“I simply told him,” Mr. Fortescue said, “that his refusal would result in at most a delay of a few weeks to call the banns, and that it would be in his best interests not to thwart the wishes of a duke with such an inconvenience as that. He did agree with my assessment…eventually.”
“For which I am grateful,” Anthony said to him. “She would have balked at least twice before the last of the banns could be called.”
She was balkingnow. “Anthony, this is absurd. You cannot marry me! What would your mother say?”
“That hardly matters, as I don’t intend to ask her permission.” Still he spoke to her in that soft, gentle voice. The sort of voice someone might use with a frightened child, or to—to tame a wild animal. As if he had guessed that, should he managed to persuade her to agreement, it would be against her better judgment.
And between them, hers was clearlythe better. “I can’t be a duchess,” she said.
“Why? You’re not afraid of what people might say.”
Not of her, no. But he had had his name bandied about too much just lately. In snide whispers and speculation. In insults both sly and brazen, and he had never deserved them. She did not want to be the cause of more of them.
“People may render their judgment,” he said. “But that does not mean we must accept it. You taught me that, and I have learned it at last. I will not ask you to be my mistress, nor am I willing to sacrifice the life we might have together for one that is less than you deserve. ThanIdeserve. What does that leave us but marriage?”
“I won’t ever be accepted amongst theTon,” Charity said haltingly. “You would sacrifice any chance of that for yourself.”
“I would rather havethisthan theTon,” he said, with a vague gesture that she supposed was meant to encapsulate the house and the people presently within it. “I would rather have you, and your family, and yes—even your rather odd assortment of friends.”
Despite herself, Charity choked on a laugh. “They are a bit odd,” she acknowledged. “But they have been kind to me.”
“And to me. So if this is what I shall have, it is enough. More than enough. It is beyond what I had thought to hope for.”
Charity drew a shuddering breath, her hands folding over the cover of the folio laid across her lap. “There will be no coming back from it,” she said. “It will be too public, too salacious for your reputation ever to recover. You certainly will not be able to attain another annulment.”
“I know. The Archbishop was rather excruciatingly clear on that point. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man of God utilize such…colorful language.”
Charity swallowed a snort. “It’s possible even a divorce would be beyond your reach.”
“I don’t expect ever to want one. Do you?”
No. No, she did not. But it had been one thing tobemarried and seeking an annulment, and it was quite another togetmarried. “I would require certain assurances,” she said. “Women lose much in marriage.” Often too much. More than only their names, monies, and property; they lost many legal rights as well.
“That’s what the contract is for. You have your own assets, which you have earned yourself. Without a proper contract, it would all become mine by default. I thought you would instead prefer for your assets to be placed into a trust for your sole use. With Mr. Fortescue as your trustee, if you are amenable.” He gestured to the folio. “These are the terms which Mr. Fortescue believes would be most advantageous to you.”
Good. That was good. She had entrusted her contracts to him before, and he had earned that trust which she had placed in him by way of his fierce negotiations on her behalf. “I suppose I could…entertain the thought,” she ventured. “Of course, I will have to read this myself. Thoroughly.”
“I expected nothing less.”
“And possibly to revise it, if—if I have got any objections.”
Anthony grinned, and she realized that he had caught her out. She had all but given her assent already. Becauserevisingsuggested a conclusion foregone. The desire to work toward a mutually beneficial end. And that was good enough for him.
“Mr. Fortescue,” he said. “We will not keep you. We’ll send you any revisions once they are agreed upon…and conduct the remainder of our negotiations in private.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Anthony,” Charity gasped. “This is torture.”
His laugh whisked over the quivering flesh of her belly, smoothly followed by a long, slow lap of his tongue, a circle of the very tip around the rim of her navel. “Do you know, now that I have found myself on this end of it at last, I think it’s rather fun.”
Hewould. She yanked her arms, but the bonds he’d used to secure her hands to the bedposts held firm. Her silk stockings had proved themselves a good deal sturdier than she had expected, and Anthony knew how to tie a proper damned knot—unlike her flimsy attempt at it, which she suspected had only held for so long as he had allowed because he had wanted to know what her version of such torture entailed.
Negotiations, round…well, she wasn’t entirely certain how many rounds had come and gone since Mr. Fortescue had left. But they had both dedicated themselves to the task, and between the various concessions she had gained—and made—the tips of her fingers had quickly become ink-stained.
“Ah!” Her head fell back upon the pillow as he stroked his fingers between her legs, barely brushing her clitoris. A whisper of sensation, zipping through her already-shredded nerves. “Please,” she whimpered.
“You know how to end it,” he said lightly, as he wedged his shoulders between her thighs. There was the scrape of his cheek against her sensitive skin, a kiss right there at the joint of her hip. “Really, this ought to be embarrassing for you. I held out much longer.”
