Could she?
She had proclaimed her determination not to marry so often she’d feel a fool if she did. And the one condition she’d told herself would make it possible was a remarkable love.
He was telling her now that he would never love her.
She swallowed at her circumstance. It was bitter.
Because now, she understood how foolish she’d truly been to be so insistent. She could be so determined because of her own wealth.
She wasn’t wealthy now. And any woman with sense understood the terror of an impoverished life stretching out into old age. Smaller and smaller rooms; colder, too; and little food awaited her.
There’d be no doctors if she was ill. For she’d have no money to pay them. There’d be no comfortable bed or chair for her aging limbs.
Her gowns would be turned year after year until they could be worn no longer.
Impoverished, she faced a long, cruel fate in which she could help no one, let alone herself.
She had no trade. No farm. No house. Nothing. She had only her wit and her will.
What would she do if she did not marry him? At least she knew William to be a good man of noble intention, if occasionally insufferable in his ducal arrogance.
She could do far, far worse, which was why he was so sure he was the solution.
They were friends, after all.
True friends. It had happened so rapidly, it was hard to give it credence. But they had crossed a line somewhere, allowing each to see into their true selves.
Deep in her bones, she knew they had an affinity for each other that could not be denied. But this was not how she’d imagined their relationship to go.
It all seemed moot now. For she had not money to provide for those causes.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek as another wave of despair crashed over her. She paid so many salaries. Kept so many organizations helping people in need afloat. How could she let them down?
William took her hand in his, trying to catch her gaze. “Darling friend, you must not allow this to bring you low. I promise I shall not make the demands that most men do. We can be different. We already are different. Choose business.”
There was a terror in his own eyes even as he spoke confidently. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “Choose friendship,” he urged, his voice low.
She paused, and she gazed up at him, studying his face, which was not as unflappable as usual. “This is a veritable night terror for both of us. Why are you doing this?”
He was quiet for a long moment, then said very seriously, “Because I can.”
It should have sounded far too cocky. It did not. It was his admission that he could help her as no one else could, and he was willing and wanting to do so.
“But William,” she protested, “I never wanted to be a duchess. I do not want to be your duchess.”
A look of relief eased his strong features. “I see.”
Much to her horror, she felt disappointment. Disappointment that he was happy she was turning his offer aside. But after all she’d said, how could she say yes?
“Then we are agreed,” she stated. “I shall not marry you.”
He cocked his head to the side. “I never took you for a fool.”
“I beg your pardon?” she ground out. “I can see your relief.”
He was silent for a long moment. “It is not what you think. I’m terrified, Beatrice. You make me feel things I swore I never would. If I leave you to the wolves—and that’s what I’d be doing—yes, I might feel a moment’s relief that I avoided marriage to you. But I would never sleep again. I would lie awake night after night until I die, hating myself. Hating that I let you go into the wild world to face it without me there. Please… Please, let us not be fools.”
She flinched, and her heart? Her blasted heart, it fairly ripped open at his declaration, which sounded so close to love she could hardly bear it.