“I would not perjure her, Your Grace.”
“Tristan.”
“Tristan.” She corrected herself, and hated how her tongue stumbled over the syllables of his Christian name. “I would nothave her bound to vows she did not speak. Whatever else this is, it is not that.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The carriage rocked over a rut in the road, and she felt the small jolt travel up through the velvet beneath her, through the bones of her spine, through the hollow place behind her sternum where her heart was beating much too fast.
“And you,” he said at length. “What wereyouspared, Imogen Harrington, by climbing into your friend’s wedding gown this morning?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is a remarkable risk you took. Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe you undertook it solely from love of your friend.”
“I undertook itsolelyfrom love of my friend.”
“So, no benefit for you? I am told that most dukes are considered quite the catch. Especially one under the age of sixty with all his remaining teeth and hair. Yet for Miss Imogen Harrington, marrying the Duke of Winfield is nothing more than a sacrifice so that her dearest friend can secure her love match. How very noble of you.”
“Of course, marrying you isn’t a sacrifice for me. I have done quite well for myself. Apologies for not better placating your ego, Your Grace. You are exceedingly handsome, ecetera, ecetera.”
“But that played no role in your decision-making,” he said. “Is there nothing you want from this union for yourself?”
She considered his words. Rolled the question around in her brain and then knew the answer immediately. “As the sixth daughter of eight, I never had much that was solely my own. Almost everything I’ve ever worn or owned belonged to someone else. Even without struggling for funds, eight daughters, as you can imagine, come with considerable expense.
“We had a beloved family cat when I was young. Eventually, I became his favorite person in the family, but only after Honoria had ignored him one too many times in favor of her art. All the ribbons and books were handed down to me. Even when I did get new dresses, the first pick of fabricswent to my older sisters. But now, this marriage is mine. I don’t have to share it with any of my sisters.” She looked down, feeling the blush heat her cheeks. “You are all mine, as it were.”
“Indeed, I am.” He glanced down, and adjusted the lay of one glove with infinite care, and when he looked up again the pleasant mask had thinned, and what lay beneath it was harder, and colder, and considerably less courteous.
“Then let us speak plainly, you and I, while we have the privacy to do so.”
“By all means.”
“You are my wife.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?” He said it not as a question but as a small, contemplative observation, as though testing whether she understood the full weight of the words. “I wonder if you are. The ceremony is a few minutes’ work, Imogen. The marriage is rather longer. You will live in my house. You will sit at my table. You will wear my name and bear, in the eyes of the law and the Almighty and every gossip in Mayfair, every consequence that follows from this morning’scharmingimprovisation. There is no escape for you. There is no Mr. Ashworth waiting for a fallout. You have made a bed, my dear, and you have made it inmyhouse.”
“I understand that.”
“I hope that you do. Because I will tell you now, plainly, what I will not tolerate.”
She braced herself.
“If,” he said, very softly, “you are carrying another man’s child?—”
She sucked in a breath. “I can assure you, I am not.”
“—I will not claim it.” He continued as though she had not spoken. “I will not raise it. I will not give it my name, nor a farthing of my fortune, nor a single hour of pretense before the world. Do you understand me, Imogen? Whatever was, was. I do not propose to inquire too closely into the past of a woman who has shown herself capable ofthis.” He motioned to the empty space between them. “But I will not be made a cuckold beneath my own roof, and I will not have a stranger’s blood inheriting Winfield.”
The words struck her like a slap.
For one breathless moment she could only stare at him, her mouth half-open on a protest she could not seem to assemble. The implication—that she was thesort—that he believed her capable?—
“Your Grace,” she said, and her voice came out very quiet, very precise, the voice she had used as a girl when her brothers had teased her past bearing and she had been determined not to cry in front of them. “You insult me.”
“I am being practical.”
“You are beingvile.”