Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

A rchibald led Izzie into the library, the one full of expensive books that no one read. At least here they would be able to speak in private.

He should have known this would happen, should have known that he would never get to marry the likes of Isabella Astley , even for one night. He wondered what it was that had given him away? A stray word from a servant, perhaps, about their master’s strange fervor for making screws?

He shut the door behind them and seated her on the gold satin chaise longue. He wanted to comfort her, but considering what she had just said, he could only assume she would not welcome his touch.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Izzie said tearfully. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. But if we marry, I’m likely to find myself… you know. In the family way.”

That did seem exceedingly likely, given what Archibald had in mind. He was far too devastated to form actual words, but he made what he hoped was a soothing sound.

“I just sold my first book to The Minerva Press,” Izzie continued. “They’ve offered me a five-book contract. If there’s any hope of me becoming one of their regular writers, I must show them that I’m reliable. I must turn my next book in on time. And if I should conceive right now, there’s no way I’ll be able to balance writing with motherhood.”

“Wait.” Archibald blinked, confused. “That’s the reason? Because you don’t want to get pregnant?”

“That’s right.” Izzie dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I feel like, once I’ve completed this contract, once they’ve come to know me, perhaps they would be a bit more flexible. But the timing is just wretched.”

Archibald peered at her, sure his ears were deceiving him. “Is that the only reason you don’t want to marry me?”

“Yes, that’s the only reason. And I wish you wouldn’t phrase it that way. I do want to marry you. I know things have happened quickly, but I’m not unhappy about it. It almost feels like… like fate,” she said, looking down at her hands.

His heart couldn’t help but thrum, hearing her say those words. He knew she would take them all back as soon as she learned the first thing about him. He wasn’t so lucky as to be destined for a life with Isabella Astley, however much he longed for it.

But an idea was forming in his head. Maybe he could salvage this after all.

“Do you want to have children?” he asked.

“I do,” she said swiftly, then bit her lip. “But…”

“But?” he asked gently.

“But my mother bore eight children,” she said in a rush. “Even with a flock of nursemaids, it left her little time to do anything else. And women talk, you know. Carrying baby after baby, year after year, takes a heavy toll on your body.”

“In an ideal world, how many would you like to have?” Archibald asked.

She screwed up her face. “I don’t know. Maybe… two?”

Archibald nodded. He did want to have children of his own.

But he found he didn’t particularly care about the number. Two sounded… fine.

And he could understand Izzie’s logic. As much as he wanted to marry her, he would be devastated if doing so meant he had to give up his work as an engineer. It was only logical that she would feel the same way about her writing. And, given that she was the one who would have to carry and bear any children they did have, it struck him that there was much more at stake for her than for him, and perhaps she should have some say on how many children they ultimately had.

He took her hand in his. “I have a proposal for you. What if we were to take precautionary measures?”

Izzie blinked up at Archibald, certain she had misheard.

“Precautionary measures?” she asked, unsure.

“Precautionary measures,” he said firmly. “There are things we could do that would dramatically reduce the chances of conception. I could use something called a sheath, for example.”

Archibald had misunderstood—Izzie knew what a sheath was, and she was familiar with a variety of precautionary measures. She’d spent most of her life listening with eager ears for any information she could ferret out about intimate relations. In particular, when she first got her courses, her sister Caro’s lady’s maid, Fanny, had explained that there was a way to count the days around her menses and how to figure out which days she would be most likely to conceive.

So, it wasn’t that Izzie needed an explanation of what precautionary measures were. She’d asked her question because she couldn’t believe Archibald was willing to consider them.

Most men considered the number of children they had to be a mark of their virility. Izzie had a distinct memory from when she was around twelve of listening at the door to the morning room with Lucy while her mother’s friends gossiped about how Lord Such-and-Such ought to leave his poor wife alone. She had borne him ten babes in twelve years, they had noted, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a mistress to satisfy his urges. Yet there was his wife, expecting again.

It was also accepted as fact that the purpose of lovemaking was procreation, and any attempt to subvert procreation was sacrilegious. What Archibald had suggested was beyond scandalous.

Not that Izzie was offended by his suggestion. Scandalous was practically her middle name.

And if he was willing to do this, maybe…

Maybe they could still wed.

Hope flared in her heart, a fragile thing with butterfly wings. Because she hadn’t been lying when she said that she wanted to marry Archibald. She didn’t know him as well as she’d like, but everything she did know about him seemed wonderful.

She felt more convinced than ever that marrying this man was not a mistake.

“I won’t lie to you,” Archibald continued. “The precautions to which I refer are not foolproof. There is a chance that they could fail and that you could find yourself with child before you’re ready. That, even if we agree to try for two children, we could wind up with three, or even four. The only guarantee is abstinence, and”—he laughed darkly—“given what happened yesterday afternoon, I do not think it realistic to imagine that we could live under the same roof and keep our hands off one another. But were we to take these precautions, I think we could do fairly well. I certainly don’t think we would wind up with eight children.”

Izzie gave him a watery smile. “You would be willing to do that for me?”

He glanced at her, incredulous. “Of course. If it means having you as my wife…” He cleared his throat, looking away. “Besides, I can see your point. I would be devastated if someone told me I had to give up my engineering work just because I was married. It’s easy to understand why you would feel the same way.”

She threw her arms around his neck. Tears pricked at her eyes as she hugged him tightly. She was so, so lucky to be marrying this man, who thought her dreams were important, too.

“Is the wedding back on, then?” Archibald asked.

“It is.” Izzie drew back so she could give him a watery smile. “Thank you so much . It didn’t even occur to me to ask if you would be willing to do that for me.” She paused as something occurred to her. “Assuming we succeed, there will likely be gossip.”

Archibald, whose body had sagged as soon as she confirmed they were getting married, after all, opened his eyes, unconcerned. “Gossip?”

“About us,” she clarified. “If we marry, and I don’t fall pregnant in the first few years, people will probably say nasty things about us. That one or both of us are lacking in, er… fecundity .”

Izzie wasn’t sure what response she had expected to this line of thought, but it wasn’t laughter. “Izzie,” he said, shaking his head, “do you have any idea what people say about me right now?”

She frowned. “What do they say?”

“They call me a blacksmith.”

She drew herself up. “What’s wrong with being a blacksmith?”

He gave her a strange look. “It’s not a very elegant profession.”

Suddenly, she felt irate on his behalf. “But you build cannons! How do they imagine our glorious navy would fare against the French without cannons?” She huffed. “I should like to see any of those pompous fools do something a tenth as useful.”

She noticed Archibald smiling as he rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “It’s just—you’re very different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Well, I should hope so. I would never do something so boring and trite as being like everyone else.”

He chuckled. “Of course you wouldn’t. Please, don’t change. I like you just as you are.”

This statement caused Izzie’s heart to trip in her chest. Because she’d scarcely dared to dream she would find a man who liked her just the way she was. Men generally considered her to be shrewish, strident, and far too prone to stating her own opinions.

But not Archibald. She knew it was a foolish notion, considering they had spoken to each other for the first time just four days ago, but Archibald really did seem perfect for her…

“Come,” he said, squeezing her hand, “let’s go and get some breakfast.”

“Wait!” she cried, pulling him back down on the chaise. “Regarding those precautionary measures you mentioned earlier.”

Heat flared in his eyes. “Yes?”

“I know of one,” she said quickly. “One of our maids told me how to count the days.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to add between my courses , but comprehension flared in Archibald’s eyes. “So, we could use that, too.” She cleared her throat. “It happens that the next few days should be safe. So, we shouldn’t have to use the… the sheath.”

“Thank God for that,” he muttered. At her quizzical look, he added, “I don’t have any sheaths lying around, and I doubt I’ll have time to go out and get one, considering the wedding’s at ten.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m going to regret saying this. But on those days when the chances of conception are high, if you would prefer to sleep apart, I mean… You’re always welcome to sleep wherever you want. I would never force myself on you, Izzie.”

Her heart melted all over again. “I appreciate that. But I don’t think it will be necessary to sleep apart.” She dropped her voice down to a whisper. “I have a plan, you see—on those days when I’m likely to conceive, we can perform unnatural acts upon each other.”

His face froze in shock. “Unnatural… Dear God, how do you even know about unnatural acts?”

“My brother, Harrington, has this book he keeps hidden beneath his mattress—”

He held up a hand. “Say no more.”

“Don’t you want to know what kind of book it is?”

“I have a fair idea,” he muttered.

Izzie laughed at his discomfiture. “I didn’t think I would shock you. After all, was that not an unnatural act you performed upon me yesterday in my parents’ drawing room?”

His ears had gone red. “Do not mistake me—we are going to perform… perhaps not every act in that book. Some of those books are a bit, um…”

“I know what you mean,” Izzie said quickly. “For example, the page my brother has dog-eared shows—”

He cut her off with a strangled sound. “I don’t need to know that about your brother.”

“But your point is well taken,” Izzie continued. “Although I would be extremely eager for us to try most of the plates together, there are a few where I fail to grasp the appeal.”

Archibald buried his head in his hands. “Oh, my God. We need to stop talking about this.”

Izzie frowned. “But you just said that you are eager to participate in many of the acts depicted on those plates.”

“That’s the problem, all right. In three hours, I have to stand up in front of the vicar, my parents, and everyone I know.” He gestured vaguely to the front of his trousers. “I don’t need to be picturing you snooping through your brother’s book of naughty prints or us performing unnatural acts when I do it.”

Izzie giggled. “I’m causing you all sorts of trouble, aren’t I?”

“The very best kind of trouble.” He pressed a kiss against her temple, then put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “Now, breakfast.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here a little longer?” Izzie asked, voice teasing.

Archibald groaned. “I do. But we both know that as soon as things get interesting, your mother will walk in on us. Again .”

They were both laughing as they headed, arm-in-arm, to breakfast.