“You wish me to sign over complete financial control while I remain in residence,” he stated, his tone flat.
“Precisely.” Eleanor met his gaze steadily. “Just as you did for our proxy arrangement.”
A shadow crossed his features. “That would leave me without resources, entirely dependent on your goodwill. Not a position I can accept.”
“Yet you expect me to accept dependence on yours?” Her voice held a thread of outrage. “What I’m requesting is no different from what you’ve already agreed to. The only change is your presence in England.”
“There’s a significant difference,” he countered. “I’ve given you my word that I won’t interfere with your financial independence. You’re asking me to legally handicap myself.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “The law already grants you every protection and advantage, while I have none. What I’m asking for is but a fraction of the security you enjoy simply by virtue of your sex and title.”
“I am a man of my word,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of offense. “I shall not interfere with your businesses or your charities. But I will not deliberately place myself at a disadvantage, particularly in London where circumstances can change rapidly.”
Eleanor studied his face, recognizing the stubborn set of his jaw that meant further argument would be futile. They had reached an impasse—his honor against her security, trust against legal protection.
“Very well,” she said quietly, rising from her chair. “Then we shall see whose word proves more reliable—yours, or the law’s.”
What are youabout, you imbecile?Damien chided himself even as the words left his mouth. Becoming attached to this woman, either with his body or heart, was precisely what he needed to avoid, by God. As soon as he found Dominic, he would take him back to their ancestral home, if all went well. If Croft continued to be a threat, he’d take his brother as far away from England as possible. The lad had made fair recovery away from the clutches of that man. Damien was not about to hand Dominic back to the darkest corners of London just because his prick found his wife irresistible. And yet he was doing exactly the opposite—handing both balls to this striking woman.
It felt as though he was sitting at hell’s gate. Heat threatened to overcome him, and it wouldn’t do to show his hand.
Damien set down his fork and reached for his cravat, loosening it with deft fingers before removing it entirely. “You find this room rather warm, don’t you? Or perhaps it’s the wine.”
The casual intimacy of the gesture—a man undressing, even partially, at the dinner table—would be considered shocking to anyone. Eleanor stared, rightfully so, as he unfastened his top button and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. Not the soft limbs of a gentleman who spent his days in clubs and drawing rooms, his were the arms of a man who’d been training in the oriental art of fighting for the past three years.
Damien had started to defend himself and his brother against the local gangs who had no regard for his title or authority in England. Then the fighting became a bonding experience for them both. Strangely, it was the fights and their ability to defend themselves that became a powerful antidote to Dominic’s addiction. They had learned to channel their excessive energy and time into this form of art.
“What are you doing?” his duchess finally managed after gaping at him for an embarrassingly long time.
“Creating equal footing,” he replied simply. “You’ve employed every advantage at your disposal, including your considerable charms. It seemed only fair to respond in kind.”
A laugh escaped her, followed by her attempt to contain it—a genuine sound of surprised amusement. “You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever encountered.”
“And yet you’re smiling.” His own grin widened, hoping it was infectious. “A promising development in our negotiations. Imagine the impact if I were trying to charm you.”
Eleanor shook her head, the curls by her ears bouncing adorably. She was obviously torn between exasperation and reluctant admiration for his audacity.
“What exactly are you proposing?” she asked as she straightened her spine and took a sip of her wine.
“A partnership of sorts. We present ourselves to Society as a happily married couple. You maintain control of your financial affairs. I conduct my business in London with the advantages of a ducal residence and respectable household. We share this house as equals.”
“And the matter of…” She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat.
“Marital relations?” he finished for her, his voice gentle. “That remains entirely at your discretion. I would welcome your interest, should it develop, but I will not demand what you’re unwilling to give.”
The offer was a reasonable one given how much more he could rightfully demand. To his chagrin, this seemed to make her all the more suspicious. “But what of Mr. Abram?”
He reached for his wine, watching her as her gaze followed his hand. “If we need to convince the staff of our legitimacy as a couple, we could feign it without much difficulty. Can we not?”
“Yes… I suppose so.” Her voice was timid, something he believed was uncharacteristic of her. “Although, by all things holy, I wish you would not insist on it.”
Her brows furrowed and he made an instant decision to be frank.
“My dear wife,” he said as he drained the wine from his glass, “I’ve not felt the touch of a woman for three years. I’ve never been keen on brothels, and hiring a mistress in the Orient meant giving away one of my balls to the local criminal organization. So, pardon me for being so frank, but given the choice, I’d rather bed you even if it meant offering my left bollock to you, Duchess.”
Damien glanced at Eleanor, whose complexion had turned a most becoming shade of crimson. Her voice was steadier thanhe’d expected. “And if I agree to fake our marriage, how long do you intend to remain in London?”
“I cannot say. You may not wish me to leave.” He smiled smugly. “You do not strictly need my absence, after all. Not if I am able to satisfy your… needs.”