She took a step forward, tilting her chin up at him. The effect of this was likely undercut by the swathes of scarf around her neck, but she made do.
“I will serve as hostess for a major event—a ball, a large soiree—no more than two times per year, but I will be happy to host medium to large dinner parties on two to three additional occasions. I will attend Society events with you once per month. And I will speak in a manner that promotes the Redcliff name when you deserve it.”
His tongue darted out to touch the corner of his lip. Phoebe tried very hard not to track that motion with her gaze.
“You will have to give me an heir,” he added, his voice significantly lower than it had been during the previous round of debate. There was that same spark in his eye that he’d gotten before he kissed her, and though Phoebe should have taken a step back—that look didnotbode well for her ability to think—she found herself leaning in just a little, instead.
“I understand,” she agreed. “But you—you will have to be faithful. No going off and getting yourself a mistress.”
He looked offended, but he merely nodded in agreement. “Naturally. Aside from the aforementioned, you shall be free to use your time as you please, except?—”
Had he leaned a little closer, too?
“Except?” she prodded. If her voice was a little breathy, it was no doubt a result of the icy wind.
He swallowed. He wasn’t wearing a scarf, just an overcoat, and she saw the way his throat bobbed beneath his cravat.
“Except we shall share meals,” he concluded.
A flicker of confusion darted through Phoebe. That was a relatively small request.
“Very well,” she said, not even bothering to counter. It was such a small thing, really. “How often? Weekly?”
“Every day,” he said. “Allmeals.”
Phoebe blinked. Not such a small request, then.
“You want to see me,” she said slowly, certain that she must have misunderstood him, “three times per day. Every day?”
“Yes.”
He gave her a brisk nod but didn’t explain himself any further. Phoebe supposed she couldn’t deny him for all that it was a bizarre thing for a man like him to desire, especially from a woman like her—a woman who was so far from his first choice for marriage that she wasn’t even the first choice from her ownfamily.
That reminder hit her like a fistful of snow shoved down her collar.
This was anarrangement, nothing more.
She stuck out her hand, determined to arrange this in as businesslike a manner as possible. She needed the reminder.
“If that is all, Your Grace,” she said in her briskest, most unbothered tone, “do I take it that we have a deal?”
He looked down at her hand as if it offended him.
“Who is the romantic now?” he asked, almost as though he was disappointed in her. But that was nonsense. Phoebe needed to stop reading things into his reactions.
“Don’t tease,” she ordered him, shaking her hand in encouragement. “I am trying to treat this as it is. I know what our arrangement is to be.”
He still didn’t take her hand.
“And what is that?” he asked. She was distressingly aware of the stern way that his lips turned down. She was horrifically aware of what those lips felt like on hers—of what she felt like when he kissed her.
Distance. She needed distance.
Phoebe glanced at the world around them. The gentle snowfall was the trick, she reminded herself. The bitter gusts were the reality.
“Cold,” she said firmly, all too aware that he was watching her mouth as she said the words.
A storm crossed the Duke’s face, his expression changing in slow motion, something determined settling in. He looked down at her hand, and she thought, with a pang of dismay, that he was going to shake, that he was going to agree to this—which was what shewanted, she tried to tell herself. It was what sheneeded.
