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"Well enough." He'd had practice sleeping in the endless chaos of army encampments, frontier forts, and marches, so a busy inn didn’t inconvenience him that much. Nicholas glanced at the door. "We should discuss your decisions, Miss Sunderland. We'll be in the coaches after breakfast, and the time to change your mind will be done unless your father catches us up today."

“I pray he doesn’t.”

"Very well." He nodded. "And what did you decide about your desires as Lady Clarendel?"

Smoothing her dress with unsteady hands, she cast her gaze downward, addressing her desires to the white linen tablecloth. “I want a home. To walk the halls or the grounds without hesitation or fear. I want to fulfill my duties as the Viscountess and as your wife. At some point, I would like a child. Perhaps even two. We hadn’t spoken of that, but I assume it’s in the cards.”

"I've no objection to children. Someone's got to inherit. Though I suppose having them isn’t entirely dependent on my decree. Rather a bit of luck and practice involved." Nicholas crossed the bare wood floor and took the chair opposite hers at the table. "The rest I freely grant you. So long as you remember what you agreed to in London."

Slowly, her gaze shifted higher until it met his own. “I remember. But while we are on the topic...” Her cheeks tinted pinker by the word. “I only ask one thing, my lord. That when we do share our, uh, time together ... that it not be when you’re, er, what is the phrase my brothers used? Foxed? Otherwise, you are welcome to my bed whenever you desire.”

He let that demand sit between them for a long moment. I could lie. But that seems like a poor start, even by my standards. "I'm afraid I can't grant that one, angel mine. But I think I know why you're requesting it. So, let me counter: you can banish me in those circumstances. But I very much doubt you'll have the cause to do so. At least not the cause that had you flinching yesterday at a single cross word.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Baron Sunderland may enjoy beating his household into shape. I do not.” Nicholas let the declaration stand, keeping a steady gaze on his false bride. The color fell from her face.

“I didn’t mean to—”

"Of course you didn’t mean anything by it. Not all of us are as blind and deaf as Camilla's thick-skulled beau." He gestured to the book. "And I've seen my share of hard men trying to forge their children into harder mettle than nature decreed. Why else would you be here but for fear of something worse? You're too intelligent to fly off to Scotland with an unknown rake on the strength of a few kisses and a flutter of passion. But you might be desperate enough.”

Amy straightened her posture. “Your kisses are persuasive.”

“The kisses of someone you knew would take your inheritance even if he didn't want your person, thus ensuring your success.” Nicholas pointed out. “A neat strategy. You'd have made a solid officer."

She leaned back into the chair. “Had I been born a man, I’d have taken the shilling, commission or none. Over the hills might be far away enough.”

“You’d take a war over breakfasts with your father?” Nicholas thought of two sergeants whose deaths he never mourned, and his best friend's father, whose death would be greeted by drinks and toasts to Hell itself for having him. He didn’t think of his own sire—he’d sworn not to spare the late Viscount Clarendel any such grace years ago.

Amy’s jaw clenched. “I’m not his favorite person. My aunt once told me it was because I look like my mother.”

"Men who terrorize their children will always find a reason, sweet girl." He said it gently, studying her flawless features and soft, generous lips. Whatever the brute did, Sunderland must’ve been careful not to leave any obvious scars. Or perhaps he’d committed a darker sin...

That would explain why she didn’t demur more when I lifted her skirts. The idea made Nicholas cringe inwardly. Best to lay on extra wine for the wedding night. We may both require fortification.

"I'm likely going to be a wretched husband. But not that kind. I’ve never seen a beating improve a soldier’s loyalty. I cannot imagine it has any better effects on a wife.”

She toyed with her book, not looking at him. “When the first offers of marriage came last Season, I thought the nightmare would end. Then he turned them away.” Her voice broke, and Nicholas’s hand curled into a fist below the table. “None of them would have eloped with me anyway.”

She needs to know. “I may be worse than what you’re running from.”

Amy rose slowly to her feet and closed the distance between them. The light slanting through the windows lit a warm fire in her honey-cinnamon eyes, burnished her ivory skin, and turned her gold hair into a halo. His wife-to-be bore the kind of beauty meant to spur men into battles they’d never win.

“Because of you, I will finally be free of him. Whatever manner of husband you are, Nicholas, I’ll always be grateful for that. And I will keep my promises. Better to wed a rogue who will have my skirts up at his whim than a man who will knock my skull into the fireplace for speaking.”

Nicholas’s arm hooked her waist, and Amy startled before he pulled her close. "We should have the innkeeper's wife pack some food in a basket and be off all the sooner."

At this moment, convention urged him to take two very different paths, and he wavered. Should he explain everything? Or keep her blissfully ignorant? She seems like a sensible girl...

It may be time to test that appearance.

"There is something I should clarify. In case we are caught, and you find yourself returned." Nicholas ushered her back to her chair, his hand curling protectively along her upper arm.

“Please tell me you aren’t about to tell me you’ve already got a secret wife—”

“If I did, she’d be long gone in Spain.” He flashed her a dark smile but ran his hand along her shoulder to soften his humor. “The issue is that I asked some friends to inquire about your inheritance before we left. One of their reports caught up with us this morning.”

Amy’s face paled. “I’m broke. He spent it—”