“Wait,” he breathed, then moved past her.
Faint moonlight gleamed on a heavy desk, illuminated the large chair behind it and four other chairs placed around the room. A number of cabinets and chests of drawers lined the walls. Then Tristan drew the curtains and all light vanished.
An instant later came the scrape of tinder; flame flared, lighting his face, limning the austere planes as he adjusted the lamp’s wick, then reset the glass.
The warm glow spread and filled the room.
He looked at her, then waved her to the two armchairs set before the hearth. When she reached them, he came up beside her and lifted her cloak from her shoulders. He laid it aside, then bent to the embers still glowing in the hearth; sinking into one of the armchairs, she watched as he efficiently restoked the fire until it was again an acceptable blaze.
Straightening, he looked down at her. “I’m going to have some brandy. Do you want anything?”
She watched him cross to a tantalus against the wall. She doubted he would have sherry in his study. “I’ll have a glass of brandy, too.”
He glanced at her again, brows rising, but he poured brandy into two balloons, then returned and handed her one. She had to use both hands to hold it.
“Now.” He sank into the other armchair, stretched his legs out before him, crossed his ankles, then sipped, and fixed his hazel gaze on her. “What is this all about?”
The brandy was a distraction; she set the balloon carefully on the small table beside the chair.
“This,” she said, uncaring of how waspish she sounded, “is about you needing to marry.”
He met her accusing gaze directly; he sipped again—the brandy balloon seemed a part of his large hand. “What of it?”
“What of it? You have to marry because of something to do with your inheritance. You’ll lose it if you don’t marry by July—is that right?”
“I’ll lose the bulk of the funds but retain the title and everything entailed.”
She dragged in a breath past the constriction suddenly gripping her lungs. “So—you have to marry. You don’t actually want to marry, me or anyone else, but you have to, and so you thought I would suit. You need a wife, and I will do. Have I finally got that correct?”
He stilled. In a heartbeat changed from an elegant gentleman relaxed in the chair to a predator poised to react. All that truly changed was a sudden flaring tension, but the effect was profound.
Her lungs had locked tight; she could barely breathe.
She didn’t dare take her eyes from his.
“No.” When he spoke his voice had deepened, darkened. The brandy balloon looked fragile in his grip; as if realizing, he eased his fingers. “That’s not how it was—how it is.”
She swallowed. And tipped up her chin. She was pleased when her voice remained steady—still haughty, disbelieving. Defiant. “How is it, then?”
His gaze didn’t leave her. After a moment, he spoke, and there was that in his voice that warned her not even to entertain the notion that he wasn’t speaking the absolute truth. “I have to marry, that much you have right. Not because I’ve any personal need for my great-uncle’s funds, but because, without them, keeping my fourteen dependents in the manner to which they’re accustomed would be impossible.”
He paused, let the words and their meaning sink in. “So yes, I have to front the altar by the end of June. However, regardless, I had and have absolutely no intention of allowing my great-uncle, or the ton’s matrons, to interfere in my life—to dictate whom I will take as my bride. It’s obvious that, if I so wished, a wedding to some suitable lady could be arranged, signed, sealed, and consummated in less than a week.”
He paused, sipped, his gaze locked with hers. He spoke slowly, distinctly. “June is still some months away. I saw no reason to rush. Consequently, I made no effort to consider any suitable ladies”—his voice deepened, strengthened—“and then I saw you, and all such considerations became redundant.”
They were sitting feet apart, yet what had grown between them, what now existed between them sprang to life at his words—a palpable force, filling the space, all but shimmering in the air.
It touched her, held her, a web of emotion so immensely strong she knew she could never break free.
And, very likely, nor could he.
His gaze had remained hard, openly possessive, unwavering. “I have to marry—I would at some point have been forced to seek a wife. But then I found you, and all searching became irrelevant. You are the wife I want. You are the wife I will have.”
She didn’t—couldn’t—doubt what he was telling her; the proof was there, between them.
The tension grew, became unbearable. They both had to move; he did first, coming out of the chair in a fluid, graceful motion. He held out his hand; after a moment, she took it. He drew her to her feet.
Looked down at her, his face graven, hard. “Do you understand now?”