No preamble. No greeting or any sign of brotherly affection.
Rosamund crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair opposite him, folding her hands in her lap before she could fidget.
For a full minute, the clock on the mantel marked the seconds with merciless precision. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Charles simply studied her. Until— “Are you hurt?”
The question startled her.
“Hurt? No. Definitely not!”
He exhaled once, dropping his gaze.
“Did he…” His jaw worked. “Did he take liberties beyond what you permitted?”
Take liberties?
Oh!“No!” He’d only taken liberties Rosamund had granted freely.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Is there…” Her brother cleared his throat. “Is there any reason I should be speaking to him about marriage?”
Her pulse stuttered.
“So you haven’t yet? Spoken to him about… marriage?”
“The subject came up.”
She wasn’t exactly sure why her stomach dropped.
“What did he say?”
Charles’s expression hardened. “He said you are not… ruined.”
Ruined?
“Did you demand that he marry me?”
Charles’s voice went cold. “He was willing to do the honorable thing.”
The room tilted.Willing? That can’t be right.
Julian had assured her—fiercely—that he would never marry.
Not for duty.
Not for his tenants.
Not for anything.
“I told him to go to hell.”
“Why?” she breathed. “Why would you do that?”
Charles looked at her as though she’d grown a second head.
It was not that Rosamund wished anyone to be compelled into marrying her. Or that she be compelled to accept. But she would have preferred the choice to be hers.