“I will review and sign now, thank you.” She sounded brisk and efficient—ever the governess.
Her dressing gown rustled as she edged toward the table and into the ring of light. Lines neatly scrawled across the page seemed to move like an undulating flag. She placed her fingertips against the edge of the page to still them, and then she read.
The contract made no mention of midnight meetings, but granted her, for extraordinary service to his godchildren, all that she asked of him the prior night as well as a one-time settlement of a staggering amount. In fact, were she to abide merely by the letter of what he’d written down, she would not have to give him a thing in return.
A gesture of faith? Or simply one of discretion?
She glanced up. “This is far more than the amount we agreed. Why?”
“Isn’t your worth apparent? It is to me.” When she did not immediately respond he added, “You said you trusted my judgment.”
She had, only this...was far too generous.
On the other hand—she swallowed roughly—he’d already signed. If he wished to leave her extraordinarily comfortable simply for the pleasure of her company, who was she to argue against an embarrassment of riches?
She lifted the quill, carefully dipped the tip in the ink and signed her name pithyHera Tyche Bytheseanext to his—Godric Henry Alan Alexander Bohen. followed by a dizzying number of titles ending, of course, withDuke of Hurtheven.
There.
The thing was done. The wet, black ink was already drying to darkened grey. She was, for now, his. No matter what the contract read,sheintended to abide by the negotiated terms. She returned the quill to the holder.
He stood up and held out his hand. Hesitantly, she gave him hers.
Godric.
She wondered if anyone had ever used his name. She supposed, from birth, he’d been called the second to the last title, just has he was now only ever Hurtheven.
No, she corrected. He was alsoUncle Heven.
And, on one, extraordinary occasion,Mr. Smith.
Shewishedhe were Mr. Smith. Simple Mr. Smith, having no great and noble line to uphold, might, with little comment, choose to make a life with a woman and her bastard child. She could have shared this very moment with Mr. Smith as his bride.
She breathed through a sudden, dangerous tingle at the bridge of her nose until the danger of tears had passed.
“Do I have your leave to call you Hurtheven?” The question seemed like something she should ask...and she hadn’t any idea what else to say.
“You already do.” He grinned. “When you’re not angry with me, that is.”
“But Godric is your given name, yes?”
Briefly, his face blanked. So briefly, she’d wondered if her eyes had deceived.
“Alan, Henry, and Alexander are also among my given names,” he said lightly. “You may call me what you wish, as long as you don’t call meduke.” Again, he mimicked her derisive inflection.
He was smiling again—a dear, dimpled expression. So, she smiled, too.
“I’d like to call you Hera.”
“You may, of course.”
“An unusual name...”
“Yes. I believe I’ve already told you my father loved all things ancient Greece.”
“We’d have had that in common, then, if I had met him.”
He spoke as if he truly wished he’d known her father.
