“He employs whores at his gaming den, does he not?”
“He does.” Milton paused. “Andhiswhores, Lizzie, are treated even better than Li’s.”
She snorted. “One’s treatment of women cannot be impeccable, Jasper,when one employs them as prostitutes.”
“It can when it’s their choice.” He reminded himself he’d married a lady. “You do not understand, Elizabeth, you cannot fathom how—” He shook his head. “There will always be a market where men, even women, pay for sex. What matters is not if it happens,buthow.”
Her brow creased even more.
“Arthur Harris is no more a gentleman than I am, not as theTondefines the word. But he forces no woman into employment, and if a girl comes to him in need yet is unable to sell her body, he finds her another position, often in service, here in my house.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide as saucers.
“Arty pays his girls well and protects them even better.”
“And his father?” she asked. “Is Harris, like you, a bastard?”
The thought of Arty’s father raised the specter of Milton’s own. “Unknown, nor do Arty much care. He were a happy mistake, one his mum failed t’—”
One look at her face made Milton get hold of himself fast. “Lizzie, for me to detail the life Arty and I led would only cause you?—”
“It causes me far greater distress when you withhold things from me.” She looked hurt. “Jasper, I am not so sheltered that I do not comprehend the lengths women will go to protect, or prevent, children.” She peered at him over her spectacles. “Tell me the truth, from now on.”
“Harris will not harm your sister. He’ll marry her in word only, not in deed.”
“So he’ll not?—”
“Consummate the marriage, no, which will allow for an annulment once all threat of Finch is gone. Your sister will be socially ruined, Lizzie, but Annabelle’s innocence not stolen from her.”
She stiffened on his lap. “I do not think that possible.”
“I told you, Arty would never?—”
“Annulment.” Her voice was flat. “Annulment is nigh impossible under the law. Once Annabelle marries Mr. Harris, it will be legally binding. The law does not allow?—”
“We’ll find a way,” he told her, though he’d need to consult his solicitor. “Regardless of law, Lizzie, ’twere better yer sister be bound to bonny Arty Harris, than be destroyed by Ronny fuckin’ Finch.”
Milton wrapped his arms more tightly about his wife, disturbed by how his speech had slipped again. She snuggled deeper into his arms with a small, soft sigh and he let his fingers dimple her delicious thigh. She didn’t remark on his speech, nor press him for more of his past. She was pliant and pleasant, though that head of hers still churned atop her lovely, lithe neck. She’d submitted her body to him, but still not her mind.
Would she ever? Perhaps not, but he was secretly thrilled she’d warmed to him this much. He hated that Finch had reentered his life, but Elizabeth, in her way, made Finch bearable.
Much was bearable when one had a willing wife, God bless.
By morning, as light streamed in through her husband’s bedroom windows, Elizabeth boldly traced a scar at Milton’s temple which disappeared into his thick shock of hair. She studied his features, peaceful yet in sleep, and wondered how he’d come by the many marks that riddled his body. Though she had an inkling now: Finch.
She recalled rule number four and withdrew her hand with a sigh. Why could he not tolerate her touch, yet hand her a ruler with which to beat him? She had so many questions still.
He stirred, grabbed her to him, and nuzzled her neck. “I’ve a confession to make, wife.”
“Oh?”
“I finished the book.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “The book you promised we’d read together?”
“Yes. Couldn’t stop. Read the rest in one sitting, that time you were angry with me.”
“Whichtime, Jasper?”
