Page 106 of The Marriage Method

“Understandable,” he said. “You wouldn’t want the rest of the world to know that Miss Corvus is in the business of forging weapons.”

“And now you’ve married one of them,” Nell said. A quiver of uncertainty entered her voice. “It can’t be what you wanted.”

“Having you here with me?” Miles brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. His touch was infinitely tender. “It’s all I want.”

Her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly to clear it.

He searched her tear-damp eyes. “What do you want, Nell?”

Nell’s throat tightened. She hated to make herself vulnerable, to him or to anyone, but there was no denying the truth. Not anymore. “To be with you,” she said softly.

The words sent a visible tremor through Miles’s frame. He took her in his arms. She caught a glimpse of his face as he pulled her close. His solemn expression had fractured.

“There,” he said, his voice gone gruff. “That wasn’t too painful, was it?”

Nell burrowed into his embrace. His arms were strong around her, his body hot as a furnace. And still she wanted more. More of his strength, his heat, his reassurance. She exhaled a ragged breath. “It’s been a dreadful day since I found those papers.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“And all because of that wretched Pettiman.”

Miles’s cheek was pressed to her temple. She felt him smile. “You weren’t really going to invite him for tea?”

“I did invite him,” Nell said. “I suggested a date next week, after we return from Hertfordshire. I’ll be better equipped to deal with him then.”

“I suppose it’s preferable to having him as a houseguest.”

“The lesser of two evils, certainly.” Nell hesitated. “Miles?”

“Yes, my dear?”

She slowly drew back to meet his eyes. “How did you know about the samplers?”

Miles didn’t answer immediately. He only looked at her. “The lack of order,” he said at last.

Her brows notched. “Is that all? Not all samplers are orderly.”

“Do all samplers include a raven with a white-tipped wing?”

She started.

“You did ask,” he said apologetically.

“It’s not that. It’s just—” She gave a disgruntled huff. “I tell the girls that no one looks that carefully at our samplers. And if they do, they’re only examining the quality of our workmanship. How well we stitch our numbers and letters and so forth.”

But she hadn’t reckoned for Miles Quincey. He noticed everything. Or perhaps just everything about her.

“What I wonder,” he said, “is why the Academy uses them at all.”

Nell’s chin lifted with a trace of pride. “It was my idea.”

Miles’s eyes softened with an unidentifiable emotion. “I gathered that. But why are they necessary? Why not simply write letters?”

“Miss Corvus wrote letters all those years ago when she was engaged to Lord Compton. Her brother meddled with her post. Her letters were surveilled, opened, and read, sometimes destroyed. It was another way of manipulating and controlling her.”

“And you and the others at the Academy worry that the same might happen to you?”

“It easily could,” Nell said. “Women have little privacy in this world, not in our correspondence, our bank books, not even our own bodies. And legal rights are largely denied us. In most circumstances, we’re considered little more than property, dependent for our kind treatment on the better natures of our brothers, fathers, and husbands. If they should fail us—”