“Really?”
Yes, really—why else am I putting myself through this?
She blew out a breath. “Yes, all right.” Now she was talking to herself, but perhaps speaking the words aloud might help.
Honesty would help, too. She closed her eyes and said, “Becoming Frederick’s marchioness…is tempting.”
More than tempting—the position fits me so remarkably well that it lures me with the intensity of a siren’s song.
Eyes still closed, she grimaced. “That’s why I didn’t—couldn’t bring myself to—immediately say no.”
She’d actually wanted to force herself to reassess—to see if there was some way she might claim what he was offering.
And if she was going to deal honestly, then one point she’d omitted on the pro side was a corollary of having children—that being Frederick’s wife would give her the chance to explore and enjoy the delights of the marriage bed, legitimately and with a partner whose touch set her nerves leaping and her senses slavering without him even meaning to. She, after all, had been the one to initiate that reckless kiss in Lady Waltham’s folly—all because she hadn’t been able to resist the compulsion to learn if his kiss would be different from her previous experiences, and it had been.
Startlingly so. Passionately so.
She couldn’t pretend, even to herself, that she didn’t desire him.
“As for having children…” If, with Frederick, she brought children into this world, it would be into the embrace of a large and supportive family, as witnessed by Mary’s event of yesterday. Her mother had refused to allow let alone encourage any such familial interaction. “She wanted to keep us dependent on her, tied to her apron strings until she consented to cut us loose—for a price.” Any children she had with Frederick would have a very different life from the isolation she and Godfrey especially, kept tight under her mother’s wing, had endured. “Our children would be safe—I don’t need to refuse him out of concern on that score.”
Indeed, now she’d matured enough to understand the tug she felt over children, she’d realized she possessed the full gamut of maternal instincts, something her mother had never demonstrated in even the smallest degree. That had been a critical and glaring lack in her mother’s psyche, one she now felt confident she didn’t share.
Well and good—I’ve just convinced myself that no amount of concern over children or the marriage bed should stand in the way of me accepting Frederick.
She frowned, but couldn’t deny that conclusion or the one to which it ultimately led. “I could be happy being his wife. I would no longer be alone within the ton, I would have a household to manage and, with luck, children to love.” Those were her long-ago girlish aspirations, before she’d set aside all thought of marriage. “On top of that, I would have a husband I already respect, a gentleman who shares many of my own interests, and who is amenable to helping me achieve my chosen purpose of helping local musicians.”
What more could I possibly want?
She huffed, then admitted, “Nothing.” After a moment, she added, “So why am I dithering?”
The answer to that was a lot longer in coming, but eventually, she dredged it up from the depths of her box of fears. “I don’t want to hurt him.” Like her mother had hurt her father.
That was the lynchpin, the crux of it all.
She firmed her lips, then opened them and confessed, “I am like her—I know I am. I manipulate people exactly as she did—sometimes without even thinking.” She paused, then went on, “Others manipulate—Mary and Ryder both often do—but they aren’t like me. They aren’t her daughter—they don’t carry her blood. I do, and I can never escape that. I might not want to hurt Frederick, not at first, but there’s no guarantee that, over time, knowing I can, knowing exactly how to do it, the temptation to strike at him in that way won’t prove irresistible. And once I start…I know how it will end.”
That was her greatest fear—the fear that had made her vow never to marry.
“I couldn’t bear to become like Mama and use a man’s love, his love for me, to hurt and ultimately kill him. I would rather die an old maid.”
That was indisputable.
Then she blinked and replayed what she’d just said—the simplest statement of her fundamental fear—and this time, paid attention to the words. In a wondering tone, she stated, “Hurting Frederick will only be possible if he loves me.”
I don’t think he does.
Rapidly—almost desperately—she replayed every moment she’d spent in his company. They got along, he and she, and yes, desire was undeniably there, but that was another lesson she’d learned at her mother’s knee—lust and love weren’t the same thing. One didn’t equate to the other, didn’t imply the existence of the other.
Eyes wide, she stared up at the canopy and battled to contain a sense of rising hope enough to continue to think.
Could she risk it?
Would she? Did she have the courage to grasp Frederick’s proffered hand and make a bid for a happy life?
Did she truly believe she could? That such a much-desired outcome was possible without her falling prey to the unthinkable?
Or should she pander to her fear, retreat from taking such a risk-laden step, and continue on her path into a lonely future?