She hesitated. “To…your son or to the next cousin in line? Do you want children?”
“I want dozens,” he said passionately, then colored. “That is, I would settle for one or two, of course. My role is to beget an heir, not to populate a circus.”
Chloe had a feeling he was repeating a quote someone else had oft cited.
“Let me guess,” she teased. “Circuses are against the rules?”
He stared at her without responding.
She took pity on him. He might always know what to say when giving speeches in Parliament, but that did not mean he would know how to talk about personal matters…with her.
“I like circuses,” she offered. “My brother used to live in one. Some say we still do.”
“Dukes don’t have circuses,” he said at last. “But the fortunate ones might start a family.”
The fortunate werebornto a family, Chloe corrected in her head. Or welcomed into one with open arms. Waiting half one’s lifetime in the hopes of one day having a family seemed…
Lonely.
She tried to imagine being constantly surrounded by sycophants and the crème de la crème of high society without having a true connection with anyone—and then realized she didn’t have to imagine. She slipped into his world whenever she pleased, as easily as pulling on a bonnet, but it was neverherworld,herfriends,herplace.
The orphanage had been worse. She would never forget the exquisite torture of yearning for somewhere to belong. No…of longing forpeopleto belong to. Craving someone to claimher, to want her, to miss her, to need her.
It had never occurred to her that someone like Faircliffe might feel the same way.
“I shall cross my fingers for you to be the most fortunate duke in all of England.”
His answering smile caused a strange flutter in her belly. “I wish as much good fortune to you.”
“Iamlucky,” she said, “whether or not you believe it.”
The ladies and misses and wallflowers Chloe pretended to be were bound by society’s rules, just as Faircliffe was. But at the end of the day she could go home, toss the current alias aside, and just be Chloe.
The things Faircliffe pitied about her—lack of rank and her unusual family—were what gave her the most freedom. Bean’s Balcovian barony was sufficient status to gain access to certain people and places, but not so lofty as to need to please the patronesses of Almack’s.
Chloe didn’t require a husband for any practical reason. She had a home, she had a family, and she had her own money. Unbeknownst to the public, Bean had created a legal trust for each of the siblings rather than provide dowries for the girls. He was clever like that.
Dowries were funds bestowed upon a future husband, not on the bride herself. Chloe and her sisters would have had no say in how it was spent, because the money would not belong to them.
A legal trust, on the other hand, was held in the name of the beneficiary. Chloe’s money washersto do with as she pleased. It would still be hers even if she married. Her husband would not be able to touch a single farthing.
Not that she would marry some fortune hunter who prized gold over love. She had a life shelikedjust as it was. She hadfun.
Bean’s infamous eccentricity, more than his wealth, allowed Chloe and her siblings to get away with nonsense like Great-Aunt Wynchester. When no one expected any better of you, either you went home and cried about it or you turned it to your advantage. Youletpeople underestimate you, because their dismissal gave you power.
So why was she peeling back the mask, if only a little, with Faircliffe?
“I believe you.” His words rasped oddly. “Lucky people always show it in their eyes.”
Her blood rushed so loudly, it sounded like waves pounding ashore. “What do my eyes look like to you?”
“Happy.” He reached up, not to hide her errant ringlet, as Chloe presumed, but to graze his thumb across the side of her cheek. This time he did cup her face, for no reason except that he wanted to. “Inviting.”
Yes. She was definitely inviting him to look closer. All this waiting and wishing had every nerve alive and prickling with awareness. This touch was different than the ones before. This time something momentous was going to happen.
His gaze lowered to her mouth.
She could not help but lick her lips in response. His eyes were no longer ice, but rather as hot and dangerous as the flicker of blue at the center of a flame. She was the moth who could not help but fly closer to danger.
