She stiffened above him. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it matters little whether you are seen to take me as a lover. But you know the thing that galls me—the thing that has always galled me—is the self-serving way gentlemen condemn women and yet are so forgiving of their own. A man may have several lovers and his reputation remains intact. But a lady—give me a lady who conducts affairs openly across London who does not have doors closed in her face.” Her grey eyes flashed with anger. “The law strips women of autonomy; either they belong to their fathers or their husbands, and woe betide them if they fall foul of another man’s greed. Yet if a man were in that position, ruled by hiswife, you think him pitiful.” Her mouth tightened, and he could feel her rage as though it burned from under her skin. “And if a woman has the misfortune to fall prey to a man who cares nothing for the moral laws to which we have all been subjected, she is the one who must face censure.”
George brushed the hair back from her face. “Like you?” he asked softly.
“Oh, as for me—perhaps I deserve it. Heaven knows I have not behaved as a well-bred lady over the years. But there are other women, better than I, whose reputations have suffered.”
“I doubt they are better than you,” he said, running his hands from her hips to her shoulders. “But I concede your points. We men are hypocrites. My question is merely this: if you are so certain of the problem, what is your solution?”
Her brow rose. “Can one not witness inequality without having a path forward?”
“What is the point of one without the other?”
“We may not all have the strength of mind to propose an active solution, but we may all feel the effects of injustice.”
“Ah, perhaps,” he said, enjoying the challenge, the way she refused to back down. “If you did not have the strength of mind to articulate your argument with such eloquence, I would not think you capable of a solution. But I have been impressed with the surest certainty of both your force of mind and your intelligence.”
Her arms slid around his neck. “I’m afraid my solution might shock you.”
“I’m considered by many to be liberal-minded.”
“Then shall we test that theory?” She leant in, hot breath against his cheek. “Equality in the eyes of the law; permission for the eldest daughter to inherit ahead of a younger son. The right for women to steer our country just as men do. Fairness in reproach. If one sex must endure the burden of criticism, thenso must the other. If a lady is condemned for seeking a lover outside marriage, then so must a gentleman. And conversely, if a gentleman is not criticised for keeping mistresses, then neither must mistresses be judged for being kept.” Her nose brushed against his. “Is that not shocking?”
“Only if one believes women to be inferior.”
“Am I to believe you are that forward thinking?”
“Women are different,” he said, trying to sort through his thoughts as she divested herself of her robe. “And they have different roles. Men cannot bear children.”
“They take part in their creation.” Her voice was bitter as she leant back. “And they are at liberty to abandon their offspring without any repercussions.”
“That, I would argue, is not always true.” He slid his fingers into the glossy weight of her hair. “If I were to have a bastard, I would provide for them. And any man who does not is judged accordingly.”
“Yes, but is he ruined?” There was a note he didn’t recognise in her voice. Anger, though not directed at him. “Is he thrust into marriage with the next available girl so his reputation is not wholly lost?”
Frowning, he looked at her carefully. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“Nothing.” She kissed him then, hard on the mouth, tasting of wine. “Enough talking.”
His body was more than willing to obey, but although she was hungry for him, and he for her, part of his mind was still occupied with what she had let slip.
Her anger. Her resentment. He knew little of her former marriage save that it had been to a much older gentleman—perhaps forty years her senior—and he had died, as such men were wont to do. But perhaps he should have known more about it, and what reason she had for such bitterness.
When they were done and she lay in the crook of his arm, spent and tired, her eyes closed and her breath soft, he wondered how he might compel her to open up to him. He had not known until now, watching her speak with such passion, how important it was to know all her angles and corners. Every hidden part.
Unpleasantness was not something he usually courted, but he had the nameless urge to uncover all the unpleasantness she had endured and air it, cast light on it, let it heal.
If this was nothing but desire, it was more than he had ever bargained for.
#
Caroline woke in the early hours of the morning, her bare body still cradled against George’s, and she sat up, looking at him through the strains of dawn light. Summer had brought with it merry birds and burning sun, and Caroline felt the pressure of it tighten her throat.
She should not have slept beside him. That was the wine’s fault—there was no other explanation. Certainly not the grave way he had looked at her as he had listened to her anger and not judged her for it. Not the way he had made love to her—for it could not be termed anything different, even with his hand to her throat—and held her in the spluttering candlelight, terribly familiar, wonderfully safe.
That ought to have been when she’d broken free and called for the carriage. Instead, she had let herself be lulled into sleep, more peaceful than she had known it to be for a long time.
Perhaps even since Worthington Hall.
She always enjoyed her lovers, and took pleasure from them as selfishly as they took pleasure from her, but none had made her feel safe the way George did—as though she truly could make any demands of him, and he would see them through.
