A week later, Rowan stood in Channing’s offices off Lincoln’s Inn Fields and tried not to scowl at the oil painting on the opposite wall.
It depicted some long-dead Everly ancestor in a powdered wig and crimson coat, one hand resting on a globe, the other on a roll of parchment. His gaze was lofty, his expression assured, as if the world itself were a ledger he had already balanced.
Rowan wanted to ask him if he’d ever had to write to a stranger and ask her to save him.
Channing, precise as ever in sober gray, riffled through a sheaf of papers at his desk. “Mr. Harcourt has agreed to meet, Your Grace,” the solicitor said. “But he was quite emphatic that Miss Harcourt will not be… *paraded,* as he put it.”
A wry smile tugged at Rowan’s mouth. “We are in agreement there. I have no wish to be paraded either.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Channing folded his hands. “We have arranged a small gathering at Harcourt House. Mr. Harcourt has invited two other men of business whom he trusts. You will attend on the same pretext: to discuss potential mutual interests.”
“Mutual interests,” Rowan repeated. “Such as?”
Channing cleared his throat. “Mr. Harcourt’s shipping empire is considerable. Your late father held shipping shares as well… though many are compromised. It is not unreasonable that you would seek to… rationalize your portfolio.”
Rowan grimaced. “Is there any part of my life that isn’t compromised?”
“Your title,” Channing said smoothly. “And your education. You have a sound understanding of estate management, Your Grace. I have seen the reports from Cambridge. You were… diligent.”
Rowan snorted. “I imagine you read those reports with an eye toward future use, even when I was nineteen.”
“A solicitor is always planning ahead,” Channing said without apology. “As must a duke be, particularly now.”
Rowan let the snort turn into a rough chuckle. “So. I attend this little gathering. I speak soberly of docks and timetables instead of horses and hazard. At some point, I am… introduced to Miss Harcourt.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Mr. Harcourt has not forbidden it, provided it occurs naturally.”
“And the ledger?” Rowan asked. On the desk between them lay a slim volume: a concise but unflinching summary of his position, compiled from Whitlow’s and Channing’s records. “Have you truly sent a copy to Mr. Harcourt?”
Channing inclined his head. “I have. With your written permission. Mr. Harcourt, in turn, informed his daughter that he intended to share the contents with her. Miss Harcourt is under no illusions as to your… constraints.”
Rowan exhaled slowly. “Good.”
“Most gentlemen in your position,” Channing ventured, “would consider such honesty… unwise.”
“Most gentlemen in my position,” Rowan said quietly, “are thinking only of themselves.”
He thought of those two suitors Livia Harcourt had already repulsed. He had read, in Channing’s careful report, of their debts, their empty promises, the way they’d flinched when she’d asked to see their accounts. He would not be just another in a line of deceivers.
“And if Miss Harcourt refuses even to meet me, after reading it?” he asked.
“Then we will seek other avenues,” Channing said. “There are other ladies—”
Rowan lifted a hand. “We will cross that bridge if we come to it. Until then, we proceed.”
Channing dipped his pen. “Very well, Your Grace. Mr. Harcourt has asked that I impress upon you one thing, however.”
“And that is?”
“Miss Harcourt is not,” the solicitor said delicately, “a woman who takes well to… performances. She is forthright. She values… clarity.”
Rowan’s mouth quirked. “She and I may get on famously, then. I have had my fill of performances.”
He thought of the balls, the flirtations, the glittering, empty talk. He’d once found it all amusing, even exhilarating. Now it felt like a stage set with flimsy walls, behind which real life muttered and rattled.
“And of course,” Channing added, “you will wish to present yourself in your best light, Your Grace.”
“Naturally,” Rowan said dryly. “I do not intend to greet her with a ledger in one hand and a pistol in the other. But I will not lie.”
He rose, smoothing his cuffs. The mirror on the far wall showed him an image that, to most of London, would have needed no improvement: a man a little over six feet, shoulders broad from riding and fencing, fair hair a shade too light to be truly fashionable, sliding toward bronze when the sun caught it. His eyes were gray, not the stormy sort that poets rhapsodized over, but clear and steady. He had his mother’s straight nose and his father’s strong jaw.
Once, he had been told he was handsome so often it had slid over him like water.
Now he wondered if beauty was just another kind of currency. And if Miss Harcourt was as unimpressed with it as the rumors suggested.
“You are certain,” he asked Channing, “that her father seeks a titled match?”
“I am certain,” Channing said slowly, “that Mr. Harcourt seeks a *good* match. He is wary of titles. He has seen too many of his peers dragged under by the men who bore them. But he is also a practical man. Your position, while… strained… is not beyond repair. With a dowry such as Miss Harcourt’s, carefully deployed, the Merrow estates could be stabilized within a decade.”
Within a decade.
Ten years of careful retrenchment. Ten years of watching every expenditure, of swallowing pride, of walking a tightrope between appearances and reality. Ten years with a stranger at his side, if she agreed.
“And Miss Harcourt?” Rowan pressed. “What does she seek?”
Channing hesitated. “I have met her but twice, Your Grace. She strikes one as… direct. Sharp. She does not appear to enjoy… frivolity.”
“A tragic flaw in a young lady,” Rowan murmured.
Channing’s mouth twitched. “Indeed. She is also likely the most financially literate unmarried woman in London.”
An unexpected thrill ran through him. “Then at least we will have something to talk about beyond the weather.”
“Oh, I suspect,” Channing said dryly, “that the weather will not occupy much of your conversation.”
***
The day of the meeting dawned clear and cold, the weak March sun glinting off wet cobblestones.
Harcourt House was not in Mayfair but on a broad street near the heart of the City, its brick facade clean and sturdy. It was larger than most merchants’ houses, with a handsome portico and windows that gleamed with recent polishing. The brass on the front door shone like gold.
Rowan stepped out of his carriage, the air tinged with coal smoke and the faint, lingering breath of the river.
The door opened at once. A butler—Harcourt’s, not a hired man from a service agency, judging by his ease—bowed. “Your Grace. Mr. Harcourt awaits you in the blue parlor.”
“Thank you.”
As he followed the man down the hall, Rowan’s gaze flicked over his surroundings. The floors were polished wood, the carpet runners thick but not ostentatious. The paintings on the walls favored seascapes and ship portraits over country scenes. A gleaming barometer hung by the door, its brass frame polished. The furniture visible through open doorways was solid, made more for use than mere display.
This was a house built by work, not inheritance.
The blue parlor was just that: walls papered in a deep shade that set off lighter blue upholstery and dark wood. A large globe stood by the window; a shelf held leather-bound volumes, some of which were clearly ledgers rather than poetry.
Three men rose as he entered.
“I beg your pardon for the hour,” said the largest of them: Silas Harcourt himself. He was a bear of a man, his hair already half white, his beard trimmed but defiant. His eyes were shrewd, though there was a warmth in them that reminded Rowan, unexpectedly, of Whitlow. “Gentlemen o’ your sort like to keep different hours from us dock folk, I’m told.”
“Not at all, Mr. Harcourt.” Rowan bowed. “I keep whatever hours my business requires.”
“Come in, then, Your Grace. You know Channing, of course.” Harcourt waved a hand and the solicitor bowed. “And this is Mr. Eames, who runs three warehouses in Wapping and knows more about dockside thieves than any man alive.”
Mr. Eames, a thin fellow with quick eyes, inclined his head. “An honor, Your Grace.”
“The honor is mine,” Rowan said, and meant it. These were the men upon whom London’s true wealth rested: not on gilded cards and horses, but on ships and barrels and sweat.
They sat. Tea was poured by a footman whose livery bore the Harcourt colors—navy and gold, simple but well-cut.
“We’re here to talk about… rationalization,” Harcourt said without ceremony, taking up his cup. “Your father’s holdings along the river were… shall we say… broad but not deep.”
Rowan didn’t flinch. “That would be a polite way of describing them, yes.”
“He liked to dabble.” Harcourt snorted. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Then he’d mortgage one to pay for another.”
“We hope,” Channing interjected smoothly, “to consolidate, Your Grace. The Harcourt interests have the capacity to manage certain docks more efficiently. A sale of some of your father’s shares to Mr. Harcourt might free capital to address your more… pressing obligations.”
“In other words,” Rowan said, “I sell some of my father’s better investments to pay for his worse ones.”
“Better?” Mr. Eames tilted his head. “Your Grace, with respect, your father’s dock investments are teetering. Profitable on paper, but overextended in reality. That’s half London at present. Boom and bust. Borrowed against next year’s profit.”
Harcourt grunted. “Man built his fortune on sand. I prefer rock.”
“As do I,” Rowan said quietly.
The conversation turned, then, from generalities to specifics. They discussed warehouses, loading times, tariffs, the impact of last year’s storms in the Channel. Rowan had always paid attention to such matters in an abstract way, as part of his estate education. Now, with his own survival at stake, he attended every word with fierce focus.
He found, to his faint surprise, that he could keep up. More than keep up, in fact. He was rusty, perhaps, but not ignorant. When he asked questions, they were the right ones. When he made suggestions, Eames’s eyes sharpened in interested approval.
“Not bad for a man who’s seldom smelled a fish barrel,” the warehouse owner said once, almost grudgingly.
“I hunted in the north most seasons,” Rowan said dryly. “I know the smell of damp and rot. It’s not so different.”
Harcourt barked another laugh. “We’ll make a trader of you yet, Your Grace.”
“If there is profit in it, Mr. Harcourt, I am a quick study.”
After an hour, a footman entered with a discreet cough. “Mr. Harcourt? Miss Harcourt wonders if you and your guests require any further refreshment.”
Rowan’s spine straightened.
“Refreshment,” Harcourt muttered. “Child thinks I forget my own manners.” He raised his voice. “Send her in, Jem.”
“Sir,” the footman said, and stepped aside.
Livia Harcourt entered the room not as if she were gliding into a ball, but as if she were striding onto a deck.
Her gown was a clear, strong blue that matched the walls and set off her dark hair, which was braided and pinned in a style that looked both elegant and entirely practical. The dress did not cling scandalously nor swathe her like a dowdy aunt’s. It fitted her; that was all. Her figure was neither sylphlike nor matronly, but something in between—strong lines and capable curves that suggested she’d rather climb stairs than be carried up them.
She had ink on her right thumb.
Rowan found that detail oddly heartening.
“Gentlemen,” she said, dropping a tidy curtsey. Her voice was low and even, without the simpering lilt he’d heard in so many drawing rooms. “Father, you forgot the tray again.”
Harcourt grunted. “I was talking.”
“As always,” she murmured, with a hint of a smile.
She crossed to the sideboard and, with the faintest of nods to the footman, lifted a pot of fresh tea. Her movements were sure but unhurried, as if she’d done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. When she turned, her gaze swept the room, taking in Channing and Eames before landing on Rowan.
Her green eyes sharpened.
“Miss Harcourt,” Channing said smoothly, rising. “May I present His Grace, Rowan Everly, Duke of Merrow? Your Grace, Miss Livia Harcourt.”
Rowan bowed. “Miss Harcourt.”
She set the teapot down on the low table between them, then sank into a graceful curtsey. “Your Grace. Welcome to Harcourt House.”
Her tone held no flutter, no awe. It was courteous, nothing more.
“The welcome is appreciated,” Rowan said.
She straightened and met his gaze. It felt oddly like being weighed.
“I trust my father is not working you too hard,” she said calmly. “He has a tendency to throw every thought into the air at once and hope something coherent lands.”
“Livia,” Harcourt complained, though affection warmed the word.
Rowan’s mouth twitched. “On the contrary, Miss Harcourt, your father has been most… illuminating.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Eames muttered.
Livia’s eyes flicked to him in quick understanding, and one corner of her mouth curved. “Mr. Eames, you promised to stop frightening Father’s guests with tales of thieves and runaway barrels.”
“I promised no such thing,” Eames retorted. “It’s part of the package.”
She shook her head and turned back to the tea. “Sugar, Your Grace?”
“Please.” He paused. “Two.”
She poured with efficient grace. “Cream?”
“No, thank you.” He hesitated. “Mr. Channing has spoken highly of your father’s tea. I confess, I believed it flattery.”
“It is,” she said. “Mr. Channing flatters everyone. But in this case, it is also true.”
He caught the startled flare of amusement in Channing’s eyes and bit back a smile.
“Miss Harcourt,” he said as she handed him the cup, “I understand you have some experience with ledgers.”
Her gaze sharpened again. “I do, Your Grace.”
“Then perhaps,” he said evenly, “you might guide me through the copy of mine your father has so kindly reviewed.”
Silence feathered over the room for a heartbeat. Harcourt shifted. Eames studied his boots. Channing cleared his throat.
Livia, however, did not flinch.
She set the teapot down, folded her hands and met Rowan’s eyes directly. “Very well, Your Grace.”
Harcourt made a faint protesting noise. “Now, Livia, we didn’t ask you down here to—”
“Yes, you did,” she said without looking at him. “Or you should have.” She inclined her head toward Rowan. “If you would care to step into Father’s study, Your Grace, we might have more room. Mr. Eames and Mr. Channing can finish terrifying each other with tales of dockside calamities.”
Eames chuckled. Channing looked faintly relieved.
Rowan rose. “I would like that very much.”
Harcourt grimaced. “Try not to flay him alive on the first meeting, girl.”
“I have no intention of flaying anyone,” Livia said mildly. “Merely of reading.”
She led the way into an adjoining room lined with more shelves and dominated by a large oak desk. Long windows overlooked the street. On the desk lay a familiar slim ledger: Rowan’s financial soul, distilled.
She gestured to a chair. “Please, sit, Your Grace.”
He did. She took the chair opposite, not behind the desk. An interesting choice; she was not positioning herself as his adversary, but his counterpart.
She rested her fingertips lightly on the ledger, then opened it.
“For what it is worth,” she said without preamble, “I appreciate your… candor.”
“My candor?” he repeated.
“In sending this.” She tapped the page. “Most men in your position would have given my father a very different account of their affairs, and kept the ugly truth tucked under a mattress.”
He held her gaze. “If I ask a woman to bind her fortune to mine, she deserves to know what ropes will be knotted.”
Her brows rose, just a fraction. “A refreshingly nautical metaphor for a duke.”
“I have spent the morning learning to think like a shipowner,” he said dryly. “Some of it may have already lodged.”
A faint gleam of amusement warmed her eyes, then vanished under thought as she scanned the first column.
“Fifty-two thousand and some hundreds,” she murmured. “This is the amount required to prevent immediate calamity.”
“Yes.”
“And this…” She flipped a page. “Is what you could raise, if you sold every asset not nailed to the entailed estates.”
“Yes.”
Her lips pressed together. “It is not enough.”
“No.”
Silence stretched, heavy with numbers.
“How much have you already cut, Your Grace?” she asked. “Servants, carriages, entertainments—”
“Less than I will,” he said frankly. “I have reduced certain household expenditures. Sold the racing horses. I intend to close the London house in the late summer and reside primarily at Merrow Park.”
Her eyes flicked up. “You will seclude yourself.”
“I will not,” he said evenly, “continue to spend money I do not have merely to convince people I have it. If I am to restore my house, I must be seen to live… within my means.”
“Within your means,” she repeated softly, as if tasting the phrase.
His jaw tightened. “You disapprove.”
“On the contrary.” She tapped the ledger again. “It is the first truly hopeful line in this book.”
He let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
“However,” she went on briskly, “even with cuts, and with the sale of certain dockside interests, you will still require a significant infusion of capital.”
“I will,” he said. “Which brings us, I believe, to the elephant between us.”
One brow arched. “I beg your pardon?”
“In the drawing rooms of Mayfair,” he said, “we call it the unspoken thing we are all thinking of but no one wishes to mention.”
“Ah. In the counting houses of Fenchurch Street, we call it ‘the point.’”
He smiled then, genuinely. “Very well. The point, then, is this: I require money. You possess it.”
A flush rose in her cheeks. “You put it rather baldly, Your Grace.”
“How else should I put it? I could couch it in flattery if you prefer. Speak of your eyes, your figure, your charm—”
Her spine went rigid. “Do not.”
He inclined his head at once. “Very well. I will not. I suspect you have heard such nonsense often enough, from men who then floundered when you asked about their own accounts.”
She blinked. “You have been well informed.”
“I read Mr. Channing’s notes,” he admitted. “And your father… speaks of you often.”
Her expression softened. “Does he.”
“He is proud of you,” Rowan said quietly. “It is… very clear.”
Her lips parted, then pressed together. She looked down at the ledger again, blinking once.
“He has reason,” she said briskly, as if warding off something softer. “I have worked hard to be worthy of his trust.”
“I do not doubt it.”
She turned a page with perhaps more force than necessary. “You said you would be honest. So tell me plainly, Your Grace. Why should I consider binding my fortune to yours? Beyond the obvious lure of your… *distinguished* name.”
The faintest edge of irony glazed that last word.
He sat back, considering. “Because,” he said at last, “I will not pretend that my need is not what it is. I will not charm you and lie to you and hope to keep my deceptions hidden until it is too late for you to withdraw.”
Her gaze flicked up. “You think that sufficient.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I think it is the bare minimum of decency.”
She stared at him a long moment. “Go on, then.”
He laced his fingers. “Because I am not my father. I gambled as a young man—on horses, on cards, on my own invincibility. I was a fool at twenty-two, Miss Harcourt. Most men are. But by twenty-six, I had seen enough ruin in those gilded rooms to swear I’d have no more of it. I have not played hazard in three years.”
“You were at White’s the week before your father died,” she said coolly.
He suppressed a flicker of surprise. “News travels quickly along the docks.”
“My father has friends in many places.”
“I was at White’s,” he conceded, “but not at the tables. I was there to drag my father away from them.” His mouth tightened. “I succeeded only in infuriating him.”
“I am… sorry,” she said, the words slow. “For your loss.”
“Are you?” he asked, not unkindly.
She looked taken aback.
He sighed. “That was not… well said. Grief is a complicated thing in my house, Miss Harcourt. I miss the man he could have been. The father he was to me when I was a boy. I do not miss the man he became, the one who thought of nothing but his next hand of cards.”
She watched him, something in her eyes shifting. “It must be… difficult. To separate those memories.”
“Yes.” He smiled faintly. “But you asked why you should consider marrying me. I can hardly answer without reference to the man whose shadow I labor under.”
Her fingers toyed with the edge of the page. “You assume I am considering it.”
“You are here,” he said gently. “You have read my ledger. You have not thrown it into the fire.”
Something sparked in her gaze, half irritation, half reluctant amusement. “Perhaps I simply enjoy watching men squirm under the weight of their own numbers, Your Grace.”
“I have no doubt you do,” he said, allowing himself a quick grin. “Nonetheless, I will proceed as if I must persuade you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then persuade.”
“Very well.” He leaned forward slightly. “Because I believe we could… build something together.”
She stilled.
“I have spent my life in a world that despises trade while depending upon it,” he went on. “I have watched men in velvet coats sneer at merchants whose coin props up their crumbling estates. It has always disgusted me. If I must marry to secure my house, I would rather marry a woman whose mind I respect than one whose lineage is long and whose intellect is short.”
Her throat worked. “You respect my mind.”
“I respect,” he said softly, “a woman who can look at this.” He tapped the ledger. “At all of *this,* and not faint. I respect that you turned away men who hoped to use you. I respect that you sit in your father’s counting house rather than your boudoir, and that you know the language of docks and ships as well as any man in that room.”
He paused. “In my world, that will be seen as… a defect.”
Anger flared in her eyes. “In *your* world?”
“In the ton.” He did not soften it. “They will whisper. Call you unfeminine. Say that you wear the breeches in your marriage. They will try to make you small, to punish you for what they do not understand.”
Her jaw set. “I have been called worse by dockhands.”
“Yes, but you did not *live* in their drawing rooms.” His voice gentled. “I do not say this to frighten you. Only to be clear-eyed. If you marry me, they will not… embrace you at once.”
“They would not embrace me at all, in any case,” she said. “Merchant’s daughter. Ink on my fingers. Opinions in my mouth. I am already… unsuitable.”
There was no self-pity in it; only fact.
“In their eyes, perhaps.” He held her gaze. “Not in mine.”
Color rose in her cheeks again, high and swift.
“And if,” she said, words sharper now, as if fending off something that made her uneasy, “I were to consider this… arrangement… what guarantee would I have that you would not squander what I bring?”
He had expected this question. Welcomed it, even.
“You would have,” he said, “my word. My legal consent to whatever settlements your father deems wise. And my willingness—no, my *desire*—to make you a partner in every financial decision affecting this house.”
Her eyes widened fractionally. “A partner.”
“Yes. We would keep the ledgers together, you and I.”
“You would permit me—”
“I would expect you,” he cut in, “to. Miss Harcourt, I do not want a wife who smiles and nods and lets me drive us into a ditch because I am too proud to listen. If you see me walking toward ruin, I will need you to pull me back. Hard.”
She stared at him, expression unreadable.
“You speak,” she said at last, very slowly, “as if you value my… interference.”
He laughed, quick and surprised. “Is that what they call it in your world? Interference, when a woman uses her mind?”
“They call it much worse,” she said dryly. “But ‘interference’ is the only word fit for polite company.”
“Then I value your interference,” he said firmly. “I have had quite enough of nodding mirror images smiling at me while I made a fool of myself. I need someone who will tell me when I am wrong. And who will be… invested in the outcome.”
“In other words,” she said, but her voice had softened, “if we sink, we sink together.”
“Yes.” Their gazes locked. “And if we rise—”
“We rise together,” she finished.
Silence hummed between them. The sounds from the other room—Harcourt’s booming laugh, a clink of china—felt very far away.
“You make it sound almost… enticing,” she said after a moment, and there was an odd note in her voice. “A marriage of ledgers and arguments.”
“I make it sound,” he replied, “like a partnership. The only kind I can stomach now.”
“And what of…” She hesitated, shifting slightly in her chair. A faint line appeared between her brows. “What of the other… aspects of marriage, Your Grace? The ones that do not involve numbers.”
There it was. The topic they had both circled and not touched.
He chose his words with care.
“I am not indifferent to you, Miss Harcourt.”
Her breath caught. “We have only just met.”
“I have eyes.” His gaze flicked over her—her competent hands, the curve of her mouth, the way her bodice rose and fell with each careful breath—before returning swiftly to her eyes. “And a mind. I find the combination before me… appealing.”
Her pupils darkened. “Appealing.”
“Yes.”
“You speak as if you were choosing a horse.”
He huffed a laugh. “Forgive me. That was… clumsy. What I mean is: I am attracted to the idea of sharing a life with a woman such as you. I do not claim some ridiculous instant love. I have never believed in lightning bolts.”
“Nor I,” she said quickly.
“But attraction can grow,” he said softly. “As respect grows. As familiarity does. I will not promise you eternal raptures. I will promise you—if you want it—honesty, fidelity, and… attention.”
The last word hung in the air, tinged with something warmer.
Color climbed her throat. “Attention.”
“In all respects,” he said quietly.
A flush stole across her cheeks; her gaze darted away, then back, as if she refused to be intimidated by what lay between the words.
“And you,” he went on, voice a thread lower, “would you be… wholly indifferent to me?”
She drew in a breath, as if to protest, then paused. Her eyes moved over his face, his shoulders, his hands resting on his knees. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the way he sat, the angle of his body.
“You are…” She stopped, shook her head minutely, and chose a safer path. “Well-favored, Your Grace. I am not blind either.”
Heat flickered in his chest. “I am relieved to hear it.”
She gave him a look that might have been exasperation, if it hadn’t also held a spark of something else. “Do not be arrogant.”
“I am not,” he said. “I am merely… encouraged.”
Their gazes held, the air between them thickening with something that had nothing to do with dock shares.
Livia’s hand tightened on the edge of the ledger.
“This would not be a love match,” she said at last, the words firm, as if she were reminding herself.
“No,” he agreed. “It would begin as a bargain.”
“And you would expect—”
“I would expect,” he cut in gently, “nothing you are not willing to give. In that regard. We would have time to… learn one another. To decide when and how to… consummate certain aspects of the arrangement.”
A faint tremor ran through her. “Most husbands do not give their wives a choice in such matters.”
“I am not most husbands,” he said simply.
Silence again. He watched emotions chase across her face: wariness, interest, a flicker of longing so swift he might have imagined it.
Finally, she closed the ledger with quiet finality.
“I cannot answer you today,” she said.
“I would not trust you if you did,” he replied.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“This is not a decision to be made in an afternoon,” he went on. “Nor is it mine to make alone. Your father must be satisfied. You must be. If, after reflection, you decide that the risk is too great—that tying yourself to a man in my position is unwise—I will not blame you. Nor will I pester you.”
Her lips twitched. “Pester.”
“Call upon you incessantly. Send you notes. Lurk in ballrooms. I have done enough of that nonsense in my life, Miss Harcourt. I have no wish to play at it now.”
“And if I *do* decide…” She stopped, swallowed. “If I decide to… entertain the idea further?”
“Then,” he said, his voice low and calm though his pulse had quickened, “we shall see whether we can truly agree on terms. Not just of settlements and dowries, but of… everything else. How we will live. Where. What we will tolerate from society, and what we will refuse.”
She exhaled. “You make it sound like we are negotiating a treaty, not a marriage.”
“In many households, the former is more enduring than the latter.”
To his relief, that drew a genuine laugh from her, warm and startled.
“You are very different from the men I have met before, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head. “I am very grateful to hear it.”
“Do not thank me yet,” she said, rising. “I may still decide you are a gamble I am unwilling to take.”
“And you,” he said softly, rising with her, “may decide that I am precisely the gamble you have been waiting for.”
Her eyes flashed. “You presume, sir.”
“I hope,” he corrected.
That seemed to disarm her more than any polished charm could have done.
“I will consider what you have said,” she murmured.
“And I will consider,” he replied, “how best to prove that I am worth your consideration.”
Her brows knit faintly. “Prove?”
“Yes.” He held her gaze a heartbeat longer than was strictly proper. “If you agree to see more of me, Miss Harcourt, I will… show you. That this would not be… one-sided. That your life would not be consumed in the service of my estates.”
Her throat worked. “Words are cheap, Your Grace.”
“I have spent my life surrounded by them,” he said quietly. “I am weary of them. I much prefer deeds now.”
They stood very close. He could see the faint scatter of freckles along her nose, the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth when she was restraining a sharper remark.
“I must return to my father,” she said, stepping back. He felt the absence of her presence as a physical thing.
“Of course.”
She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back over her shoulder.
“For what it is worth,” she said, “I did not throw your ledger into the fire because it is… well-kept.”
He blinked. “That is the highest compliment I have received all week.”
“You think I jest,” she said. “A man who keeps orderly accounts, even when those accounts are dismal, is a rarer creature than one who declaims poetry.”
“I shall aspire,” he said solemnly, “to greater heights of numerical beauty.”
A reluctant smile ghosted across her lips. “See that you do.”
Then she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of ink and citrus and something that might, with time, become very dangerous indeed.
Rowan exhaled slowly and looked down at the closed ledger.
“Not a love match,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
But something had sparked, in that room with its windows on the busy street. Not the dizzying flame of infatuation, but the first, steady kindling of respect. And respect, he suspected, could burn as hot as any passion, given time.
He would just have to prove it. Inch by inch, argument by argument.
He had built nothing in his life but debts and a certain reputation for charm.
Now he intended to build… this.
And it began, improbably, with a woman who had ink on her thumb and refused to be dazzled.
***