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He shook his head. “Neither are in my cards.”
“What nonsense,” she said, unable to keep the judgment from her tone.
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Is it?”
“It is. You’re a decent man, rich, powerful, and aristocratic, and with a single purpose, if we’re being honest.”
“It seems we are,” he said, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Go on.”
“You’re essentially required by law to marry. Preferably someone with an understanding of your rich, powerful, aristocratic world, who will then provide you with rich, powerful, aristocratic heirs.”
Someone the absolute other end of the world from a girl who’d spent her childhood picking pockets of wealthy toffs who’d lost their way on the South Bank. Someone who would never find herself in a dark room above a roadside tavern in casual conversation with a half-nude man.Duke.
She left that bit out.
“Jack and Helene will deliver me rich, powerful, aristocratic heirs,” he said, leaning on the edge of the tub. “And now you know why I am so committed to seeing him married.”
“Foryourheirs?” She felt as though she were under water. He might marry and have his own heirs, and yet he left the work to his brother.
She looked down at the box in her hands.What secrets did this man keep?
“For his own heirs. For his own love match. Which has always been the plan.”
“What of your plan? What of your love match? With your perfect wife?”
There was absolutely no sadness in his eyes when he said, “There is no love match for me.” He hesitated, and then added, “And if she does not come with rosemary oil for my wounds, I think she will not be so perfect.” It should have been a joke. It honestly started as though hemeant it to be. On the surface, the words were perfectly cordial, full of ordinary, gentlemanly gratitude.
But they turned soft and low, and when he added, “Thank you, Adelaide,” they sounded not gentlemanly at all.
They tugged her toward him, even though they shouldn’t. “You’re welcome.”
He kept speaking, his voice low and filled with promise. “Tonight, we play at marriage, and I vote for the kind that comes with given names. It seems not worth playing at all if the only perk is someone to fold my trousers.”
“You are not wearing trousers.”
His eyes darkened and he straightened, closing the distance between them. “You’re very perceptive.”
“It is a well-honed skill,” she said distractedly as he advanced. Still half nude. Mostly nude, if she were the kind of person who was particular about such things.
“If we were married, I would call you Adelaide, and it would not be a scandal.”
If they were married, she wouldn’t be so warm. So tempted. She wouldn’t be moving toward him. Closer, closer, until there was nowhere left to go. Until she could smell the rosemary oil on him.
Close enough to feel the heat of his bath. To touch him.
“I would call you Adelaide, and you would call me...” His words were so low, they were a rumble in his chest. She felt them like a touch on her skin. Like a promise.
Don’t finish it. Don’t say it.
“Henry.” Close enough to savor the taste of his given name—forbidden—on her tongue.
Close enough to see the way his eyes darkened, the centers of them blowing wide.
Close enough to like it as his hand came to her cheek, as he tilted her face up to his and kissed her.
Which she liked even more.
Chapter Nine
