“Which means you have been in the employ of some master or other from the age of sixteen.” He held up a hand. “Not only were you in their employ, you lived under their roof. How much independence did you really have?”
Genevieve bit her lip. “I could leave whenever I wanted. That choice was mine.”
“Do you think I’ll hold you prisoner here? Did I hold Harriet prisoner?” He pushed away from the desk. “I don’t intend this marriage to be like my marriage to Harriet. We are both clear-eyed about the arrangement. I expect you to be a mother to Frances and any other children you bear me. If, once the children have grown, you want to separate and pursue your own interests, I’ll give you whatever money you need or want. If you can agree to that, then I am ready to stand at the altar.”
A moment ago, Genevieve had so many reasons she was uncertain about the marriage, but now she couldn’t seem to think of a single one. What he asked was perfectly reasonable, and yet she felt uneasy. Wasn’t marriage more than setting expectations and drawing up contracts? What about romance? Was she never to have romance in her life again—not that she’d had much before, but there had always been the possibility.
“I’ll have Gables send for the vicar to come at ten,” he said, and started for the door.
“You certainly possess an unlimited supply of gall.”
He turned back to her, his expression truly one of confusion. How did he not understand?
“I haven’t said yes yet. In fact, you haven’t even asked me to be your wife.”
“Of course I did.”
“No, you told me you needed a mother for your child, and I was to be that mother. Then you said I had a few days to think about it while you went to procure the license. Now you have told me what our marriage will look like. But you still haven’t asked me to marry you.”
He shook his head, seemingly bewildered. “Fine. Will you—”
“Stop.”
His brow lowered, and she almost took a step back. “Genevieve, I like to think of myself as a patient man, but you are making me question that.”
“If you are to propose to me, you must do it correctly. I only get one marriage proposal. I have the right tosomeromance, don’t I?”
“Romance?” He stared at her, and she was certain he would burst out laughing or walk away or simply refuse. She felt her face grow hot as he continued to stare at her. Why had she said anything? Why hadn’t she simply agreed to the vicar coming or told him no and gone to pack her things?
Why didn’t she do one or the other now? Anything to escape the mortification settling over her. She needed to get away and started for the door. Lord Emory reached it just before her and put his hand on it, preventing her from pulling it open. She could feel his body behind hers, almost touching her. She slid around to face him.
*
She wanted romance.She might go on about independence and law and contracts, but she’d given him the key right there.
What an idiot he was! Of course she wanted a romantic marriage proposal. He’d just have to lower himself to one knee and beg her to make him the happiest man alive.
Except he couldn’t do that. This marriage was supposed to be a practical arrangement. He’d married for love once before. He’d never let love and marriage become tangled up again. He was not in love with Genevieve Brooking, and he didn’t want to pretend.
And yet she was looking up at him with those clear green eyes, and he had to say something. She was correct that he had told her she was marrying him, not asked. Surely he could ask.
Rory opened his mouth to do so, but no words came out. Apparently, his voice was trapped in his throat. A thought raced through his mind:What if you ask and she says no?
He rolled his shoulders. If she said no, then that was fine. He’d find another mother for Frances.
Except he wanted Genevieve.
And she wanted a proposal.
Rory took a breath, and Genevieve lifted her brows expectantly. He blew the breath out. The whole situation felt far too vulnerable. He’d offered his whole heart to Harriet, and she’d trampled it and sent it back to him with a knife through the organ and a round of shot in his pride. Now, he was not offering Genevieve any part of his heart, but he felt the danger to his scarred vanity.
“My lord?”
They had been standing in the same spot—she leaning against the door and he facing her with his hand holding the door closed—for a full two minutes. He had to say something, or she’d start worrying—with some validity—that this marriage would be a prison.
He looked down at her and did the one thing he wanted to do in that moment. He kissed her. He hadn’t thought it through, but now, as his lips touched hers, he realized this was a way to ask without words. The physical felt less vulnerable. The physical felt very, very right.
He didn’t think he was the only one to feel this way. Her lips softened immediately, becoming pliant and yielding under his. She might not be certain if she wanted to marry him, but she wanted him physically. Her hands came up to rest on his waist, one sliding up to his abdomen then higher to his chest. His heart began to pound harder, and he wondered if she could feel it.
