Page 102

Her fingers twisted in her skirt. “I do not think you understand what you are asking.”

“I understand,” he said hoarsely, “that I lied by omission and did not give you the whole of my name.” He swallowed. “I understand that I hurt you. The one person whose good opinion I have ever truly wanted.”

Her head snapped up at that.

“My mother’s approval has always been…necessary,” he went on, because if he didn’t say it now he never would. “The Board’s respect is useful. The ton’s favor is…noise. But you looked at me as if ‘Chester’ were enough. For someone who has been ‘Your Grace’ since he could walk, that was—” He huffed out something like a laugh, without humor. “It was addictive. I was a coward. I chose one more hour as the man you liked over the risk of becoming the duke you hated.”

She blinked. He saw the flare of recognition—he had named something she had already suspected.

“You stood at the beach,” she said slowly, “and told me not to let Pepper or Barbara define me. You asked to see the part of me no one else sees. And all the while, you kept the one name that defines you to everyone else tucked away like…like a spare glove.”

“Yes.” The admission tasted bitter and necessary. “I did. I will regret that, I think, until the day I die.” He spread his hands, empty now. “But I am trying to show you—now—that I am more than that name has ever allowed me to be.”

“How?” she demanded. “With a nursery full of pity? You’re trapping me into motherhood before I ever have the chance to find out if I’m even barren.”

He stilled. “What do you mean, find out if you’re barren?”

Color shot up her throat. “It’s nothing.”

“It is very much something,” he said quietly. “Pepper?”

She blew out a breath. “Dr. Fernando says the only way to know whether a woman can bear children is to…attempt the act that makes them.” Her chin came up, defiant over the blush. “I have never done the act. Obviously. So, all the worrying has been over a thing we cannot even know.”

For a heartbeat his mind went very, very blank.

“I see,” he managed, rather hoarsely.

“He called it ‘practice,’” she muttered. “As if one were learning to waltz. Practice without any guarantee of…results. And I’m not good at dancing, so…”

Some reckless, masculine corner of him thought, wildly, that he would gladly devote a lifetime to such practice. He strangled the thought. “So what?”

“Well, I tried to stay away from you. I told you before, I don’t want a husband I love. I don’t want Wyndale, certainly, since he wants heirs.”

“I want you, Pepper,” he said quietly.

“That is against my principles,” she said, helpless and furious at once. “I told myself I would never marry a man I loved, and then I had the astonishing bad sense to fall in love with you.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “There,” she muttered. “Are you satisfied? I’ve said it now.”

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. “I heard,” he said at last, voice unsteady. “I simply don’t quite know what to do with being loved by you.” He dragged in a breath. “That doctor,” he added weakly, “is a dangerously sensible man.”

Her mouth twitched, despite herself. “I should hate to disappoint.”

“You won’t,” he said. “Whatever happens—or does not happen—between us, I swear to you, you will never disappoint me by simply being yourself.” She glistened and he took heart. “I am stupid,” he went on, before courage failed him. “Selfish in more ways than I knew. Ashamed of privileges I did not earn. I am trying to be better. To make good use of what I was handed. But without you at my side, I am afraid I will never quite live up to what I could be.”

Her laugh was small and sharp. “You mean, you need someone to keep shouting at you about flour and practice making heirs?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Exactly that.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she hadn’t meant to let the jest escape. Tears pricked; she blinked hard.

He closed the last inch between them and, very gently, took her hands.

“Pepper, listen to me. I do not care if we never have a child that shares my eyes or your hair. I care that you are breathing. That you argue with me. That my house is a place where people are fed, loved, and protected, not judged.”

Her fingers trembled. He tightened his hold just enough to steady, not to trap.

“What about your title?” she whispered. “Your line? Your mother’s lamb wallpaper?”

He almost smiled. “My line will survive without my name carrying it into eternity. There are cousins enough to keep lawyers comfortable. As for my house…” He tipped his head toward the door the girls had vanished through. “It is already full. They have conquered every adult and stolen every biscuit in three days. If we decide one day to add to that chaos—by birth, by adoption, by simply leaving the nursery door open—that will be our choice. Not my mother’s. Not the ton’s.”