Theo looked down to where their fingers intertwined. “Does that mean you would be prepared to consider children rather sooner than you had originally . . . I know you said you would—that we could—and I . . .” Her voice trailed away as she considered she did not know how, precisely, one enticed one’s husband into certain marital acts.
“You wish for children now?” he asked after a slight pause.
“Well, y-yes,” she said. “And if we are to ensure Sir Montague does not inherit—”
“If he were the one behind this attack on you, I would agree with your reasoning, however unromantic.” The last was delivered with a wry smile. “But I believe the culprit to be someone else.”
“Not Sir Montague after all that?”
“I rather suspect a woman of poisoning you,” he said, tilting her chin so she looked at him. His gaze followed her features almost dispassionately, as though he was observing her without truly seeing—or perhaps without caring what he saw. “Poison is a woman’s weapon, don’t you agree?”
“But no woman stands to inherit,” she said slowly.
“That does somewhat rather complicate matters.”
“Nathanial,” she said, half exasperated, half amused. “What are you thinking? What are your suspicions?”
“My suspicions are that you will be safe here—”
“Amongst other women,” she protested, “one of whom could be trying to kill me.”
“I think not.” He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose, and Theo froze at the casual affection of the gesture. “But just in case, be sure not to drink any unattended tea, and that should do it.”
“Nathanial,” she said as he swung his legs from the bed. More of that unfamiliar fire flooded her, as though by his leaving she was losing something precious; something she couldn’t bear to be without. “Don’t go.”
He paused. “Is there something else you need?”
You.
But, as all men, he was blind to what was right in front of him—and what had, Theo considered, been sitting in front of him for a long time. She steeled herself to make the confession that had burned inside her for weeks, the one that would change everything.
The one she feared, more than anything, to make.
When she said nothing, he turned once again, and she blurted, “It was me.”
He froze, and Theo had countless seconds in which to regret saying anything. For too long, he remained in place, and when he turned, his gaze landed on hers with an intensity thatshrivelled her up inside. No one had ever looked at her like that before, all smouldering and hot andangry.
Heavens above, this was a mistake.
“What do you mean?” he asked in a low voice.
“At the masquerade,” she said. “In the gardens. It was me you took there.” She inhaled sharply. “And I knew it was you, right from the beginning. That was the only reason I consented to going outside and to—everything that came next.”
There. Now she had offered enough pieces of herself to him that she felt bereft; she had opened her chest and bared her heart, and he could see every part of her.
“You knew it was me?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you allowed me to believe you were consorting with a stranger?”
“You were also . . . I knew what we had agreed about our marriage, what it would be. I thought, if you knew, you would have been angry.”
“Allowing your husband to—” Nathanial broke off and swallowed. “That is not a crime, Theo.”
“We agreed we would not be as husband and wife.”
“Weagreedthat there would be no obligation. Did you feel obliged to go out into that garden with me?” There was real anger in his voice, and he paced across the room with quick, frustrated steps. “I thought you perfectly willing or I would never have—”
