“You are more dishonorable than I thought,” she said.
“Dishonor? If that is the word you want to employ, I will not stop you.” He stepped toward her, closing much of the space between them. “But I never claimed to be honorable. I see a situation that will either crush us, or which we may use to our benefit. You must know, as I do, the brush with which they paint you. Would you not want to wrest it from their grasp?”
“You make it sound so simple.”
The sound of her voice curled up his spine.
“Itissimple, Miss Tate.”
“Why should I trust you now when you lied to me once before?” she asked. “How do I know you will not abandon me as soon as I agree to be your wife? You could have me committed to a madhouse, or worse!”
Nicholas smiled, though it was no smiling matter. “You have no assurance that such a fate for you will not come to pass. And you have no reason to trust me.”
“Not exactly a compelling argument.”
“I lie only when it is necessary—or when the choice between a truth or a lie seems inconsequential.”
“Inconsequential toyou…” Miss Tate grabbed the locket she wore and held it tight. “But you are right that I have no reason to trust you. A contract… We would need a contract…” She released the pendant and looked up. “And you will allow me to include my own stipulations.”
“Chief of which, I assume, will forbid me from locking you in a madhouse and throwing away the key.”
“I have other ideas too.Ifyou are sincere.”
“In this moment? Scarily sincere.”
“Then it seems I have no other choice but to agree.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
He was surprised by the strength of his relief as it swept over him. He took a surprised step backward, clutched his chest. A smile worked its way unbidden to his lips, and he thanked the heavens for her agreement.
“Then it seems there is little else to do but inform your uncle,” Nicholas nodded once.
He began moving toward the door. Miss Tate stopped him by grabbing his arm.
His body shuddered in surprise.
“Not yet,” she begged, not releasing him. “There is more I must know first.”
Her fingers tightened around his arm.
“As your wife… Would it be expected that I live with you?”
“Frankly, I had not thought that far ahead.”
“And now that you must?”
Nicholas’s throat had gone dry. He cleared it, unable to think clearly while she was holding on to him. He was more than acquainted with the touch of a woman. But something about the fierceness of Miss Tate’s grasp made him uneasy.
“I… suppose you would,” he replied.
For a foolish moment, he pictured Miss Tate arriving at Riverside Court. Pictured her roaming the grounds, exploring the library—her delicate yet powerful fingers trailing over the spines of the books he had collected…
He pictured those same fingers curling around bedsheets. White linen twisted in the grip, knuckles pale with the force of it. Those sharp grey eyes going hazy with need, her thighs locked around his hips—no,his mouth—as he made her forget every proper thing she’d ever been taught.
He could almostfeelthe slide of her stockinged leg against his bare spine, the give of her body beneath his weight, the little catch in her breath when he—
