She blinked a moment, trying to understand. Why had he done such a thing? He knew she didn’t want to marry him. But now she was beholden to him. Whatever his intention had been, it seemed as if he was trying to take away her choice. And that wasn’t acceptable to her—not at all.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Emma protested. “I told him I didn’t want to marry him.”
“Do you want me to send him away?” Mrs. Harding asked.
“No. I will speak with him.” And hopefully she could convince him of all the reasons why they should not marry.
“Wait here, and I will tell him you are ready.”
She did, but instead of waiting in silence, Emma began to play another more complicated piece—the third movement of one of Beethoven’s sonatas, which gave her the opportunity to express her frustration. She only knew the opening phrases, but it gave her the means of attacking the keys.
The moment Lord Dunmeath entered the room and drew close, she smelled the familiar scent of pine—likely from his shaving soap. He stood beside the pianoforte, waiting for her to finish. When she forgot the next line, her hands stilled.
“You’re quite good, Miss Bartholomew. I enjoyed hearing you play.” His deep baritone slid beneath her defenses, and she tried to ignore the way her heart warmed to his compliment.
“Thank you. But it doesn’t change the fact that I cannot marry you.”
“Miss Bartholomew...”
“No, let me speak,” she said, cutting him off. “While I appreciate what you did to help my father, I am not going to change my mind,” she said. “I will repay the money as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think you understand my reasons.” His voice remained even, as if he were trying not to make her angrier.
“You want a wife. And for some reason, you won’t accept my refusal to wed you.” It sounded clear enough to her.
“Could we speak frankly, Emma?” he asked softly. The intimate use of her name caught her unawares, and it disconcerted her.
“I thought we were.” She’d given him her reasons—the only problem was that he wouldn’t accept them.
“No. I’ve been avoiding the truth, and I suppose it’s time that I told you everything.” There was an edge to his voice that deepened her discomposure, making her wonder what exactly he meant to say.
But he continued, “And in turn, I want you to tell me the truth about why I’m not the husband you want. I want to know the real reasons for your refusal—and stop telling me to wed someone else. There isn’t time for that.”
“What do you mean, there isn’t time?” Something in his words struck her as unusual.
“I will explain everything in a moment,” he said. “But first, I want to know if you dislike me. Is your reason for refusing marriage about not wanting to live with me or share my bed?”
Her face flushed scarlet at that. “Y-you truly are being frank, aren’t you?” But when she imagined being intimate with a husband, Cormac didn’t displease her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though she couldn’t see him very well, the slightest touch set her on edge. His voice drew her in, and the smell of his skin made her want to lean closer.
“I don’t dislike you,” she admitted. “But I don’t trust you.”
He reached out to take her hand. Though she wanted to protest, her words fell silent when his thumb stroked the edge of her palm. The slight caress made her imagine him touching other parts of her body. Her breasts ached against her chemise, and between her legs, she felt a warmth beginning to blossom.
“Then what can I do to earn that trust?” he asked.
His fingers laced with hers, and she decided that if they were going to be honest, she might as well say everything.
“I do want to be married. And perhaps have children one day,” she confessed. “But I always imagined marrying someone with a very small household. Perhaps a merchant or a knight, at most. You’re an earl. If I became a countess, I could never do what is expected of me.”
“All I would expect of you is to join me at meals, offer companionship, and try to give me an heir as quickly as possible.”
She blinked at that. Though it wasn’t an unexpected desire for any husband to want an heir, she sensed a slight desperation in his words. It meant he would want to share her bed often, and the thought frightened her.
But still, she forced herself to answer him with the truth. “I cannot read, Cormac.” Speaking his first name brought an intimacy that she hadn’t expected. “I can barely write. I cannot manage the accounts, and I doubt if I could find my way around your home in Ireland. You’re asking me to leave everything behind and become mistress of a household where the servants would see me as incompetent.”
She pulled her hand back. “I’ve worked so hard to keep my blindness a secret. But everyone in your household would know. They would feel pity... and they would wonder why you lowered yourself to choose a wife like me.”
An ache caught in her throat, and she added, “You would come to despise me. And I don’t want that.”
