Courtney Milan (10 page)

She let out a long breath. “Oh, you
are
romantic.”

His lips compressed. “Grow accustomed to it. This is business, not romance.”

He glanced down, avoiding her eyes, and sifted through papers on the desk before him. “You wanted a lease on a farm within your means, did you not? Shall I look out for properties for you, or would you like to conduct the search yourself?”

“I would hate to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble.” He glanced up warily at her. “As it happens, I’ve already started. There are some possibilities detailed here.” He rescued a sheaf of papers teetering on the edge of the desk and slid them over to her.

No; it wasn’t coldness she detected in his manner. He was nervous. And if he was nervous…

Serena had never been able to suppress hope for long. It filled her now.

There were no fates worse than death. There were only temporary setbacks on the road to victory. And no matter how coldly he phrased the prospect of their marriage, one thing was quite clear. She had won.

He was hers. Not Clermont’s. Not anyone else’s. No matter what he said, one didn’t tie oneself to a woman for life without granting her one’s loyalty. She stood, ignoring the papers he’d shoved over to her.

“The key to picking a good property,” he said, reaching across the desk to shuffle the pages, “is to think of where you’ll have water and sunlight and to look at prior crop yields. Those will tell you much about the quality of the soil.”

She stepped around the desk and set her hands on his shoulders.

He stopped. Swallowed. “Lavender—you did say lavender, did you not?—grows best in dry, sandy soils, neither alkaline nor acidic in nature. You might start looking at the properties in Cambridgeshire—that’s one of the driest parts of all of England, you know. Search out a soil that produces carrots on a regular basis, and…” He trailed off as she leaned toward him.

“You would be giving up all chance at marriage, Hugo. If you met someone and fell in love…”

“Will never happen. Never wanted it.” He let out a shaky puff of air, and Serena realized that he had been holding his breath.

“I have no time for women.” He raised his hand to her face and skimmed his fingertips down the line of her jaw, trailing them along her skin, until his index finger reached her chin. “Not even for you,” he whispered.

She raised her eyes to his. “Are you telling me I can’t?”

He made a confused, scalded noise—and then his arms came around her, catching her to him, pulling her down to sit on his lap. His lips were soft on hers—soft and sweet, but oh so hungry.

He’d claimed there was nothing of romance in this, but she wouldn’t have known it from his kiss. It wasn’t just his tightly-constrained want. A man who was driven solely by physical lust would have tried to seduce her first and marry her never. Instead, he kissed her as if it were his last time. As if she were a glass of water, and he the man about to embark on a trek across the desert. He savored her with his lips.

For a moment, she believed that no matter what he’d said, their marriage might become real. He was going to change his mind. She could taste it in his kiss.

But then he pulled away. “As you can see,” he said hoarsely, “this is nothing more than selfishness on my part. There’s no room for you in my life. But this way, at least I’ll know that you’re safe.”

He was fooling himself if he thought she would settle for a half-marriage. She’d vowed to win him from Clermont. She’d be damned if she stopped with less than full victory. She’d brought him this far. He would change his mind.

“I see,” Serena said softly, setting her palm against his cheek. “There’s no romance at all.”

“None.” And this time, his eyes didn’t drop from hers.

Chapter Eight

S
ERENA HAD LEFT HER SISTER
this morning with everything between them unsettled. She hadn’t known what would happen to her, what Hugo Marshall intended, and whether Freddy would ever speak to her again. And so when she pushed the door to her sister’s room open, she held her breath.

Everything appeared to be back to strict order. Freddy’s gloves were neatly laid atop one another on the table in the entry; her half boots, dry and unused, stood underneath. When she peered around the doorframe, there was no sign of the clothing that Freddy had flung at her, nor of the valise that had landed at her feet. It had all been packed away.

Serena stepped cautiously into the front room.

Freddy was sitting at the window, her hands full of linen that seemed far finer than the usual charity work she did. The fabric was a golden-orange, with a subtle damask pattern woven into it.

“Frederica?” Serena asked.

“There’s bread in the box and fresh milk,” Freddy said. “And apples—I had Jimmy bring up some apples from the green grocer. I thought we might make us a supper of that.”

Jimmy was the boy who lived downstairs; Freddy paid him to fetch things. But even thirteen-year-old Jimmy was sometimes too much for Freddy. If she’d been willing to talk to him…

Serena had almost hoped that Freddy would stay angry. Instead, she was hiding behind a façade composed of the commonplace. She had already retreated inside a thick shell built from these rooms. Nothing Serena said—nor anger, nor tears—would coax her out.

“Freddy,” Serena tried, “I’m sorry.”

Freddy looked up from her work long enough to frown. “You should be. I’ve told you not to call me Freddy time and time again.” She glanced down sharply and smoothed out the fabric she was working on. “It’s not ladylike. I don’t wish to answer to such an appellation.”

“You were right. I put you at risk, and—”

“You always put things at risk. If you fell out of a tree as a child, I’d clean you up and bandage your knees, and next I looked you’d be out climbing again. You never learned your lesson.”

Oh, she’d learned her lesson:
Climb harder
.

Somehow, Serena didn’t think that was the lesson Freddy had expected her to learn.

“It’s always the same thing,” Freddy said. “You fall, I catch. And before you’ve even healed up properly, you’re out looking for a new way to fall.”

Freddy clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and Serena stared at her.

Here she’d been thinking that
Freddy
was damaged beyond repair, hiding from the world. Freddy thought that Serena was unprotected. Was that how she seemed to Freddy? Some strange, impetuous creature, launching from disaster to disaster, simply because she refused to give up? The vision this invoked of herself was so alien that Serena was robbed of a response.

How could they be sisters? It seemed impossible that they should view the world with such fundamentally different eyes.

And yet there was Freddy—
Freddy,
who hadn’t stirred from these rooms since she met Serena at the inn where the stagecoach had deposited her—shaking her head as if
Serena
were the one on the brink of commitment to Bedlam.

There was no way to give voice to her thoughts.

No, Freddy. You appear to be mistaken. I am not mad; you are.

“What are you working on?” Serena finally asked instead. “That fabric’s beautiful.”

“It’s one of Mother’s old dresses,” Freddy said calmly. “I’m making it over. I thought it would do for a wedding dress for you.”

Serena choked. “How did you
know?”

“I’m your sister, Serena.” Freddy spoke with a smile that was as annoying as it was mysterious. “I know everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Your Mr. Marshall paid me a visit this morning. Just after you left. He told me he was going to ask.” Freddy pulled a face. “I suspect you’re going to say yes. It’s the sort of fool thing you would do—trusting your entire fate and future to some man you scarcely know, when you could stay here in perfect safety.”

Safety?
Immobility
seemed a better word.

“In any event,” Freddy said, “when it all falls apart, I’ll be here to catch you and pick up the pieces. Again.”

Freddy would never shatter. She couldn’t; she’d never ascend to any great heights. One day, though, she’d come to the plodding end of her resources. She would suffocate in her tiny room.

“What if it doesn’t fall apart?” Serena asked.

Freddy stared at her, her gray eyes narrowing. “How you can still ask that, when—” She exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Now are you going to try this dress on, so we can see where it needs pinning?”

There was no winning this one.

“Thank you,” Serena finally said. “Help me with my buttons, please.”

T
HE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING
flew by in a frenzy of licenses and leases. Hugo found it better to keep himself busy with details, rather than ponder the impenetrable mystery of his impending nuptials.

Whenever the thought crossed his mind—
you’re getting married—
he thrust it away.

Marriage was an entanglement.
This
was simply a business commitment.

To a woman.

Just your everyday, average business arrangement—except this one gave him the right to take her to bed.

That was the reason why he didn’t dare think about what he was doing—because once he thought of Serena Barton as his wife-to-be instead of as a partner in an arms’-length arrangement, his imagination wandered.

It wasn’t the thought of bedding her—repeatedly—that most caught his fancy.

It was the thought that for the first time in years, he might have someone. Marriage became companionship. Companionship became a reason to give up his fight, to spend evenings with her instead of poring over shipping records, searching for a pattern that would yield profit.

No. He couldn’t let himself dwell on that.

But not thinking about his inchoate wishes left him unprepared when he reached the church where they were to be married. He felt off balance throughout the ceremony—as if he were on the brink of stumbling and couldn’t reach out to catch himself.

He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her. Her gown was the color of daylight just before sunset; if he looked at her too long, he feared he might be left blind once she was gone. The vicar stood between them, reciting words that Hugo couldn’t comprehend—
richer
and
poorer,
troth,
wife
. He repeated his vows in a dream; he barely heard her answers.

But when he took her hand to slip his ring onto her finger, she was solid and warm—the only real thing in the room. He almost didn’t want to let go of her. The vicar gave him permission and he kissed her—not hard, for lust, nor long, for love, but a light brush of his lips for the brief space of time that she would stay in his life.

In the hired carriage after, as he returned Serena and her sister to her home, he could not help but think of what he would not have. The carriage drew up; her sister disembarked.

Serena did not move.

“The lease is in order,” Hugo said, “and I’ve arranged your passage on the stage. I hired a woman to see you through the next year. Don’t argue; you shouldn’t be alone under the circumstances.”

She was turned away from him.

“Thank you,” she said. Her hand clenched in the fabric of her skirts convulsively.

“If you need me for anything, you have only to ask.” A foolish offer, but then, he was used to turning into a fool around her.

“I…that is…” Her voice quivered and deep inside, some part of him quailed.

“What?” The word came out cold, but he didn’t care.

She turned to him. “I think we should consummate the marriage after all.”

Yes,
some possessive beast inside him growled. But what came out was the clipped version: “Why? Is this some sort of misguided thanks? I don’t want—”

Her lips thinned. “Because maybe you can pretend that this is solely a business transaction, but I cannot. Consummation will provide us both with some protection, should the marriage be challenged. More than that. We are
married
—and maybe this is no conventional arrangement, but it is still
real
.”

“It isn’t,” he said.

“It is. What is a husband, but the man who offers you support when all the world turns you away?”