“I shall say this only once and hope you understand its import. I have never gone from one woman’s bed to another and back again, unless she be a Cyprian.”
Silence met his soulful confession. She didn’t look impressed as he’d intended.
“I beg your pardon?” Julia said finally.
“I am only ever with one woman until I set her free. I have never dishonored a female by letting her think we were a couple only to go to another’s bed in secret.”
“Except with a Cyprian,” she echoed.
“Naturally. They don’t count.”
“They do,” she said.
“I beg to differ, but they don’t.”
She took a deep breath, and in the gown she was wearing, her breasts rose almost until her rosy nipples crested the neckline.
“I shall say this only once and hope you, sir, understand its import,” she mimicked his words. “Cyprians, indeed, harlots or mistresses of any caliber do count, at least to me.Anyother woman counts. If you were to leave our marital bed and go to a flashy mollisher or a high-born lady of thebon ton, I would consider it the same betrayal. Since I cannot imagine you can assure me of your fidelity to one woman, one wife, one bed, I cannot do else but break off our engagement.”
With that declaration, she started toward him, not to embrace him but to pass by and leave. He had to stop her. Suddenly, her believing he could do this meant more to him than anything. He needed to know he could be the upstanding, faithful man his father was after he settled down, and her faith in him and this endeavor was crucial.
“Julia, please don’t go.” He didn’t grab her arm, as that would be too easy. “Please,” he repeated when she brushed past and had her fingers on the door handle.
“I intend to honor my vows before God and my mother — and your father, too, of course. I will shed my rakish reputation by becoming a dutiful, faithful husband. “
He waited in the silence. She stared at him, and he hoped at any moment, she would fall all over him with kisses and words of praise.
“Poppycock!” she exclaimed.
With that, she opened the door and strode out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“At Marshfield Manor, a Twelfth Night party was held with, aptly, twelve people attending. Apparently, one guest thought it was a costume party! No one from London was invited, leaving many to wonder — what the fig?”
-The Times
