Page 68 of His Unwanted Duchess

“Oh, humbug. It is clear that you are fond of me, at the very least. You confessed that you’re attracted to me, very much so, and it’s plain that your sentiments are returned. Why is it that whenever I inch closer to you, you fly away like a startled creature?”

“I’ve been called acreaturebefore, and in more uncomplimentary terms than that,” Stephen responded tartly.“Perhaps you should ask yourself why you are so keen to lose your heart to the Devil. You’ve already made a deal with him, which is how you came to be here in the first place. Have you not learned your lesson, my dear? You should enjoy your freedom.”

She bit her lower lip. “My freedom?”

“Yes, that thing you were willing to strike a bargain with me, of all men, to get.”

“Well, what if I… what if I want more days like today?”

That was the closest she could get to confessing the truth. Beatrice tilted up her chin, forcing herself to keep her gaze fixed on his.

Stephen pressed his lips together. “Be careful, Beatrice. Call me whatever you like, but I’ll always be Blackheart.”

She scoffed. “I think it’s a dangerous game to be unable to tell the difference between one’s true self and the mask one wears.”

“Very flowery.”

She took a step forward. “Don’t make fun of me! Do you think I don’t have enough of that, in this world where women are never taken seriously? I agreed to your terms, Stephen, and I do not rescind my agreement. I might not wish to give birth to your child, but that’s not to say I do not want companionship.”

There was a brief silence after that.

Stephen had his cool gaze fixed on her, unreadable as always, and Beatrice did not allow herself to look away.

“And why would you not want to give birth to my child?”

She flinched. That was not a question she had expected from him.

“Well, ahem, you were quite clear about?—”

He cut her off, waving a hand. “Yes, yes, I recall. I am asking whyyouare so opposed to giving birth to my child.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, cursing herself for being so careless with her words.

“It’s not personal,” she said. “Nothing about you, really. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“My rules are not personal, either,” he countered, his gaze intent on her face.

Beatrice found herself dropping her eyes to avoid it. “As I said, I don’t wish to talk about it.”

His eyes narrowed. “My dear, you are asking me to open up when you are not willing to do the same yourself. Would you notcall that hypocritical? A little unfair to demand a thing you are not willing to offer yourself? Tut-tut, Duchess.”

To her chagrin, Beatrice realized he was right. Biting back a groan of annoyance, she turned on her heel and walked away a few steps, close enough to inspect the waxy leaves of a nearby plant.

Behind her, she heard the gentle clink of a teaspoon, the splash of milk into a teacup, and the muffled sound of a sugar lump dropping into the beverage.

Drawing in a deep breath, she turned, and found Stephen watching her carefully.

“Tea?” he said lightly, holding out a cup.

She took it, sitting down with a thump that made the tea spill into the saucer.

“I imagine you know already what happened to my sister,” she said dully. “You know everything that happens in London, after all.”

Stephen said nothing for a moment, taking a long sip of his tea.

“Perhaps,” he said at last. “But the bare facts are very different from the full story and what it does to the people involved. So humor me, dear wife.”

Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m the middle child, you see. I have a younger brother, John—you’ve met him—and I have an older sister, Jane. Had,” she corrected, the familiar misery sweeping over her. “I had an older sister.”

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