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She watched him. “You speak as if you are two men,” she murmured. “One with the ink. One here.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps I am. Which is why I ask you this—don’t let a name decide who I am to you. Give me a chance to show you. See the man. Then decide whether he deserves your good opinion.”

Her throat moved. “And you will tell me…what, then?”

“I will tell you everything,” he said. “Soon.”

“Soon is a comfortable word for men with power,” she said. “It keeps everyone else waiting.”

The rebuke landed cleanly. He didn’t flinch away from it.

“Then let us make a bargain,” he said, reaching for her hand. She hesitated, then let him take it. His thumb swept once over her knuckles—small, steadying. “You will look past whatever name I give you—when I give it—and see me. And I will look past any name they give you and see you. Whole. Boots, pastry shop, singing sugar, and all.”

She stared at their joined hands. “Whole,” she repeated. “Not half.”

“Never half,” he said.

She looked up at him. Something settled behind her eyes, like a latch clicking shut. “Very well,” she said. “I accept your bargain, Chester. I will see the man past the name. And…you must do the same for me.”

“I already do,” he said quietly.

A shadow crossed her face. “You heard them,” she said. “In the corridor. The Dowager. Darley. ‘Unsuitable stock.’ ‘Heirs are everything.’ I may be no use as a wife.”

His eyes closed for a beat. “I heard it all,” he said. “And I hated every syllable.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman’s worth isn’t measured by her usefulness,” he said. The words came out plain. True. “And because whatever marriage should be, it cannot be a purchase.” She lifted her chin. “But marriage also promises families.”

“I know.” He drew a breath and chose his words carefully. “I meant…we do not know what is possible until it is tested. Not by doctors gossiping. Not by the ton making wagers.” His ears heated anyway. “That is—childbearing. I mean childbearing.”

“Of course not,” she snapped automatically, and then seemed to realize what she’d snapped at. She stepped back a fraction, flustered.

He lifted both hands in surrender, mortified. “I am making a hash of this.”

To his relief, her mouth twitched. “You are.”

Then her humor fell away, and she took his hand as if she needed something steady.

“I was nearly lost,” she said, voice low. “I had a fever. Apoplexy. They did not know whether I would live past the age of eight. I did. With a limp and a doctor who said childbearing might be…uncertain.” Her mouth tightened. “The ton heard that and made me a ledger entry. Risk. Bad investment. Unsuitable wife.”

His chest went tight.

She swallowed, eyes fixed on the sand. “Could you imagine what it would do to my chances if anyone found out I’m a baker’s daughter on top of that?”

For a moment, his mind went silent.

A baker’s daughter.

Not the match his mother would scheme for. Not the safe choice, nor a woman the ton would excuse.

And still—his first instinct wasn’t calculation.

It was anger.

For her.

And for the way the world had been weighing her like flour and deciding she wasn’t worth enough.