He explained: rational, practical, painfully logical. Camden's threat, Parliament's pressure, the need for a wife who would keep his confidence, who understood him, who would agree to a temporary arrangement. An arrangement. Temporary. A marriage in name only, until it was no longer required.
Emma sat very still, the teacup trembling faintly between her hands.
"I would never ask you," he concluded, "if there were another way. I swear, Emma, I would never put you in such a position if it were not absolutely necessary."
She wanted to be strong, reasonable, pragmatic. But the truth she had hidden for years whispered painfully in her chest: she loved him, quietly, completely. And now he was asking her to be his wife, but not his beloved—to marry him only to help him, and later be released.
She swallowed hard. "What would happen afterward?" she asked, her voice low.
"When all is safe, we would annul the marriage," Thomas replied with reassuring firmness. "You would be free to choose your own future."
*Free?* Free from him. Free to marry another man—one who actually wanted her.
Emma forced her hands still. She studied his face: serious, earnest, wholly unaware of the way her soul ached for him. She could refuse. But then she imagined Whitby Park lost to Camden. She imagined Thomas—proud, honorable, burdened with legacy—forced to yield what he cherished. She imagined the regret he would carry.
"Emma," he prompted gently.
Her heart knew its answer before her mind did. "Yes," she whispered. "I will marry you."
He exhaled a soft, relieved sound and reached across the table to take her hands. "Thank you," he said with a sincerity that warmed and shattered her at once. "You are the only person I trust."
She nodded, keeping her smile steady, even as her heart cracked. And so it was settled: they would be married in secret by special license within the week. A marriage without romance, a union without promise, a love—at least on her side—that must remain hidden.
Chapter 2: A Marriage of Convenience
The wedding took place in the Whitby Chapel at dawn, with only the old vicar and Whitby's trusted housekeeper as witnesses. The air smelled of rain-soaked stone. The early light filtered through stained-glass windows in muted colors. Emma wore pale blue, not ivory, and her hands trembled as she held a simple bouquet of wildflowers. Thomas stood tall beside her, solemn and composed, his expression one of gratitude rather than joy. She tried not to let it sting.