Chapter 22
She asked for me.
That was Kit's first thought when his aunt told him Clarissa had requested a private meeting.
His second thought was—how was he going to explain? Or rather, should he explain? But then again, maybe that wasn't what she wished to discuss at all.
But then, what did she wish to see him for?
He paced his aunt's parlor, no closer to a plan now that she was due to arrive at any moment than he had been the day before when she'd sent the missive.
Kit stopped by the mantel and forced himself to breathe. He supposed this was what it meant to be nervous.
He did not care for it.
For the past two days, he'd been in a state that Gage described as "insufferable" and the duchess described as "deeply unpleasant to be around." He'd spent so much time pacing, it was a wonder he hadn't worn a hole in the rug.
He'd also drafted letters to Clarissa. Four of them, in fact. And all four were currently in the rubbish. It had taken him four attempts before he'd realized that what he needed to say couldn't go in a letter.
He needed to see her face when he told her the truth about his father and Clementine.
There was every chance his explanation would make no difference.
Even if she believed him, the ton still thought the child was his. He was still a public scandal and a private mess, and he couldn't promise the mess would resolve itself quickly.
But he was hopeful.
Not that he was happy about the turn of events that had placed Clarissa in this predicament. But the day after he'd swept her out of the musicale and he'd understood the full extent of the rumors, he'd also understood that there was only one way to help her out of this mess.
He'd marry her himself. That would put an end to the rumors, and it would provide protection for her going forward.
His heart gave a jerk like it was trying to move ahead of him.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Yes, alright, he wanted to marry her. It wasn't just about her reputation, it was about wanting to protect her. Wanting her in his life. Wanting…
Everything. He wanted everything with Clarissa.
He'd known it for ages, he supposed. It should have been obvious when he'd grown so jealous of Lord Hartley, or when he'd ached to pull her into his arms every time she was near. But he hadn't let himself admit it, because…
Well, because she hadn't wanted him. And he'd been so set against marriage to avoid following in his parents' footsteps.
But that was before he'd met Clarissa. Someone so genuine and kind who he could actually see himself sharing his life with. And once he'd seen it—once he'd allowed himself to see—there was no possible way to unsee it.
Looking at Clarissa meant seeing the future he'd never dared dream for himself. The sort of loving partnerships he hadn't thought possible. Not for him, at least.
But now…
Well, now everything was different, wasn't it? She needed him. And he was fairly certain she liked him. As a friend, at least. And that was a start. He could work with that. If she agreed to give him a chance, he'd have all the time in the world to win her heart.
If she agreed. He turned on his heel and began pacing again. If. He ran a hand through his hair and just barely held back a groan. Would she believe him if he told her everything? Would she understand?
Was it right of him to ask her to be his wife without denying the mistress rumors?
He still didn't know. Really, all he knew was that he'd been a fool to think he could walk away from Clarissa. He'd been delusional if he'd ever believed he could stand on the sidelines and watch her marry another. So he had to try, at the very least.
And Clarissa had asked to see him. That was something. Wasn't it?
"She's here." The duchess's voice came from the doorway, and he spun around so quickly he nearly toppled.
His breathing grew labored as if he'd broken into a run, when really he just stood there gaping at his aunt.
She arched her brows. "Are you sure about this?"
He nodded. "I'm certain."
A little smile tugged at her lips. "Good. I always knew you were smarter than you look."
He let out a huff of laughter. "You're too kind, Aunt Philippa."
Before she could retort, the butler announced Clarissa's presence.
His heart took an embarrassingly dramatic leap at the sight of her. She was beautiful. She always had been, of course, but right now he was keenly aware of her beauty.
She was dressed in a simple gown and her hair was neatly braided in a crown. Her eyes were bright, and her smile small and nervous.
He gestured toward the settee. "Please, have a seat."
His aunt gave him a look that was either a warning or encouragement. Maybe both. "I will be right outside the door," she said.
Clarissa nodded her thanks. But Kit could see she was still nervous.
To be alone with him? Or was it possible she knew what he wanted to ask. Or…propose, rather.
The moment his aunt left, he cleared his throat, but she spoke first.
"Kit." She smiled, but it was a little stilted. "Thank you for seeing me."
"You don't need to thank me for that." He sat, though every instinct told him to move closer. "Clarissa, I need to tell you—"
"Before you start." She held up a hand. "I have something I'd like to say. And I need to say it first, because if I don't, I'll lose my nerve."
He wiped his palms against his trousers, but clamped his mouth shut and nodded.
She drew a breath, her fingers clasped tightly in her lap.
"I've given this a great deal of thought," she began. "And I believe I have a proposal that would benefit us both."
He frowned. Then he gaped.
For a moment, he was certain he'd heard her wrong. He'd spent too many hours obsessing over the word “proposal” that now he was even hearing it. "A…proposal?"
"An arrangement." She met his eyes. "A marriage."
The air left his lungs. That was his line, he was fairly certain.
And yet, the way she said it, left him cold.
She didn't look pleased or even shy, but rather…unwilling.
"You need a wife," she continued. "You're heir to a dukedom. You'll need an heir of your own. And I—" A flicker of panic crossed her eyes and it made him feel ill. "I need a husband. Before my parents choose one for me."
He opened his mouth, but she pressed on. "I'm not proposing a love match."
His stomach plummeted toward the ground.
"I think we can both agree that would be inadvisable," she continued. "What I'm proposing is a practical arrangement. A partnership. You would have a wife who understands your situation and accepts it. I would have a husband of my own choosing."
"My…situation," he repeated. His mouth was too dry and his limbs too heavy. He knew what she meant. She meant the mistress and the child she believed was his. "Clarissa, I can explain—"
"There's no need." She said it so quickly, it felt like a blow. "I know about your responsibilities." Her chin was set as she met his stare. "And I accept them. I won't interfere or ask questions. I won't expect— I won't expect more than you're able to give."
He stared at her. His mind had gone to mush. All the things he'd wanted to say had disappeared. What was the point?
He'd gotten it all wrong. An ache of hurt and sadness had him going utterly still.
To think. He should be celebrating. After all, he'd been planning to propose. This was exactly what he wanted, and also—
It was everything he'd ever wanted to avoid. His parents' cold marriage that had ended the moment all duties were done. The resulting child—a necessary evil that neither had actually wanted.
"What about an heir?" he found himself asking.
His voice sounded far too gruff. Almost rude.
She blinked a few times, but recovered quickly. "Of course. I will meet all the necessary marital…requirements."
Bile rose up and it took every ounce of his will to fight down the nausea. Necessary requirements. That was how she saw spending time with him? Being intimate?
He dropped his head, bracing his hands on his thighs.
She hurried on faster now. "I won't ask much in return." Her tone held a note of pleading. All the evidence he needed that she was, indeed, desperate. He was her final option.
"I ask only for respect," she said quickly. She'd rehearsed this, clearly. "And for the freedom to live my own life within the marriage. I won't be a burden to you. I know you value your independence, and I have no wish to—"
"Clarissa." His voice came out rough. "Stop."
Her lips pressed together, and her chin lifted slightly, bracing.
He should tell her now. Right now. About his father and Clementine and the lie and the threat and all of it. The words were there. But what she'd just described…
"Is that what you want?" he asked.
His eyes searched her face as she stared back at him. Did she mean it? Did she truly want nothing more from a husband than independence?
He thought back to every conversation they'd had on the topic. He'd known from the start that she hadn't been looking for a love match. Merely a practical one.
One in which she had some say in who she married.
"I— I think—" She stopped short. "Yes. This is what I want."
Any remaining hope he'd had turned to ashes. He nodded, unable to hold her gaze lest she see how much he was hurting.
"You've thought this through." His voice sounded strange. Distant.
"I believe it's the logical choice for us both," she said quietly. "It's…it's a sensible pairing."
A sensible pairing. A bitter laugh choked him. She might be talking about what wine to serve with a particularly rich meal, or what ribbon would go with her gown. And for a moment a question was on the tip of his tongue. It was the same question he'd asked when they'd first become acquainted?
What do you want, Lady Clarissa?
But he didn't wish to hear the answer. Because she'd already told him, hadn't she?
And she'd never once spoken of love or passion or laughter or… Or him. She'd never once indicated that she wanted him.
He stared at his hands as his lungs grew painfully tight. If he told her now how he felt—
Would she accept his feelings? Or would it be a burden?
He swallowed hard.
He suspected he knew the answer. She was asking for a loveless marriage. A business arrangement.
Any talk of love on his part wouldn't just be unwanted. It could very well be a breach of contract.
Her inhale was audible and she relaxed slightly in her seat. It was only then he realized how nervous she must have been.
It wasn't every day a young lady proposed a marriage of convenience.
She gave him a tentative smile. "You said you had something to tell me?"
He studied her. She'd relaxed a little, yes, but those honest, dark eyes couldn't hide anything. And right now they were wide and slightly desperate.
She was terrified. Not just of proposing, but of what his answer might be. He didn't have to remind himself of her predicament. She'd been through more scandals in one Season than most suffered in a lifetime.
And most of it was his fault. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, aware that she was waiting for him to speak. She needed him to say yes. Not because she wanted this, but because she'd run out of options.
"Kit?" she prompted. "Did you— Were you going to— Did you want to tell me something?"
The mistress isn't mine. Our courtship wasn't fake. Not to me. It might have started that way, but at some point, I—
He met her wide-eyed stare.
I fell in love with you.
The truth sat in his throat.
But what would it change? She'd still be out of options. Her parents would still choose for her if she didn't act. The ton would still believe the worst. And he'd put her in the uncomfortable position of having to manage his feelings on top of everything else.
He swallowed the truth. "It doesn't matter," he said. "It can wait."
Her brow creased. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're proposing that we marry. A practical arrangement with no expectations."
She nodded, her lip caught between her teeth.
"And this is what you want." He had to ask one more time. But in all honesty, he wasn't even sure what he hoped to hear.
"It's what makes sense," she said.
Not quite the same, was it? But he nodded. He'd gotten her into this mess. Whether she returned his feelings or not was beside the point.
All that mattered was that he owed it to her to make this right. "Then yes. I accept."
Her breath left her in a rush. Her whole body seemed to sag with relief.
"Good," she said. "That's…good. I'll have John speak with your aunt about the details."
"Of course," he murmured.
He tried for a smile, but he failed, and she wasn't looking anyway.
She stood. "Thank you, Kit."
He tried not to flinch. "It's I who should be thanking you."
He'd meant for charming, but it came out stilted and awkward.
She smiled, though, so perhaps she didn't notice. "I know this isn't what either of us planned."
No. What he'd planned was to walk into this room and tell her the truth and hope that she'd see him clearly and choose him anyway. Because she wanted to, not because she was desperate.
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, so he added, "It's the smart choice. For both of us."
She smiled, and her happiness almost seemed real.