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“Then what happened?” he pressed.
She shrugged, trying to evade the truth.
“Were they not advantageous matches? Was your dowry not tempting? Were they all hideous?”
When she did not respond again, he stepped in front of her, stopping her with a touch of his hand. The furrow in his brow made him look genuinely concerned.
“Tell me.”
“Your Grace,” she said, shaking her head. “You will find my response most unusual, so I would ask that you not judge me too harshly.”
“What is it?”
She tried to turn away from him, but he held her firmly.
“I never truly felt like I was ready to marry. Not a single one of those suitors felt right, or at least, not enough for me to want to encourage them.”
Michael’s mouth parted as he said, “Ah.”
He relaxed his hold on her and she stepped around him, holding herself. Picking up her pace, she wanted to get away from Michael, embarrassed by her admission.
“There is nothing wrong with that,” he said, catching up to her.
She whirled back to face him. “There is for young women like me! I discouraged suitors my first few Seasons. When my father died, we were in mourning, such that I could not pursue any matches. Now that we have no father to look after us, to provide for us, I find that I have sabotaged my own chances.”
“Your perspective is so bleak.”
“Women do not have the same opportunities as men,” she argued. “You may choose not to marry because you enjoy your freedom. You have your entire life to choose to settle down. You may produce an heir even when you are old and frail. Women do not have that luxury. We cannot provide for ourselves.”
As she spoke, she saw his face darken. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and this time, he turned away from her, continuing down the path. She reached out to grab the sleeve of his coat.
“Your Grace, you pressed me for my honesty. I have admitted to you something I have not even shared with my own sisters. I would ask for the same candor.”
His long strides made it difficult for her to keep up. She picked up the hem of her dress.
“Your Grace,” she begged.
He took her hand, guiding her into a garden nook, enclosed by tall hedges, such that they were obscured from the view of the servants crossing the grounds. In the center, a bench lay at the base of a tree. He drew her to the bench and they both sat.
“You think I will not marry because I enjoy my freedom,” he explained, using a low voice. “That I enjoy being a rake - drinking and whoring around.”
She blushed at his bluntness, turning her head away. He held her hands firmly in his.
“In truth, I do those things because I will not marry.”
She furrowed her brow, looking back to him questioningly. “I do not understand; you have said the same thing twice.”
“It’s the order, my lady. It is not that I will not marry because I am a rake; I am a rake because I will not marry.”
Shaking her head, she said, “I do not understand.”
He stood and sighed, but she remained seated. He plucked a camellia from a bush and tucked it above her ear. Letting his fingers trail down the side of her face, his gaze softened. She closed her eyes, relishing his touch on her cheek.
“I swore long ago that I would not marry, and I would not produce an heir,” he explained in a wistful voice. “So I have chosen a life opposite to that.”
His softened voice felt like he was speaking into a dream, but she forced herself to open her eyes, processing the words that he had spoken.
“My father was not a kind man,” he said, at last. “He treated both my mother and I very cruelly, when I was young.”
