Heartrendingly agonizing, that.
Observing her at present, defiance flashing in her blue eyes—right before she snatched the special license from his hand—he knew he had been right. Harriet Hillstow did not belong in the shadows of a ballroom.
She was no timid mouse, even though her heart-shaped face and perfectly arched brows gave her a delicate appearance.
The woman possessed pluck.
And she had just stolen the most important document of his life.
Will cursed, breaking into a run after her.
He spotted the hem of her skirts disappear up the stairwell that led up to the second floor and picked up his pace.
Sensing his pursuit, or perhaps hearing his footfalls, she glanced over her shoulder. Will noticed her eyes widening with grim satisfaction—she hadn’t expected he’d chase her down. He was not about to let her destroy those papers. Not after he’d pulled strings to get a meeting with the archbishop on such short notice. If he had to turn up on the archbishop’s doorstep again, what would he say? His future wife stole the papers because she refused to marry him?
No.
Absolutely not.
A man had his pride.
He reached her bedchamber just in time for the door to slam against his boot. Will pushed his way into her room, shutting the door behind him, his gaze fixing on her like a hawk. This woman always had the power to send his heart chasing after its own rhythm. The difference between today and any other day in the past was that there was so much more at stake.
“Are you mad?” she asked astonished. “You cannot enter my bedchamber!”
“We are to be—”
“No, we are not! And even if you manage to force me into wedlock, my chamber will be barred to you!”
“Force? Is this not too strong a word?”
“What would you call it?”
“An arranged marriage?”
“Isn’t that just another word for forced?”
Will stilled and swallowed the retort perched on his tongue. He could feel the blood rush to his ears, sweat forming on the palms of his hands, two tell-tale signs that his words were about to twist over his tongue.
A curse exploded in his mind.Please not now.
He considered the woman before him. A little tigress.
His logic didn’t seem to work with her. He sensed that confessing the truth—that he had been enthralled with her since the moment he’d laid eyes on her—wouldn’t work either. Even if he did confess, Will wasn’t confident that he could say it in a way that would sound romantic and not increase her suspicions.
Truth be told, Lady Harriet was right to be skeptical of him. She was quite right in saying that he had never conversed with her, never asked for a dance, nor had he ever called on her as a suitor ought.
He could hardly tell her he became tongue-tied whenever he attempted to approach her. Would she even believe that? Perhaps if the circumstances had been different, she might have. But certainly not today. He could only hope that with time she would glimpse his sincerity through his actions.
Will inhaled a deep breath, collecting his words. “We are betrothed.” Weren’t arranged marriages still an acceptable method of finding partners?
“So I’ve been repeatedly told,” she retorted.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh? Pray tell, what did you mean? Sir.”
“I mean, that we are betrothed is a fact. But the wagers circling about you are becoming more troubling, Lady Harriet,” Will said calmly, and slowly the tension left his shoulders. “Neither I nor your father is scheming behind your back. We are trying to protect you.”
