Those and similar questions circled around and around in her head and, ultimately, followed her into her dreams.
Stacie called at Albury House at half past ten, the earliest possible hour at which she could risk being seen treading up the steps of her fiancé’s house.
Fortingale, Frederick’s extr
emely correct butler, opened the door to her knock and masked his surprise well. He bowed her inside. “Lady Eustacia. I fear the marchioness has yet to leave her chamber.”
“That’s entirely all right, Fortingale.” Looking down, she tugged off her gloves. “I haven’t—”
“Stacie?”
She looked up and saw Frederick descending the long sweep of the grand staircase. Forgetting Fortingale even as the butler lifted her cape from her shoulders, she went forward to meet her supposed intended. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, my lady.” He stepped down to the hall tiles.
She stuffed her gloves into her reticule, pulled the strings tight, and halted before him.
With his gaze, sharp and searching, locked on her face, he grasped the hand she offered and smoothly raised it to his lips. “As always, I’m delighted to see you.”
She ignored the frisson of awareness that raced over her skin at the brush of his lips over her bare knuckles. She’d ransacked her wardrobe to find the perfect gown to strike just the right note for this encounter and had settled on a severe creation in sapphire blue, trimmed with silver ribbon. Retrieving her hand, she raised her chin and met his gaze. “Might I claim a few minutes of your time?”
“Of course.” He stepped back and waved her down a corridor. “My study might be more comfortable than the drawing room.”
She acquiesced with a nod and allowed him to usher her down the corridor and into an elegantly proportioned room that, courtesy of the mahogany paneling and the bookshelves lining the walls, felt surprisingly cozy. A large desk stood in pride of place with two armchairs facing it, and a pair of wing chairs sat angled before the hearth, but Frederick led her to two comfortable leather armchairs that faced each other across a shallow alcove formed by three long windows that looked out on a small terrace. Trees bordered the terrace, and a small fountain spilled its waters in the center, creating a cool, green oasis that seemed far removed from the bustle of London’s streets.
Her gaze on the greenery, she sank onto the leather and took a moment to steady her over-tense nerves. But the momentous moment wouldn’t be denied; she drew in a long breath, refocused her wits, marshaled her courage and her determination, and shifted her gaze to Frederick as he sat in the chair opposite.
His expression remained impassive, but his eyes said he was watchful, waiting to learn what this was about.
She’d resolved to be honest, open, and direct; he deserved nothing less. Her head erect, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she drew breath and plunged in. “Yesterday, you floated the idea of us making our engagement real.” She met his eyes. “Were you serious?”
Hope surged through Frederick; instantly, he suppressed it and evenly replied, “Entirely. And I haven’t changed my mind.” When she didn’t immediately go on, he prompted, “You said you would think about it.”
She gave a tiny nod. “I’ve carefully considered the prospect—all the various aspects of it—and I have…certain reservations.”
He would have been stunned had she simply agreed. “Such as?” He kept his tone as undemanding as he could.
Yet rather than answer the straightforward question, she continued, “My reservations arise from the considerations that I’ve previously noted are too complicated to explain, which is something that hasn’t changed. However”—she paused to draw in a tense breath before continuing—“my reservations can be overcome if you will agree to a stipulation—an agreed condition.”
He masked his surprise. “One stipulation—one condition?”
Her nod was decisive and definite; from her expression, from her eyes, he could tell that she’d thought this through, and whatever her condition was, it was critically important to her.
He inclined his head. “And that condition is?”
Her gaze turned inward, and she hesitated, he sensed to gather her courage as well as her words, then she refocused on his eyes and said, “I need you to promise—on your honor—that you will never, ever, fall in love with me.”
He stared at her and didn’t move so much as an eyelash. He’d heard her words, had absorbed them, but for a long moment, he couldn’t make sense of them.
Then he did.
His gaze was locked with hers and hers with his; he looked deep into her eyes—and felt as if the earth shifted beneath his feet.
Understanding slammed into him. He felt like sucking in a sharp breath, but controlled the urge and, more slowly, expanded his chest. To gain time—to give him a chance to regain his balance—he arched a noncommittal brow. “That’s it?”
The tension gripping her was palpable. Without shifting her gaze from his, she nodded. “That’s all I need to be certain of.”
His wits were still reeling. How many gentlemen of his age and ilk would be thrilled to have such an ultimatum placed before them? He didn’t doubt that her condition was, indeed, an ultimatum; if he didn’t grant her stipulation, she wouldn’t agree to be his wife.