“Surely you know where babies come from?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I thought—” She blushed, and Stephen’s brows rose higher. Now this was new. He did not think he could recall seeing her blush before.
“Yes? You thought?” he prodded.
“I thought there were ways to prevent that. I was under the impression rakes—er, men like you— knew these things.”
Stephen smiled indulgently. “And you are not incorrect. I do know how to prevent pregnancy, and had I been expecting your visit I might have prepared by procuring a packet of French letters. You know what those are, Miss Hale?”
She nodded. “A sheath that you put—” She blushed again.
“Right,” he said, saving her. Though it was tempting to allow her to stumble and blush through the conversation, he was not that much of an ass. “But I did not have any French letters with me, which left me only one other option for protecting you.”
She frowned. “Which is?”
“Withdrawal. I could have withdrawn at the moment of climax, and I assure you, Miss Hale, that I fully intended to, but here is where I must make a confession.”
He took another step nearer, and she would have backed away, but he took her arm and kept her close.
“Making love to you was an amazing experience. I thoroughly enjoyed it, so much so that I lost my head.” Her eyes grew wide, and he stroked her cheek with one finger. “I couldn’t have pulled out even had I wanted to, and let me assure you that, by the end, pulling away from you was the last thing on my mind. And so I have put you at risk, and I rather fear that a child would inhibit your plan of complete independence, not to mention the difficulties one would pose for me and my family were my heir born a bastard.”
He waited for a response, but as she only stared at him, he continued, “I am not a friend of marriage. In the past, I have avoided it with alacrity, but I am willing to take responsibilities for my actions. I expect you to do the same.”
Again, he paused, waited, and still she did not speak. He could see her pondering the problem. He could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. She sighed, looked down, and paced to the window, then stared out of it for a good five minutes.
Stephen considered himself a patient man, but the longer she pondered, the harder it was not to feel annoyed. Was his proposal so odious that she had to think this hard? Was he such poor husband material that she wavered this much? He felt he should be insulted, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
After all, it wasn’t as though he wanted to marry her either. It was something he was obligated to do. Forced to do. He had learned from his past sins, and he would do the penance.
Why the hell was she having such a hard time seeing that for herself?
“Miss Hale,” he began.
At the window, she held up a finger. One moment.
Stephen stared. Who the devil did this woman think she was? He wasn’t going to be put off any longer.
“Don’t you bloody well hold your finger up to me, Miss Hale,” he said, crossing the room in three strides and took the offending digit by the root. Her eyes flashed fire, and she yanked it away again. “I’m not one of your servants or another of your fawning suitors. I’m the Earl of Westman, and I won’t be shooed away or treated like an inconvenience.”
“Oh, you have made your position clear from the start, my lord,” she spat at him. “It has always been I who was the inconvenience. From the moment I mentioned the treasure, all I have been was in your way of getting to it. And now it seems I am likely to be in your way for the rest of my life.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that—”
“I would!” She poked him, and he backed up. “You call me a mistake, an impulse, a responsibility. You call me a distraction and a temptation and a partner, but you never call me by my name! You never call me Josie. You never call me sweetheart. You never call me anything but Miss Hale or once— it might have been twice, I’ve been known to make mistakes—you called me Josephine. And now you ask me to marry you? Even if I could tolerate a sterile, loveless marriage with an overbearing, arrogant cretin, do you think I would bring a child into it? Better I raise a baby alone.”
“Sterile?” Stephen roared, trying not to reach out and shake her. “You call what happened between us this morning sterile?”
“And what would you call it? With nothing but lust behind it, do you not think it will become a sterile act? You don’t love me, Lord Westman. You don’t even love yourself, and deep down you can hardly blame me for refusing your offer not once now, but three times. Do us both a favor, my lord, and take the hint.”
Chapter Sixteen
After four hours with nothing to do but stare at her fingers, Josie decided they were too wrinkled. She’d turned them this way and that, held them up to the light and then back under the carriage shadows, and now she was just plain sick of them.
She glanced over at Westman, still brooding on his side of the Doubleday family coach. He’d been sitting like that, arms crossed over his chest, hat pulled low, eyes focused resolutely out the window, since they’d taken their places this morning. She’d squirmed and shifted, trying to get comfortable during this long trek to Cornwall, but he had not moved.
Not once.
It was actually rather unnerving after a while, and she’d taken to staring at him under her lashes to be certain he still breathed. When she had once again established that he was still alive, she’d turn back to her fingers and her own musings.
