentions as a husband. Of course, he could hardly claim he knew what ordinarily transpired in an audience with the father of the woman one intended to marry. He had never proceeded to that step with Beatrice.
Had never had the chance, for Horatio had stolen her first.
But all these years later, that thought no longer speared him with regret. What he felt now, and had for some time, was acceptance. Beatrice had made her choice, and it had not been him. And he did not want a woman at his side who would choose a title, a fortune, or anything else over him.
He was seeking to start anew.
With Izzy.
If she would still have him after what had transpired the night before.
He winced.
“You care for her,” his friend said, shocking him from his thoughts.
“I do,” he agreed, rather alarmed at the ease with which he made the concession. Somehow, Izzy had worked herself past his defenses. Just as when she had come to him with second thoughts about their marriage and all the reasons it would not work, he startled himself with the realization that he wanted her as his wife.
Ashis.
“I am glad for the both of you.” Wycombe smiled. He was not a man given to excessive good humor, and this smile meant something.
Approval, Zachary thought.
“Be glad for us when we are officially husband and wife,” he said grimly, thinking again of what had transpired.
After Beatrice had fled, Izzy had been shaken.
Their passions had been mutually doused.
She saw us, Izzy had hissed at him.
Yes, he had agreed, seeing no point in prevarication.
