“I believe,” he said slowly, “that you are honest, intelligent, and clearly not motivated by fortune, given that you are wearing a gown that has been mended at least four times and are standing in an alcove with a man you have every reason to distrust. I believe that Mrs. Henley's enthusiasm, while meddlesome, is not misplaced. And I believe that you and I could help each other.”
Lydia's heart was pounding. “Help each other how?”
“Marry me,” he said. “Not for love. I would not insult you by pretending to an affection I do not yet feel, but as a partnership, a practical arrangement. You would have security for yourself and for your family, a home, an income, protection from the vagaries of poverty, and I would have a wife who will not simper, scheme, or spend my fortune on ribbons.”
He continued, “In six months, if you wish to live separate lives, I will not stand in your way, but the marriage would be real. My grandmother's spies would see to that.”
Lydia felt the room tilt beneath her feet. Marry him. The words echoed in her head, impossible and terrifying and, if she was honest with herself, not entirely unwelcome.
“You do not know me,” she said again, though her voice was weaker now.
“I know enough,” he replied. “I know that you love your family. I know that you are not afraid to speak your mind. I know that when I asked you to dance, you did not simper or preen. You told me the truth. Those are rare qualities, Miss Barnes. I am willing to wager my inheritance on them.”
She should say no. She should walk away, back to her mending and her porridge and her quiet, predictable life. Marrying a stranger, a cynical, charming stranger who had admitted he did not love her, was madness.
But she thought of Charlotte, dreaming of clouds like sheep. She thought of her mother, growing thinner and paler with each passing month. She thought of the empty porridge pot and the cracked mirror and the long, lonely future stretching out before her, as gray and unremarkable as her own reflection.
“If I agree,” she said slowly, “there must be terms.”
Henry's eyes sharpened with interest. “Name them.”
“First, my family is provided for. My mother and sisters will want for nothing. Second, I will not be expected to share your bed until I am ready. If that day never comes, you will not force the issue.” She raised her chin. “Third, if this marriage is to be real, it will be built on respect. You will not lie to me. You will not keep secrets that affect my life, and I will offer you the same.”
He held out his hand. “Agreed on all counts.”
Lydia looked at his hand, strong, steady, attached to a man she had met less than an hour ago. A man who was offering her a future she had never dared to imagine.
She took it. “Then yes, my lord. I will marry you.”
Chapter 3: The Art of Pretending
The wedding took place two weeks later in the small chapel at Ravenshire Court. Lydia wore a new gown of pale blue silk, paid for by the Viscount's purse, and her mother wept through the entire ceremony. Charlotte played the pianoforte badly, and the vicar pronounced them man and wife with such evident relief that Lydia suspected he had been worried she might flee.
She did not flee. She stood beside Henry at the altar, repeated her vows in a steady voice, and felt the weight of the ring slide onto her finger like a shackle. Or perhaps, she thought later, like a key.
The first week was awkward. Henry had given her the late Dowager's suite of rooms, generous and airy, with windows that overlooked the rose garden. He was unfailingly polite, joining her for breakfast and dinner, asking after her comfort, making no attempt to visit her chambers after dark.
He was, in every way, the perfect gentleman. And Lydia found that she despised it.
Not his politeness; that would have been churlish. She despised the distance, the careful, courteous walls he built between them. He talked to her as one might talk to a business partner, reviewing household accounts and discussing tenant disputes, but he never told her what he was thinking. He never laughed the way he had laughed in the alcove when she had accused him of being forward.
She realized, with a start that felt like a physical blow, that she wanted him to laugh like that again.
“You are staring at me,” Henry said one evening, looking up from his correspondence.
They were in the library, she with a book she had not turned a page of in an hour, he with a letter he had been frowning at for considerably longer.
“I am thinking,” Lydia replied.
“A dangerous pastime. What about?”
She set down her book. “About whether you regret this.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he set aside his letter and leaned back in his chair, studying her with those winter-storm eyes.
“Do you want the truth?”
“I asked for it, did I not?”
“I do not regret marrying you,” he said slowly. “But I regret that you have been forced into this. That you have had to sacrifice your future for my grandmother's machinations. You deserve better than a marriage of convenience, Lydia. You deserve a man who loves you.”
Lydia's heart hammered against her ribs. It was the first time he had used her Christian name. The sound of it on his lips felt dangerously intimate.
“And you?” she asked. “What do you deserve?”
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I deserve exactly what I have. A practical arrangement. A wife who does not expect more than I can give.”
“You are a coward, Lord Ravenshire.”
The smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” She stood, her book falling to the floor unheeded. “You are so afraid of being truly known that you hide behind this mask of politeness and charm. You talk of what I deserve, but you will not even look at what you might deserve yourself. You married me to save your estate, but you have locked yourself away in this library every evening as if I were a creditor you were trying to avoid.”
Henry rose to his feet, his jaw tight. “You do not understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” She stepped closer. “That was our agreement, was it not? No lies, no secrets. So tell me, Henry. Tell me why you have spent thirty-two years running from anything that might resemble genuine feeling.”