He nodded. "I'm certain."
A little smile tugged at her lips. "Good. I always knew you were smarter than you look."
He let out a huff of laughter. "You're too kind, Aunt Philippa."
Before she could retort, the butler announced Clarissa's presence.
His heart took an embarrassingly dramatic leap at the sight of her. She was beautiful. She always had been, of course, but right now he was keenly aware of her beauty.
She was dressed in a simple gown and her hair was neatly braided in a crown. Her eyes were bright, and her smile small and nervous.
He gestured toward the settee. "Please, have a seat."
His aunt gave him a look that was either a warning or encouragement. Maybe both. "I will be right outside the door," she said.
Clarissa nodded her thanks. But Kit could see she was still nervous.
To be alone with him? Or was it possible she knew what he wanted to ask. Or…propose, rather.
The moment his aunt left, he cleared his throat, but she spoke first.
"Kit." She smiled, but it was a little stilted. "Thank you for seeing me."
"You don't need to thank me for that." He sat, though every instinct told him to move closer. "Clarissa, I need to tell you?—"
"Before you start." She held up a hand. "I have something I'd like to say. And I need to say it first, because if I don't, I'll lose my nerve."
He wiped his palms against his trousers, but clamped his mouth shut and nodded.
She drew a breath, her fingers clasped tightly in her lap.
"I've given this a great deal of thought," she began. "And I believe I have a proposal that would benefit us both."
He frowned. Then he gaped.
For a moment, he was certain he'd heard her wrong. He'd spent too many hours obsessing over the word “proposal” that now he was even hearing it. "A…proposal?"
"An arrangement." She met his eyes. "A marriage."
The air left his lungs. That was his line, he was fairly certain.
And yet, the way she said it, left him cold.
She didn't look pleased or even shy, but rather…unwilling.
"You need a wife," she continued. "You're heir to a dukedom. You'll need an heir of your own. And I—" A flicker of panic crossed her eyes and it made him feel ill. "I need a husband. Before my parents choose one for me."
He opened his mouth, but she pressed on. "I'm not proposing a love match."
His stomach plummeted toward the ground.
"I think we can both agree that would be inadvisable," she continued. "What I'm proposing is a practical arrangement. A partnership. You would have a wife who understands your situation and accepts it. I would have a husband of my own choosing."
"My…situation," he repeated. His mouth was too dry and his limbs too heavy. He knew what she meant. She meant the mistress and the child she believed was his. "Clarissa, I can explain?—"
"There's no need." She said it so quickly, it felt like a blow. "I know about your responsibilities." Her chin was set as she met his stare. "And I accept them. I won't interfere or ask questions. I won't expect— I won't expect more than you're able to give."
He stared at her. His mind had gone to mush. All the things he'd wanted to say had disappeared. What was the point?
