He caught her arm and swung her back to face him. “No. We are settling this here and now.”
The look in his face, in his eyes—the tension that emanated from him—warned her not even to attempt to gainsay him.
“I had already decided that I would have to marry before I met you again. Years ago I made it plain that I would not—I have three brothers who were quite willing to see to the succession, and I did not, in my estimation, possess the most amenable temperament for marriage. However . . .” He hesitated, then said, “You have met my sister-in-law.”
Helena nodded. “Lady Almira.”
“Indeed. If I tell you that she does not improve on further acquaintance, you will understand that the thought of her as the next Duchess of St. Ives has been seriously agitating many members of the family.”
She frowned. “I do not understand. Was her marriage to your brother not . . .” She gestured. “Vetted and approved?”
“No, it was not. Arthur, who’s next in line for the title, is the mildest of the four of us. Almira trapped him into marriage with the oldest trick known.”
“She claimed she was pregnant?”
Sebastian nodded. “She wasn’t, as it turned out, but by the time Arthur realized, the wedding had been announced.” He sighed. “What’s done cannot be undone.” He refocused on her. “Which brings me to my point. You understand what it is to be the holder of a title, what responsibilities—whether one wishes them or not—lie on one’s shoulders. I waited to see how Almira would develop, whether she had it in her to become more . . . gracious, more tolerant. But she has not. And now she has a son who would ultimately inherit and whom she is clearly intent on ruling—ultimately ruling through.”
He shook his head. “I cannot in all conscience permit that. And so I decided I must marry and sire a son of my own.”
His gaze rested on her. “I had never forgotten you. I recognized you the instant I set eyes on you in Lady Morpleth’s salon. I’d been looking for a suitable wife and had found none—then, suddenly, you were there.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You seem very certain I am suitable.”
He smiled, a sincere and, for him, oddly gentle smile. “You will never bore me to tears. Your temper is as bad as mine, and you are not, to my annoyance, the least in awe of me.”
She fought against a smile, frowned instead. “I am not in awe of you, yet I am not fool enough to underestimate you. You are very adept at twisting the truth to suit yourself. You have not been thinking of marriage.”
“Acquit me, mignonne—I assure you, in regard to you, I have thought of nothing else. I did not make my intentions plain for a very good reason.”
“Which was?”
“That any hint of my change of heart would have caused a sensation—any suggestion I had decided on you as my duchess would have turned the ton rabid. Every single lady with a marriageable daughter would have stood in line to attempt to change my mind. I saw no reason to invite such interest. Instead, I thought to bide my time until now. Tomorrow I will leave London, and so will you. We will not be subjected to the full glare of society’s interest.”
“How do you know I will be leaving London?”
“Because I have issued an invitation to the Thierrys and to you to visit at Somersham Place—hence my interest in Thierry’s return.” He raised a hand, touched her cheek. “I thought that there, I could . . . persuade you that marriage to me would be your wisest choice.”
She arched a brow at him. “Persuade?” Sweeping around, she gestured to the door through which the four others had gone. “You have declared we are to wed!” The recollection sparked her temper; she let her eyes flash as she swung back to face him. “And now you are going to behave as if the matter is signed and sealed.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “When it is not!”
He studied her, his features impassive. Then he said, his tone even, low—and steely, “Am I to understand, mignonne, that you were at the point of accepting me as your lover but that you are now balking at becoming my duchess?”
She looked him in the eye, then nodded. “Vraiment! There is no point taking that tone with me. It is a very different thing, being your wife compared with being your lover. I know the laws. A wife has no say in things—”
“Unless her husband is willing to indulge her.”
She narrowed her eyes, studied his—guilelessly blue. “Are you saying you would indulge me?”
He looked down at her. A long moment passed before he said, “Mignonne, I will indulge you in anything, with two caveats. One—I will never permit you to expose yourself to danger of any kind. Two—I will never allow you to develop any interest in any man other than myself.”
She raised her brows. “Not even your sons?”
“With the sole exception of our sons.”
She felt as if she were swaying, even though the ground felt firm beneath her feet. His offer was beyond tempting yet . . . To trust him to that degree—especially him, who understood her too well, who could slide around her temper, inflame her senses, who already held too much power over her.
As usual, he seemed to know what she was thinking—he seemed to track her thoughts through her eyes. His gaze was sharp, shrewd. Before she realized what he intended, he bent his head, touched his lips to hers.
Her own lips softened, clung—she reacted, kissed him, offered her lips, took his, before she’d even thought.