"I'm in love. It amounts to the same thing."
Clara lifted her head to look at him. "We really need to face your aunt again, don't we?"
"I am afraid so. Though this time we have several advantages."
"Such as?"
“You are my betrothed, at last! You have an inheritance that makes you respectable, and we've already thoroughly compromised each other so that matter is no longer pressing.”
“Not to mention, she cannot object to the match when the bride might already be in a certain condition.”
Clara's eyes widened. "Gabriel, we don't know…"
"No, but Aunt Agatha doesn't know that we don't know. The possibility is enough to force her hand."
"You're going to weaponise our potential offspring against your aunt?"
"I'm going to use every weapon at my disposal to ensure we get wedded without further interference."
A knock at the door interrupted them. "Your Grace," Peter's voice was carefully neutral. "Lord Hartley has arrived and says it's urgent."
"Edmund has terrible timing," Gabriel muttered, then louder, "Tell him I'll be down shortly."
"He says to tell you that Lady Agatha has brought reinforcements, and you should probably prepare for battle."
"Reinforcements?" Clara asked. "What kind of reinforcements?"
"Knowing my aunt? Legal, social, or possibly military. She has connections everywhere."
"Wonderful. So we're facing a full siege."
"At least we're facing it together. And fully compromised. And possibly creating an heir."
"Stop looking so pleased about theoretical offspring."
“I cannot forbear it. The idea of you carrying my child is remarkably motivating."
Clara kissed him, quick but thorough. "We should get dressed. Separately, or we'll never make it to breakfast."
She fled to her own room, leaving Gabriel to face the complex task of making himself presentable when all he wanted was to follow her and continue their enthusiastic celebration of their betrothal.
Twenty minutes later Clara had managed to make herself presentable through sheer force of will and Mary's assistance, though the lady's maid couldn't quite hide her knowing smirk as she helped pin up hair that had clearly been thoroughly missed.
“Utter not a syllable.” Clara warned as Mary fastened the last button.
Before Mary could respond, another knock came at the door.
"Miss Whitfield?" It was Peter again. "His Grace requests your immediate presence in the morning room. Lady Agatha has arrived with... complications."
"What sort of complications?"
"The legal sort, miss. And possibly the clerical sort. It's hard to tell, there are quite a lot of official-looking people."
Clara and Mary exchanged glances.
"Into battle then," Clara said, smoothing her skirts.
"You'll be brilliant, miss. You've already conquered a duke. How much harder can his aunt be?"
