Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

C ursing Mouse and his misplaced pride, Stephen led the way back through his conservatory. He noticed, in an absent sort of way, that the Musa Basjoo and the Angel’s Trumpet needed a little care, perhaps repotting or trimming, but that would have to wait until later. He would not have time to complete the task himself, and so one of the more trusted footmen or enterprising maids might carry it out.

Better yet, he could simply ask Mouse to do it.

I wish he hadn’t shown her the conservatory. She’ll think I’m a madman with a lust for plants. Which, of course, I am. And naturally, it does not matter at all what she thinks about me, so I should not care.

He was inclined to glance over his shoulder to see if Miss Haversham was following him, but he knew that she would be.

Frankly, he was a little annoyed at how excited he had been to receive her note. Stephen knew his flaws, and he was well aware that when he set his mind on something, he tended to focus on it rather overmuch. He had set his mind on marrying Miss Haversham, so that was all he could think about.

Only because it made sense , he reminded himself. Not because of any other reason.

Miss Haversham gave a tiny sigh of relief as she began to warm up in the hot conservatory. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her readjusting her cloak, letting it fall a little more open.

He found himself staring.

What she was wearing now was the exact opposite of her wedding dress, and it suited her perfectly. It was a silk gown, dark blue, and clung rather closely to her bosom and the curve of her hips, the loose falls of silk below her waist giving the impression of a taller woman. Perhaps the neckline would not have been quite so impressive on a thinner lady, but it seemed to hug Miss Haversham’s impressive chest nicely, faint swells of white flesh showing just above the square neckline.

Stephen cleared his throat, pointedly turning away.

It does not matter how pretty she is . It is not going to be that kind of marriage, is it? Imagine her in that hideous wedding dress the Marquess picked out for her.

He managed to conjure up an image of Miss Haversham in that dress, with alarming detail, but it did not work. Instead, Stephen found himself imagining what dress he would have placed her in.

Something with a little more flare, for a start, less fashionable and more classy, with plenty of white silk and a scandalously low neckline to show off those marvelous?—

“Oh, look, Mouse has left a tea tray for us,” Miss Haversham remarked, stepping past him.

The Green Parlor was the one that led to the conservatory, a small, serviceable room that was not frequently used. It contained just about all of Stephen’s books on botany and plant care, a few sun-faded chairs and tables, and not much else.

Really, parlor was a grandiose word for the room, but there it was.

She was right—Mouse, with his impeccable sixth sense, had guessed that they would soon be coming back into the house, and had left a tea tray on a low coffee table, with two chairs angled towards each other.

Worst of all, the wretched man had left a copy of Stephen’s book, A Noble Guide To Botany , on the table. Stephen snatched it up before Miss Haversham could notice, tossing it behind a bookshelf. It was, of course, written under a pseudonym, but that did not stop Mouse from telling anyone who would listen that it was Stephen who wrote it.

I swear, that man has dozens of blank copies of my wretched book for just these occasions . Perhaps that is why it sold so well—Mouse bought all the copies.

“Take a seat, Miss Haversham. Allow me to pour you a cup of tea. Cake?”

“No, thank you,” she murmured, sitting gingerly on the edge of her seat. “Perhaps you can answer a question that has been weighing on my mind, though.”

“I shall do my best.”

“Why do you want to marry?”

Stephen took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding, carefully pouring two cups of steaming hot tea.

“Every Season,” he said, “despite my reputation, there are several eager young women and their ambitious mamas who rather think I am in need of a duchess. After all, dukes get married, do they not? The longer I remain a bachelor and without an heir, the more I am talked about. I have a reputation that puts off many women, but not all. Some romantic ladies believe they can change me, some others think they can charm me, and others believe they can trick me. Therein lies the problem. Dodging young hopefuls, while it is tiring, is quite manageable, but some ladies—and their mamas—stoop to other tricks.”

“You mean, they try to compromise themselves so that you will have to marry them?” Miss Haversham said, realization dawning on her.

“Some have gone that far, yes. Others simply try to form an understanding with me, believing that the pressure from Society will compel me to make an offer. It won’t, of course, but that doesn’t stop them from making fools of themselves and irritating me. And despite all this, I do not want these silly young women to ruin their lives and destroy their reputations. I am, quite frankly, not worth it.”

She bit back a smile. “I am inclined to agree. Why don’t you simply stay away from London?”

He shot her a look. “Would you like to waste your life out in the middle of nowhere, Miss Haversham? Away from your friends, from Society, from your books and learning and opportunities?”

She pulled a face. “No, I suppose not.”

“London is a great beating heart, my dear. It is thrilling. Not everybody’s cup of tea, but it is mine, and I intend to stay. By the way, speaking of cups of tea, here is yours.”

She took it and sipped from it absently.

Stephen considered pointing out that a scoundrel like himself might have slipped anything into her cup, and that she should be more careful, but then decided against it. She might, quite realistically, assume that he had put something in her tea.

She clearly has not read enough novels to know a real villain when she sees one.

He suppressed a smile at that thought.

“So, you intend to marry to avoid being forced into marriage?” she said, after a pause.

“More or less. I will be left alone once I have a wife, and there will be no danger of some silly girl claiming that I took her virtue and that I must now marry her.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And have you ever…”

“No, I am not in the habit of debauching innocents,” he snapped. “And I would certainly not be foolish enough to target ladies with powerful friends and families. But I am tired of dodging would-be duchesses. That, my dear, is where you come in.”

“It seems like a great deal of effort to put in simply to dodge a few Society mamas,” Miss Haversham responded.

He inclined his head, setting down his teacup. “Very true. Fear not, I have some ground rules which I think will make our situation much clearer.”

She leaned back in her seat, watching him through narrowed eyes. “Rules?”

“Yes. I believe I mentioned earlier that there would be rules.”

“I assumed you were exaggerating.”

“That was your mistake, not mine. I suggest you avoid assuming anything about me in the future, Miss Haversham.”

“Well then, I suppose I had better hear these rules.”

He smiled thinly. “You’ll do more than simply hear them, I’m afraid. Before we can announce our engagement—I will make the arrangements for that and the wedding, of course—I will require your signature and your verbal understanding concerning these rules.”

Miss Haversham stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his expression. Stephen merely looked back at her, waiting patiently for her response.

“Very well,” she said, at last. “I’ll hear them, at least.”

He gave a dry smile and pulled a piece of neatly folded paper from his breast pocket. She reached for it, but he held it out of her reach.

“Patience, my dear, patience. I shall read them aloud to you, and we can discuss each rule. Yes?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

He unfolded the paper and began to read.

Heavens, I had forgotten that I wrote that particular rule at the top of the list.

“Rule number one,” he began, not looking at her. “There will be no issue from our marriage. I do not require an heir, and I will not produce any children. Naturally, that means neither will you.”

Her head shot up at that. “You don’t want an heir?”

“I do not.”

“But what about?—”

“This rule is non-negotiable,” he interrupted. “If I die before you, you’ll have a sizeable widow’s jointure and will remain a rich woman. You can do as you like, and it will not matter that you have no children to care for you. I do not want children, Miss Haversham. This will not change.”

She bit her lip, nodding slowly. “Alright. Next rule.”

He paused, eyeing her. “I thought you might be upset. I thought women loved babies.”

She gave him a blank stare. “You think all women love babies?”

“Most of them.”

“I don’t particularly like the idea of being with child or childbirth as you can probably tell. I am quite happy not to have children. Next rule.”

He cleared his throat, a little taken aback.

I certainly thought we’d argue more over that one. Never mind.

“Rule number two. I am free to pursue what life I see fit. And so are you, for that matter. If I choose to spend my time with opera girls or cavorting around the country doing heaven knows what, you are not to say a single word about it. You, naturally, are free to do the same.”

“You want to live the life of a bachelor,” Miss Haversham mused. “As if you were free.”

“I intend to be free, Miss Haversham. I am not a loyal little dog for you to keep at your heels, I am afraid. I have never been one for sitting quietly at home.”

“I assume,” she murmured, “that this applies to my studies? You won’t start complaining about having a bluestocking for a wife or any such nonsense?”

“I shall not be able to complain,” he said, smiling wryly, “not under these rules.”

“I see. But won’t we be the laughingstock of the ton if we go on like this? People will notice.”

“That brings me nicely to rule number three. Discretion. Discretion in all things. If you know I am cavorting with opera girls, you won’t share this information. I will do my best not to humiliate you, and that is where discretion comes into it. It will do you no good if all of London knows that I am a feckless, disloyal husband, so I shall make sure they do not find out. Naturally, it applies to you too. Let us suppose that you take a lover…”

“I won’t.”

“Let us suppose that you did,” he said, with a hint of annoyance. “As per our rules, I cannot say a thing about it, and frankly, I cannot imagine that I care. However, you must be discreet about it. You cannot get with child—or if you do, you had better handle it. Because I will not be presented with a bastard, do you understand me?”

She paled a little, and Stephen wondered if he had been too harsh.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I understand.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat, briefly slurping down the rest of his tea before continuing. “Rule number four. You may make yourself at home here and change whatever you like, except the conservatory and the observatory. They are my domains and mine alone, and nothing there belongs to you. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Rule number five—the final one. These rules cannot be changed or dropped unless we both agree. Also, you cannot mention these rules to anybody, even our dear Anna. They are between you and me. Do you understand?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I understand. I have a question, though.”

“In a moment. Firstly, do you have any rules of your own to add?”

She perked up, just a little.

This is going to work, Stephen thought, with a rush of something that felt too much like excitement. My little marriage of convenience is really going to work.

Farewell, pushy Society mamas, with your stale breaths and your dull daughters.

“I do, actually. First, I want a monthly allowance. I’m sure you already intended to take care of that, but I want it to be in writing. I want to be financially independent. I want to be able to travel wherever I like and buy whatever I want without having to ask you for money or permission.”

He nodded, scribbling down a sixth rule. “Will this amount suit you?”

He showed her the number written on the paper and felt a moment’s satisfaction when her eyes widened.

“Ahem. Yes, that should do it,” she mumbled. “And another thing. Wherever we are, I want to have access to a full library. You must never keep me from my books.”

“I would not dream of it,” he said, smiling wryly. “That is, however, covered in rule two, in which we can both act as we please. Now, you had a question, yes?”

She cleared her throat, shifting slightly. He waited patiently for her to speak.

“You said that we will not produce an heir,” she said carefully. “But you might cavort with your opera girls, and?—”

“I used that as an example,” he interrupted. “I don’t have a horde of opera girls waiting for me upstairs if that is what you’re asking.”

She raised her eyebrows. “If you say so. Anyway, you said no heir, and you will clearly be taking your pleasure elsewhere. Does that mean that I am excused from performing the traditional wifely duties?”

It took Stephen a second to understand exactly what she was saying. When he did, he grinned, leaning back in his seat.

“Ah. You are asking whether we shall bed down together.”

There was a delicate pink flush on Miss Haversham’s cheekbones, the only sign that she was the slightest bit uncomfortable with the situation.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she responded. To her credit, she held his gaze.

More powerful men had quailed under that stare before.

She’ll make a fine duchess.

Stephen was not entirely sure where the thought had come from.

Biting back a smile, he adjusted his cuffs before answering. “I think not. This is a marriage of convenience—a business arrangement if you like—and I believe that getting into bed with each other might only complicate things. I shall have my life and you shall have yours, and we will occasionally appear on each other’s arm in Society events, and that is all. Besides, sharing a bed might make things difficult with regard to the no-children rule.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing this.

Unable to help himself, Stephen leaned forward. “Are you disappointed, Miss Haversham?”

She regarded him coolly. “Would your pride be hurt if I said no, Your Grace?”

He chuckled. “My pride is a sturdy thing, don’t you fret. Besides, if you are a very good little wife, and ask me very nicely—perhaps even beg a little—I might oblige you.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Unfortunately, Your Grace, I rarely ask nicely for anything, and I certainly never beg.”

Before he could respond, she nodded brusquely towards the letter he held in his hand.

“I agree. To your terms, that is. I agree.”