She hesitated. He tried to exhale but he couldn’t seem to breathe out.
Slowly, she shook her head.
“Then we are agreed,” he said, turning away. He let out a long breath.
“We are?”
“In the first place, gossip is never forgotten; you maydepend on it. Second, let us not deal in half-truths. The marriage can be managed any way we see fit. Separate households, separate lives—whatever you want. But let us simplydothe thing. Sign the documents, go to a church, get it over with. Timothea is correct.”
He hazarded another glance. She was no longer wincing but she hardly looked relaxed. Who could blame her? This was not a relaxing conversation.
He felt compelled to add, “Unless you’d rather not. Unless Canada is preferrable to being married to me.”
“It’s not.” A whisper.
He couldn’t look at her. “You’ll note I did not compare myself to France.”
“I should be grateful to marry you, Your Grace. If you are certain.”
And that was that. Ian dropped into an adjacent chair, waiting to be consumed by anxiety or outrage or regret. Instead, he felt a strange sort of exhilaration. The breathless feeling of arcing through the air on a rope swing. A weightlessness.
He looked up cautiously and their gazes locked. He was at a loss for what came next. The room fell silent. It occurred to him that he wanted to kiss her again—a compulsion so strong, he gripped the arm of the chair.
The memory of the gallery bench flashed in his brain.
Would it presume too much to try for a kiss in this moment? He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge her receptiveness. She stared back with a tight expression, cautious and uncertain. She looked at him like he was a newly discovered trap door. He presented an escape route, yes; but did he lead to freedom or a twenty-foot drop?
Perhaps no kiss at the moment, but he wondered if he might touch her. Not to snatch her up, per se—although he would do it if he could—but to simply reach out and touch her. A knee. Her hand.
The great irony of this betrothal was that it felt more reliable and secure than most hasty, forced things. It felt...known. He’d called it a surprise, and true—the notion ofmarrying her had come on rather suddenly—but the feeling of wanting her, of needing her, ofenjoying herhad not been sudden.
Thinking about Drewsmina Trelayne had become as familiar as thinking of Avenelle. Between the two of them, he thought of little else. That’s why kissing her had been so very easy. He’d dreamed of how she would taste for days.
“Well,” he ventured. “Congratulations. You’ve gone from a member of staff to the Duchess of Lachlan, all in a matter of days. Welcome to the family. God help you.”
He rolled from the chair and rounded the desk. He began dashing off a note to his solicitor. There would be paperwork, and lawyers, and clergymen. His days of hiding from London were over.
“I find myself at a loss for what to say next,” ventured Miss Trelayne. “Forgive me.”
“The situation could not be more bizarre,” he said, scribbling. “Do not apologize. But can you spell your given name?”
“It’sD-r-e-w-s-m-i-n-a. But I’m called Drew by friends.”
He looked up. “‘Drew.’ It suits you. I am Ian. You’ll have heard Timothea wail it ten or twelve times.”
She answered, “Your Grace.”
Or “Your Grace,”thought Ian. Disappointment felt like a window slammed shut.
He reminded himself that a consent to marry was not an ode to summer grass or sandy beaches. This was not a romantic endeavor.
There was no guarantee that they would want the same things. He was no expert, but intimacy in marriages seemed to span the spectrum from cordial partnership, to brotherly affection, to sworn enemies and everything in between. He shouldn’t expect too much. He shouldn’t expect anything. They’d only been at this for an hour.
“How should we tell the girls? How should we tell anyone?” he asked, a far safer topic.
“Well,” she began, “perhaps we could tell the girls inthe morning? After they’ve taken breakfast. You and I together, I think. If that suits you.”
He shrugged. “As good a plan as any.”
