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Beatrice swallowed. “Yes. And he is a very good man.” For the most part.

Aunt Agnes tilted her head slightly. “You enjoy his company.”

“I do.” And then she added with a chuckle, “But he doesn’t enjoy mine.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Beatrice shook her head. “He doesn’t. And he deserves to marry a woman he finds agreeable, perhaps even loves.”

Aunt Agnes calmly took Beatrice’s hands and squeezed her fingers until Beatrice looked at her. “And what about you? What do you deserve?”

Beatrice’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, and she could see red marks on her wrists peeking through her sleeves. The marks her future husband had left on her when he kissed her forcefully.

What do I deserve? And whatever that was, could she put her wishes above that of others?

“I don’t know…” She shook her head. “Even if I were to do this, I don’t know where to start. How would I make someone want to marry me?”

“Not want to,” Aunt Agnes said with another squeeze of her fingers. “Ought to.”

“I-I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“There are ways to make a gentleman obligated to marry you.” Aunt Agnes cleared her throat. “The first way is to get caught in a compromising position.”

Beatrice’s heart started pounding loudly in her ears. She withdrew her hands from her aunt and covered her abdomen with her arms. She’d read about those scandals in the papers. Adam’s sister, Lady Vane, had married her husband because of such a scandal. Beatrice couldn’t imagine the shame and humiliation such an incident would bring both parties. “That sounds terrible. But I am already betrothed, and Lansdowne would not relinquish me because of a single scandal. So, I doubt a scandal would force anyone else into marrying me.”

Aunt Agnes nodded thoughtfully. “The other way is to become with child.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe her dear aunt was even suggesting such a thing. “Aunt Agnes!”

“I am old.” Aunt Agnes waved a hand. “I don’t have time for frivolous speeches, and you don’t have time either. Remember, in less than two months, you’re going to be married to Lansdowne, and whether you want it or not, you will become with child. And by that old lecher no less! Whose child would you rather carry? With whom would you rather lie in bed for the first time?”

“Aunt Agnes!” Beatrice was at a loss for words, her entire body now burning in embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t Aunt Agnes me. In six weeks, you shall be a wife to a decrepit old man.”

Shivers covered Beatrice’s arms, and her stomach churned. He hadn’t felt decrepit when he pinned her against the wall. “There is no time for virginal modesty. You should be privy to things like this. You should experience things like this. With someone who is not an old and decrepit man.” Aunt Agnes paused and then swallowed, her composure slipping. “I wish I had.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened, and thousands of thoughts whirled around in her mind. However, she didn’t have a chance to ask any of them because her aunt stood.

“Now, you think on that, and I shall go lie down. All this excitement has brought on a headache.” She sailed off, leaving Beatrice more confused than she’d ever been in her life.

* * *

Beatrice couldn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned, her mind working on a problem she couldn’t solve. It wasn’t hot in her room, and usually, she covered herself with a blanket like a cocoon, but tonight, she tossed it to the side as her skin burned from within.

She just couldn’t get the words of her dear Aunt Agnes out of her mind.

Aunt Agnes had married when she was younger than Beatrice. She had barely been seventeen years old. And although her husband wasn’t as old as Lansdowne, he was almost thirty years her senior. They lived amicably enough and had five children, two of whom passed away at a young age. And that’s as much as Beatrice knew about that marriage.

She had never thought that Aunt Agnes’s life might have been unfulfilling. Of course, she hadn’t. She never knew Mr. Merriglow. He had passed away when Beatrice was barely out of leading strings. And at that time, Aunt Agnes was the same age her husband had been when she’d married him…

And although a man could remarry at any age he pleased, it was assumed that the lives of widows over forty were effectively over. Lansdowne was seventy-seven now. He could die and leave Beatrice a widow at any stage between now and twenty years from now. The old man was spry, more so than many younger gentlemen. If Lansdowne made it to one hundred years of age, Beatrice would be five and forty… Almost Aunt Agnes’s age when she became a widow.

Beatrice’s head hurt. She sat and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. Her body was covered with sweat, so she took her nightgown by the bodice and shook it to give her skin some air.

You should experience things like this. With someone who is not an old and decrepit man.

Five and forty. She could be five and forty before she was free of Lansdowne; she was convinced of this now. She just knew that this tenacious old man would live as long as he possibly could.