“And the alternative?” she asked quietly. “I sense there is one.”
His gaze held hers. “If you stay, we will marry in the chapel today.” He spoke like a man of Parliament, calm, each word measured. “I need certainty, Miss Woolf. But as your husband, know I will not rest until those hounding you are caught. It strikes me as something we must do together.”
She barely moved, barely blinked. “Ours would need to be a remarkable friendship to withstand a loveless marriage and the shame of infidelity.”
“Infidelity?” The word tasted like poison. He had seen what deception could do, how it seeped into a man’s veins and corroded everything decent in him. “Let me be clear. You will take no man to your bed. I’ll not have cuckold added to my list of monikers.”
She laughed, though a frown creased her brow. “Not me. I could hardly expect you to remain faithful. Do you not possess that animal instinct to mate?”
Her blunt retort caught him off guard, stirring an almost unbearable need to devour her smart mouth. “Celibacy sharpens a man’s mind. I have no wish to squander my wits on fleeting pleasures. What I value is constancy, and I see the same in you. You crave security, Miss Woolf, as much as I crave loyalty. Together, we might yet find both.”
Her gaze dropped to the licence in her hand, which she waved as if the words were flimsy. “What if one of us isn’t strong enough to keep our bargain?”
“Then I will be strong enough for us both. You will not fall while I stand beside you.”
She raised her chin. “You assume I’m the weak one.”
This was what he needed, a woman unafraid to challenge his opinion. He had known that about her from their first meeting.
“I assume nothing. I know your strength, which is why I choose to share the burden.” He bowed. “I shall leave you to consider your options, and trust you will choose reason over the folly of romantic love.”
He had reached the door before she said, “Wait.” She cleared her throat. “What if you realise you still love Miss Bourne? She’s captivating. Beautiful enough to hold any man under her spell. It will be torture living so close.”
He turned, his gaze unflinching. “Miss Bourne holds noclaim on me. Whatever she was, whatever spell she cast, ended ten years ago. Do you think me so cruel as to bind you to a lie?”
“Love catches people unawares.”
“The capacity to love was stolen from me years ago.” He drew a breath, loss tightening his chest, and for the briefest moment he wondered if it was entirely true.
Miss Woolf surprised him. She cast back the bedclothes and crossed the room in her nightgown, her bare feet sinking into the rug. He forced himself to remain still, though his eyes betrayed him, taking in the loose hair at her shoulders, the shift of cotton at her hips, the bare skin where the neckline gaped. This was not the time to think of her as a woman.
“I won’t have it said I deceived you.” She pressed the licence into his hand, her fingers closing lightly over his. “I fear my father was a spy and that he may have committed treason. I have not spoken of it to another soul.” She drew a slow breath, as though the admission had cost her dearly. “Take time to consider your options, my lord. I shall await your decision.”
Her confession should have shocked him, but it didn’t. Men did not stalk graveyards or fire pistols on public lanes unless the stakes were high.
If she meant to persuade him to relent, she achieved the opposite. Did she not know he thrived on truth? That this show of trust touched him in ways kisses never could?
There was only one course left, and he would not waver. “Then we must marry without delay.”
Chapter Seven
Madness was not a fleeting state of mind.
Barely two hours after agreeing to Lord Rothley’s proposal, Olivia stood in the corridor outside the private chapel, preparing to marry the marquess. Vases of roses and honeysuckle crowded the marble console tables, their sweetness almost suffocating. Stone-faced ancestors watched from the canvases, their stares a silent rebuke.
She breathed to calm her pounding heart. She should leave, gather her skirts, run until her lungs burned. No good would come of this. One wrong move would invite ruin. But her attacker had seen Lord Rothley. If she fled, he would be the target. And against all reason, she believed he was the only man who could protect her from danger.
“You look quite the part,” Mrs Boswell said, pressing a small posy into her hand, pink roses and peonies woven with myrtle. “The flowers bring a touch of colour.” Her gaze moved over Olivia in quiet appraisal. “If you’d prefer, I could search the trunks in the attic. Perhaps there’s a pastel gown that would suit the occasion. I’m sure his lordship will wait.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Though green or lilac might flatter her hair, nothing would make her feel like a bride. “This is to be a union of minds. I doubt his lordship cares what gown I wear.”
The words sounded braver than she felt. Her pulse quickened at the thought of standing beside him, bound by vows, not affection.
“Make no mistake, ma’am. His lordship sees more than most. Nothing escapes his notice.”
Yes. At times, he looked at her with such intensity it seemed the world had stilled.
Mrs Boswell cupped Olivia’s arms, her smile reassuring. “Passionate affairs dwindle like summer blooms, but a solid friendship brings comfort for a lifetime. Keep that in mind when you’re troubled with doubt.”
