Chapter Forty-Five

"A re you in danger?" Hettie posed the question with her head resting on his shoulder as he rubbed a strand of her silken hair between his fingers.

"It is not without danger. But I am certain that we will come out of this well. Vincent will not allow for any other outcome, and neither will I," he said reassuringly.

"Good," Hettie said. "I have no wish to be widowed twice."

"I've no wish to make you a widow." He could feel her hesitation. "Whatever you wish to ask, just do so."

"What will you do after all these things are settled with Ardmore? I know Vincent wanted you to manage the club, but... I fear that with what is happening, he may decide to remain in London and see to his businesses himself."

"As you have a fortune I cannot fathom, I know you're not worried about my ability to support you. So what is this, Hettie?"

She sighed, sitting up and putting space between them. She couldn't think clearly otherwise, much less articulate her concerns. "I know you want a purpose. If we live off my fortune entirely, I know that you will grow to resent it and perhaps to resent me. We have enough obstacles before us."

"I will find a way. I rather like being a private inquiry agent. It's not especially lucrative, but as we are not dependent upon that income, it need not be. I'm man enough not to be threatened by you having money. I'm also man enough that I fully intend to earn my own."

It was not what she'd expected him to say. She'd thought, perhaps foolishly, that he would approach it as most men. That he would assume control of her fortune and dole out an allowance or pin money to her. "You're not worried that I will bankrupt us? That by virtue of being a woman and therefore too stupid to manage anything on my own I will squander the entirety of it?"

"No. And even if you did, I'm no worse off than I have been. Besides, you're accustomed to wealth. It stands to reason you'd be more capable of managing it than someone who has barely ever had more than a tuppence to his name. So, tell me, Hettie, what it is that you wish to do with your fortune?"

"I wish to make a difference... a real one."

He nodded. "And what does that mean to you?"

"Honoria and I have talked about starting a charity... there are so many that exist already, but to access them these women must go in with their heads hung in shame, be preached at and pontificated over as if their entire existence were naught but a cautionary tale. I'd like to do something that allowed them not to simply keep their current degree of dignity but to expand upon it. Train them for jobs and to run their own businesses, even. Women are just as capable as men are of such things."

"I'll not disagree with you. Most of the pleasure houses in London are run by women and run quite well. I don't see why women should have a head only for that business rather than running their own shops or other enterprises," he said softly.

Hettie couldn't quite believe it. Her whole life she'd been fighting to make men hear her, to acknowledge her as a person in her own right. "You really do not believe that women are intrinsically less capable than men?"

Joss chuckled. "I've known many people that were inept in many ways, and that was dictated solely by what they had between their ears and not what that had between their legs."

A feeling of immense relief washed through her. And perhaps even a feeling of hope. "You are a remarkably forward-thinking man, Mr. Ettinger."

*

It was his turn to broach somewhat difficult subjects. Difficult because he found the answer mattered more than he'd thought it would, certainly more than it ought to. "Will you miss being Lady Ernsdale? Trading that for being a mere missus must be something of a let down." He hated himself for even asking the question, for allowing even a hint of the vulnerability he felt on that score to be evident. He could hardly admit it to himself, after all.

Hettie's smile grew. It was no longer simply a bemused curve of her lips, but a full smile that spread across her face, crinkling her nose and showcasing a dimple in her cheek. "I've already had more happiness as Mrs. Ettinger than I had cumulatively in all my years as Lady Ernsdale," she mused softly. "I think I will not miss that at all."

The relief that washed through him at her response was beyond gratifying. And that terrified him. It terrified him enough that he needed to immediately quash any hopes she might have of this becoming the love match that poets and novelists all spoke of. "I can't offer you the kind of marriage you deserve," he said. "I'm not a romantic man. I'm not one given to sentiment or fantastical emotion. I like you. I respect you. I want you. But love, if it exists at all, isn't something I have any experience with. I cannot imagine that will change any time soon."

The smile, so bright and genuine, shifted subtly. It became tighter, more guarded, and he saw a bit of the light in her eyes fade.

"I'm sorry for that," he offered.

"No. No, you are not. I think that you are sorry I might be hurt or disappointed by it, but you are not sorry for the way that you feel. Nor should you be. This is a practical arrangement, Joss," she said. "We married because I am carrying your child. And we are simply making the best of it."

It was what he'd wanted. It was certainly all he wished to give of himself. So why the hell did it sound so awful when she said it?