But Warson’s face was twisted into a snarl of fury, so Hector didn’t dare press his luck. If he was going to marry Clio, he’d prefer not to do so with a broken nose, courtesy of her rightfully furious brother.
“Yes, you bloody well will marry her,” he snapped, clearly needing a place to vent this rage. Hector felt strangely commiserative with the man, even though they were technically at odds for now. He felt just as angry with himself for failing to protect Clio from wagging tongues.
But Hector, at least, had something to do about it. Soon enough, he would get to call Cliohis.
“I am at your disposal,” he told all the members of the family. He wished to speak with Clio alone, but he knew that he owedsomethingto her family first.
Ramsay, who had ridden back south with him, hadn’t shut up about that fact the entire ride.
“We will arrange for a wedding as quickly as possible,” Warson said, looking relieved to have something to do with himself. “You will need to obtain the special license immediately.”
“I can do that,” Hector said, by which he meant that he would ask Jonathan how to do that. There were times—well, there was this one time, at least—where not having the traditional ducal education was a hindrance.
“Good,” Warson said. “I’ll send word when we know the time and place. If you are late, I will find you, and I will shoot you.”
Hector’s mouth twitched. Warson’s didn’t.
“Understood,” he said.
There was an uncomfortable silence when he waited for—for anything. For Warson to say more, he supposed. But mostly for Clio.
Clio, who still looked ashen, had a distant look in her eye. Clio, who never let anyone determine her future …
Except for right now, when she was silent.
Warson was looking at Hector like he was considering advancing the shooting bit to right now if Hector didn’t leave. Still, Clio’s distress weighed more heavily upon him than did threats to his personal safety that would hopefully never come to pass.
“Clio,” he said gently; she startled, like she’d forgotten he was even there. “Can I speak with you for a moment, lass?”
Warson made a slight movement like he planned to protest, but his wife’s hand landed on his wrist, a featherlight touch that stopped the former admiral in an instant.
Hector tried to think of ever seeing his parents—the only aristocratic couple he’d ever known well—touch at all, let alone with such effective, unspoken communion. It was laughable. Of course, he couldn’t.
He looked at Clio with new understanding. A marriage of convenience must have seemed an intolerable condition to her after seeing such love and affection. It might be rare in Society, but to Clio, it was home.
It was as though he was seeing her in the light for the first time, for when she summoned a weak little smile, he suddenly saw that it was because she loved her brother, because she didn’t want him to worry.
Her eyes still held that distance, though.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll show you to the front parlor.”
He followed her. And while he did, noting the defeated slope in her shoulders, he made a decision.
Hewouldn’tkeep her, no matter how much his inner urges demanded it. He would protect her …
And then he would set her free.
She looked through him when they reached a space of relative privacy, though the door remained pointedly open. Since they were well beyond the point of making nods to propriety, he could only assume it was because she didn’t want to be here with him.
“Clio,” he said. He couldn’t seem to stop saying her name. It was the only liberty left to him.
She turned in his direction, but she still looked glazed.
“Listen,” he urged. “I’m not going to let this ruin your life; I swear it. We will marry. I’ll give you the protection of my name. And we’ll do our duty—give talk time to calm down. But then, I’ll let you do as you please. I’ll give you your freedom. You can travel as you wish, or, if you prefer to stay in London, I’ll return to the North. You won’t feel trapped.”
The words spilled from him in a flood. He wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken to anyone like this, like heneededhis words to matter.
But they didn’t. They mattered now as little as they ever had when he’d asked his parents for an explanation or for leniency. They had as little effect as when he’d whispered into the dark of night his questions about why he’d been sent away, why he hadn’t been enough.
