His eyebrows arched, though his tone remained polite. “You wound me, Duchess. I hadn’t even begun my campaign for affection.”
“You will find me quite immune to charm,” she said crisply. “I have read too many newspapers.”
His lazy smile grew. “Ah, yes, Miss Verity would never fall for a rake.”
Her gaze snapped to his, and for a moment, the air thickened. Then she looked away, pretending to adjust the blanket over the baby. “I’m glad you understand.”
“Perfectly.” His voice softened in a way that caught her off guard. “Then allow me to set a rule.” He leaned forward, expression brightening with mischief. “No running away. Not when I offend you.”
She blinked. “I do not run.”
“Astride scandal, perhaps. Fast enough to leave a man dizzy.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, more flustered than furious. “Then here is another: no using our arrangement as fodder for gossip. No whispered jokes among your friends. I will not be a diverting anecdote.”
His lazy smile faltered—a small hitch, almost sincere. “Very well.”
“And,” she continued, gaining momentum, “we must sleep in separate rooms.”
“Adjacent?” he asked lightly. “For emergencies.”
“For propriety,” she corrected, her voice dropping. “Walls exist for a reason.”
“Doors exist to be opened,” he murmured, then relented at her look, lifting his hands. “Separate rooms. With walls most loyal.”
She did not thank him, but the subtle lowering of her shoulders betrayed her relief. He noticed—of course, he did—and something in his expression shifted, becoming quieter, almost thoughtful.
“Very well,” he said. “Since you have had your say, allow me one more rule, and I will grant you the same courtesy.” He tapped a finger against the edge of his seat, his eyes fixed on her. “You may live as you please, so long as we avoid any… unnecessary attention.”
She lifted her chin. “Such as?”
“Oh, the usual things.” He made a vague motion with one gloved hand, as though swatting away the absurdity of it all. “Peace under my roof. No essays. And no scathing observations about my character in theClarion.”
Her head snapped up. “You read theClarion?”
“One does not read it so much as survive it,” he said dryly. “I was its unwilling muse for a season—I had little choice.”
A startled laugh escaped her lips. “Surely notyou.”
“Oh, quite me. Some inventive soul thought it amusing to sketch ‘a brooding duke with the emotional range of a teapot’ as a teapot.”
She pressed her lips together, her eyes dancing despite herself. “That sounds… accurate.”
His eyebrow arched. “Careful, Duchess. You’re perilously close to rule ten.”
Her eyebrow arched. “The rules aren’t even up to six.”
“Then I shall consider it foresight,” he said smoothly, leaning back with a hint of a smile. “I like to plan.”
She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You are insufferable. We have scarcely half that number. ”
“So I’ve been told,” he murmured, the warmth in his voice softening the words. “Are there any more rules?”
“There is. You will not interfere with the care of the child until her parentage is?—”
Suddenly, the carriage jolted. Both instinctively reached for the small basket beside her. His hand barely brushed against hers, but the touch sent a strange flutter through her chest.
She withdrew her hand, too quickly. “Until her parentage is confirmed,” she finished, her eyes on the baby instead of him.
