“Iwilltake care of you, Felicity.”
She steeled herself against the affection in his voice. Because he’d not been with her tonight by choice, he’d merely been in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps it was the opposite. He’d been in thewrongplace at the wrong time.
She scrubbed a hand down her face.
“I don’t have a dowry. My father lost it.” In case he hadn’t gleaned that from her father’s wagers earlier—what now felt like a lifetime ago.
He shrugged. “I know. That’s neither here nor there, however. I took your virginity. It’s my duty to marry you.”
Duty!
“Duty?” Red encroached on the edges of her vision, and she would have spat if she knew how. “Would you like to know how sick and tired I am of hearing about duty?” She’d depended on Westerley fulfilling his duty to his father’s promise. She’d counted on duty to compel him to love her. And, always the dutiful daughter, she’ddutifullyloved him back. She would never trust in duty again.
Dutiful actions only resulted in illusions.
Manningham lowered his brows. “Not only out of duty.” But the words were tentative on his lips. Oh, no. He might even convince himself for the moment. Because, well, they had just laid together.
She was no longer a virgin.
Felicity inhaled a calming breath and then stared down at her hands. “This… I am grateful to you.” He’d not only extracted her from the thorns but allowed her to seduce him.
Why had she never thought to seduce Westerley? She dismissed the perplexing thought before she could analyze it too closely.
“My lady—Felicity,” he groaned, tugging at the back of his neck. “I can’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I can’t marry you, Manningham.” She held his gaze. “Once you’ve considered it rationally, you’ll realize you have no real desire to marry me anyway. Aside from the minor issue of my non-existent dowry, I love Westerley. And I don’t know when or if that will ever change.”
His mouth tightened. Perhaps that hadn’t been the best thing to tell a man who had just been inside of you.
Not that love was necessary for marriage, but—it mattered to her.
Or, it had.
“You are close friends with him. Surely, you must understand how awkward that would be?” He sat silent as though mulling over her argument.
But then he shook his head.
“Doesn’t apply in this situation.” He sat straighter now, his chin up. He was such a sweet man and far more handsome than she’d realized.
And her private places still ached from where she’d joined with him.
But he wasn’t Westerley.
“I’m afraid that it does. Even if it didn’t, I’ve no wish to marry… you.” Her explanation came out harsher than she’d intended. “Or anyone, for that matter. I have no choice but to travel to London for the spring and pretend to be husband-hunting—for my mother’s sake. But I won’t be, really. Come summer, I’ll return to Brightland’s’ Manor and settle into the quiet life of a spinster. My mother will appreciate having her daughter’s loving care as she enters her golden years.”
He made an odd sort of strangling sound.
“Please. Don’t take this personally.” She touched his hand to offer him some consolation.
“Rather hard not to, don’t you think?” He grimaced.
Less than an hour ago, she’d considered herself incapable of attracting a suitable husband. Being thrown over for another woman tended to shake one’s confidence. Now here she sat, refusing an offer from a viscount, heir to a relatively prosperous earl, no less.
And it wasn’t fair—it wasn’t honest for her to allow him to believe her refusal had anything to do with him.
“But… it isn’t personal.” She stared back at him. “I should accept you. All my life, I’ve done everything I should, and look what that brought me.”
How could she explain this?
