The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

He couldn’t resist asking, “Doesn’t it strike you that, in this day and age, your stipulation is a rather odd demand for a lady to make of her would-be husband?”

Her eyes narrowed, and her chin tipped up a notch. “Regardless, that’s the promise I require before I will feel free to accept your proposal.”

Free of what? “Why such a condition? Are you already in love with someone else? Or is some other gentleman in love with you? In the circumstances, those are highly pertinent questions.”

Temper glimmered in her fine eyes and overrode the tension that until then had bound her. “No, I am not in love with any gentleman. Nor is any gentleman in love with me. I believe I can assure you on both those counts with absolute certainty. As for the reasons behind my stipulation, as I’ve already stated, those are too complex to explain.”

He hadn’t expected her to capitulate and reveal all, but it had been worth a try.

He studied her—the now-stubborn set of her delicate chin, the vibrant life he’d managed to spark in her eyes—and tried to piece together what her stipulation said of her and her reasons for avoiding matrimony… Why did she fear love? What danger did she see in him loving her? What threat did she perceive?

Given the personal reality he’d only just fully grasped, those were, arguably, the most pertinent questions.

But she was waiting, and he could delay giving her his answer for only so long. Yet…

Gentling his tone to one of supplication, he asked, “Can I ask why—why you feel the need for such a stipulation?”

He could almost see the answer forming in her eyes: Because I…

Yet after a long moment of studying him, she said, “Perhaps one day I’ll be able to explain it to you, but at this point, my stipulation is the assurance I require in order to see my way clear to agreeing to your proposal.” She paused, then added, “I need that promise, and I need to believe you will adhere to it.”

He couldn’t claim she wasn’t being clear. And regardless of the oddity of her request, courtesy of the startling epiphany her making that request had brought crashing down on him, he was in a position to give her an answer he prayed she would accept, although the devil was in the phrasing. Holding her gaze, keeping his own rock-steady, he said, “On my honor, I promise that, should we wed, I will not, thereafter, fall in love with you.”

As he understood it, falling in love was one of those acts that, once committed, had to be reversed before it could be repeated.

When she continued to stare at him, a frown forming in her eyes, he arched a brow at her. “Will that do?”

Stacie wasn’t sure how to answer. He’d given her what she’d asked for, and she certainly didn’t doubt his honor, yet for some reason, she was…not as assured as she needed to be. She studied his—as ever, uninformative—face, fleetingly compressed her lips, then replied, “I would feel a lot more comfortable—a lot more assured—if you will further agree that, if in some benighted future you do unintentionally fall in love with me, you will agree to a divorce.”

He snorted dismissively. “In our circles? You know that’s not going to happen.”

She wasn’t surprised by his refusal. She grimaced and shifted in the chair. She felt restless, on edge—on the cusp of seizing something she only now realized she truly and quite desperately wanted. It hung there, the ultimate prize, almost within her grasp, yet there was just one tiny, quibbling hurdle…

Abruptly, she flung her hands in the air and met his eyes. “Suggest something, then—some penalty that will convince me beyond all doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that you will exercise all your considerable willpower and take any and every step necessary to avoid breaking your promise not to fall in love with me.”

His eyes narrowed on her face. After a tense moment, he nodded. “Very well. I swear that if, once we are wed, I break my promise and fall in love with you, I will donate my entire collection of musical texts to whomever you wish.” His words were clipped, carrying a definite edge. He almost glared as he pointedly arched his brows at her. “Good enough?”

She glanced at the shelves lining the room.

As if reading her mind, he stated, “This isn’t my collection—it’s at Brampton Hall.”

“I see.” She replayed his words. She knew how much his collection meant to him; it embodied his chosen life-purpose. He would never willingly give that up or even put it at risk, not for any price. She couldn’t ask for a more cast-iron guarantee.

His promise was enough to vanquish her lingering fears.

Before she’d left her room that morning, she’d made a pact with Fate, that if he gave her the promise she needed, she would accept his assurance, take his proffered hand, and marry him.

Her heart broke free of the shackles she’d placed upon it and soared.

She met his eyes and let him see her burgeoning happiness. “Thank you.” Formally, she inclined her head to him. “Given your agreement to my stipulation and your promise, I would be honored to accept your suggestion to make o

ur engagement real.”

“And subsequently, marry me.” His gaze steady on her eyes, he waited.

Smiling now, she nodded. “Yes.” When he still waited, she parroted, “And subsequently, marry you.”

Although apparently satisfied, he raised a staying hand. “Having reached that point, I find that I, too, have a stipulation to make.”