Of course, Henrietta had never wanted to listen to most of what her mother had to say on the subject ofwhat passes between a husband and a wifebecause it often involved Mama rhapsodizing about Papa and . . . ew.
But Henrietta knew plenty, and she had learned some on her own. She was a horse girl. She knew about mating. Breeding. And she knew she wanted something more than her own touch.
“I am familiar with my marital duty.” That had been the phrase she had heard bandied about in hushed tones by other young ladies during her come-out in London.
They had reached the ha-ha, and Mr. Hartwell looked down into it as if examining the stones for cracks.
“We will be married because of my folly. As your husband, I will do all I can to make amends to you. But you owe me nothing. There is no need for us to engage in . . . I will not visit your bedchamber, so there is no need for you to feel any anxiety on that front.”
Oh.
Despite his kiss, he didn’t want her.
But couldn’t he make do with her? She had all the necessary parts. In the dark, under bedclothes, he might be able to ignorewhat he saw as her failings since she would be his wife, ready to hand.
But he was not even going to try. Would he take a mistress?
“You don’t have needs?” Her mother had spoken of masculine needs. And feminine needs, too, but Henrietta knew all about those already.
“No.”
But he had a son. So he had performed his own marital duty with at least one of his wives. Henrietta must be hideous in his eyes. Unwomanly. Grotesque.
He finally met her eyes. “I did not mean to embarrass you with my clumsiness on the subject. I just did not want you to be fearful. So, I thought it would be best if I were forthright.”
She hadn’t been fearful. She had been excited. How many young women found themselves engaged to marry the man who had been the object of all of their girlhood fantasies?
But it was good he had been forthright. So she would not wait in her bed tomorrow night for him to come to her. To touch her and maybe kiss her again. To induct her into the mysteries of human copulation.
To share that great intimacy with her.
For the first time in a long time, her eyes smarted on her own behalf rather than someone else’s. She had been cheated out of affection and admiration. Of being someone’s choice. And now to discover she would also be cheated out of giving and receiving pleasure?
But she mustn’t cry like a silly girl in front of him. She was going to be a wife.Hiswife. And it was good he had been forthright and abolished misunderstanding between them. There should be no misunderstandings between husbands and wives.
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Har— May I call you Oliver?”
That would be something. To use his name.Oliver. Despite the heat, she shivered as a thrill ran through her body.
“As you wish.” He bowed his head. “My lady.”
Oh. No.
“I don’t want to be a lady. Couldn’t I be Henrietta to you and Mrs. Hartwell to everyone else?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You are a duke’s daughter. Of course, you should keep your title.”
“Why? Do you not want . . . I mean, if I were to be Mrs. Hartwell, the same name as your other wives, would that upset you?”
“Your parents would be disappointed if you gave up your title.”
“But you . . .” She faltered. “How wouldyoufeel? Do you want a wife who is a lady? Is that important to you? I want to be of use to you and if my title is of use, I’ll be Lady Henrietta.”
The eyebrows lowered. “You needn’t worry about being of use to me.”
More disappointment. Was she going to be allowed to do anything for him? With him? Maybe she should have accepted Geoffrey’s offer. At least, she would have known she had some value, then.
No, your dowry and Bexton land would have been of value to Geoffrey. You would have been . . . what was the opposite of value? A burden. An overly-large burden.
