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He turned her by the shoulders to face him. “You deserve a loving and devoted husband. A man who won’t send you to your grave.”
“You think I’ll drive you mad and you shall be tempted to commit murder?”
The absurdity of her response made him want to chuckle. But her reply was sincere, stemming from her miserable parents’ union, and he didn’t want to undermine her fears of enduring such a marriage herself.
He let his hands graze down her arms until he captured her hands in his. “No, this is not about you, Minerva. This about me. About the men in my family.”
She blinked up at him. “I’m clearly lacking sleep, for I’m not at all following your logic.”
Of course she wasn’t—Minerva was an innocent. How was he to explain matters in a gentlemanly manner? He couldn’t.
He blurted, “MacMillian men lack strong seed. My father sent my mama and his two prior wives to their deaths attempting to sire an heir. I vowed not to repeat my father’s mistakes. I promised myself never to marry, and I’d let the title pass to some distant cousin. I won’t be the one responsible for your death.”
She stepped closer, wrapped her arms about his neck, and brought his head down until their foreheads touched. “For such an intelligent man, you can be an utter dunderhead. I have no intentions of meeting my maker anytime soon, and child-birthing techniques have greatly improved in recent years.”
Her touch was a soothing balm, but he needed to make her understand he could not marry. “Minerva, I can’t give you the life you want most. And while I’m greedy and selfish most of the time, I love you too much to deny you the chance to be a mother.”
Her gaze bored into him. “I can see you have given the subject much consideration.”
The flecks of gold in her hazel eyes sent sparks of desire through him. He could only hope to contain them, like he had in the past. Although each moment that passed in her chambers was proving to be a torturous test of his will.
She kneaded the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Let me guess…you are of the belief that if you were to win our chess match, you would be sentencing me to either a barren marriage or one that would result in my death. And…you suppose if I were to win, you will be forced to watch the woman you love marry another—is that correct?”
Simultaneously a wave of relief rolled though him and a lump formed in his throat. Wordlessly, he nodded. Why hadn’t he been able to formulate such a concise and eloquent explanation? Thank goodness the woman understood him. His throat muscles relaxed.
“Now you understand why I couldn’t challenge you all these years and why the outcome of our match will end in disaster,” he said.
She shook her head and rolled up onto her toes. Before he knew what she was about, she pressed her lips to his, and he groaned as he gave in to temptation and kissed Minerva with abandon.
Heaving for a breath, she pulled back and said, “You are not the only one who has grievances over the outcome of our match.” She slid her hands down to rest her palms against his chest.
Even though she remained physically touching him, a heaviness filled the space between their bodies. An ominous weight fell upon his shoulders. Whatever she was about to say, he didn’t want to hear it.
Minerva sighed and, in a rush, said, “If I win, I shall never be able to share my love for you, and if you win I shall have to forgo an adventure of a lifetime that has taken me years to plan.”
His heart swelled. He had suspected for years she held more than a sisterly affection for him, but to hear her speak of loving him bolstered his spirits, shattering his fears.
Until the second half of her sentence registered. What plans? What adventure was so important to her that she would forgo love?
He bent until their foreheads touched once more. “What a conundrum we find ourselves in.”
“I agree. What do you suppose we should do?”
“We play the game, to the best of our abilities. We each should play to win.”
She stepped back. “Very well. May the best player win.”
He searched her features for a clue as to her true opinion on how to move forward, but her clear gaze confirmed for him that neither of them would ever be happy unless they both played for victory.
Conflicted, he reached for the door handle. “I shall eagerly await your next move.”
He slipped out into the hallway and saw himself out, pausing briefly outside Kent’s old rooms. His best friend would have called him out to duel if he had caught Anthony alone in Minerva’s rooms.
No. Kent wasn’t the violent sort—he’d have marched Anthony straight to the Doctors’ Commons to seek out an application for a special license. Damn.
The probability of his marrying Minerva and denying her a future filled with a parcel of children was increasing with each passing moment. Rather than dread filling his bones, an inkling of hope sparked. A spark that was doused with doubts about his ability to give her a life of happiness. He kept to the shadows as he exited the Malbury townhouse.
Minerva had mentioned an adventure. If he could discover what the escapade entailed, he could see to it that she got to experience it after they married. For there was no way he was going to lose their match.
