Chapter 8 #4
“Nonetheless,” she persisted, “he’s my father, and if you intend to take your revenge on him, I shan’t help you. This is about recovering what’s owed to us, nothing more. If you can’t agree to that...”
“I will fulfill my obligation,” the Duke cut her off.
Julia looked at him for a long moment.
He hadn't exactly answered her question.
He had sidestepped it with the smooth efficiency of a man accustomed to closing conversations on his own terms, and she was not so desperate that she couldn't see that for what it was.
She had spent twenty-four years watching her father say one thing and mean another entirely, and she had learned, if nothing else, to notice the difference between a promise and a deflection.
"That is not quite what I asked," she said.
His eyes met hers steadily. "No," he agreed. "It isn't."
"I would like to know what you intend to do with my father when you find him. I would like an actual answer, not a reassurance designed to end the conversation."
A beat of silence passed. Something shifted in his expression — not irritation, but a kind of recalibration, as though he was deciding how much of the truth she had earned.
"I intend to recover what belongs to Henry," he said. "And I intend to ensure your father cannot disappear again and leave more damage in his wake." He paused. "What form that takes will depend on the circumstances."
"That is still not a straight answer."
"No," he said. "But it is an honest one."
She studied him. The chamber was quiet around them, the distant sound of the party drifting out through the open windows, and she thought about Poppy — about her uncle's deadline, about the look on her sister's face when she had tried to hide how frightened she was — and she thought about what it meant to run out of options.
She did not like this plan. She did not entirely trust this man.
But she trusted Lord Blackwell less, and her uncle not at all, and her father least of anyone.
"If my father is to face consequences," she said finally, "I want them to be legal ones. Not personal ones. I will not be party to anything that goes beyond the law."
"Agreed," he said without hesitation.
She searched his face for the lie. She couldn't find one.
"And my sister," she continued. "Whatever happens between us, whatever the outcome — Poppy is not to be drawn into any of it. She knows of this agreement between us, but should not be…"
"She will not be touched," he said. "You have my word."
Another silence. Julia pressed her thumbnail against her palm — an old habit, the kind that arrived when she was making a decision she couldn't take back.
“Very well,” she nodded. “Then I think we are in agreement.”
He moved a step backward towards the door.
She walked forward as well, intending to see him out, and for a moment, the room felt smaller than it had when he arrived.
The fire burned lower. The evening had deepened outside the window, and the silence between them had changed without either of them doing anything to alter it.
He stopped and turned to face her fully.
She was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing — close enough that she could smell his cologne, something woody and warm that she would not have been able to name but would not forget — and close enough to see that the expression on his face was different from any she had cataloged so far.
Not the cool amusement he deployed in the company.
Not the focused, strategic attention he used when he was working through the matter at hand. Something quieter than both.
He looked at her for a moment as though deciding whether to say what he was about to say.
"There is one more thing," he said. His voice was lower than it had been all evening. "I did not mention it when you laid out the terms, because I thought it went without saying. But I find I would rather say it plainly."
"Then say it plainly," she replied. Her own voice came out steadier than she felt.
"This arrangement," he said, "is a transaction.
A mutually beneficial one, as we have established.
And I intend to play my part in it convincingly — convincingly enough that your father believes it, convincingly enough that the ton believes it.
" He paused. "Which means that by the end of this week, to every outside observer, you will appear to be a woman who has captured the interest of the Duke of Pridewell. "
Julia held his gaze. "I understand that. It was your proposal."
"Yes." He was quiet for a beat. "What I want to be certain you understand is that it will remain an appearance.
" Something moved through his expression — not coldness, but a kind of clarity, as though he were closing a door carefully rather than slamming it.
"I am not in a position to offer you anything beyond this arrangement, Miss Norish.
Not now. Perhaps not ever. And I would rather tell you that honestly, while you still have the choice to walk away, than let the pretense do what pretenses sometimes do. "
The fire shifted. A log settled.
She understood him perfectly. He was warning her. And the fact that he had chosen to warn her, rather than simply proceed and let her draw her own conclusions, told her something about him she hadn't expected.
"You're telling me not to fall in love with you," she said.
He didn't flinch. "I am telling you that I cannot be the man to marry you. And that I thought you deserved to know that before we began."
Julia looked at him for a long, even moment. Then she said, with a composure she was almost entirely certain was genuine, "I appreciate the warning, Your Grace. But I assure you, you are quite safe."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good."
"I would ask the same of you, of course," she added.
That stopped him.
"What?"
"The arrangement works both ways," she said simply. "I have no interest in being the woman a Duke almost chose. So if you find at any point that the pretense is becoming something else on your end, I expect the same honesty you have just shown me."
He stared at her for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, "That is entirely fair."
"I thought so."