She ran the house from her sitting room one floor above. But when they received callers on matters of business, or when they had something to discuss, they always used his study.
She sat down in her customary chair on the opposite side of his desk and opened her fan, a confection of black lace over tortoise shell slats. Her taste in personal adornment sometimes surprised him—the fan was more than a little seductive. But he could hardly fault her for enlivening her usually prim wardrobe with an unexpected accessory or two.
She ran a gloved finger across the slats. “You want to see me about Mrs. Englewood?”
Of course she’d have guessed. “Yes.”
Did her fan tremble? He couldn’t tell, for she closed it in a crisp motion and laid it across her lap. “So you plan to reestablish old ties?”
He must have been quite transparent. “We would like to.”
She tilted her face toward him and smiled slightly. “I am glad for you. It was terrible that the two of you had to be apart for so long.”
“About our pact—” he began.
“Don’t worry about it. The last thing I want is to come between you and Mrs. Englewood.”
“You misunderstood what I was about to say: I am not embarking on an affair with Mrs. Englewood—not merely an affair, in any case. It will be a permanent arrangement and I intend to be her faithful companion.”
“I did not misunderstand anything,” she said quietly. “I expected no less of you. And I wish the two of you all the best.”
Something in her sympathetic agreement made him ache to hold her. She rarely came across as lonely, but now she did.
“Before Mrs. Englewood and I begin our arrangement, I intend to honor our pact first.”
The fan slid from her fingers and hit the floor with a hard thud. “What do you mean by honoring it first?”
He retrieved the fan and handed it back to her. “It would be a dereliction of duty on my part otherwise. It also wouldn’t be fair to you and your family—for me to accept this great fortune and then not even try to give you a son to inherit the title.”
Her usual keenness seemed to have deserted her. “You want to give me a son,” she echoed slowly.
“It’s only fair.”
“But we don’t know how long it would take for me to produce an heir. You might have to wait for an indefinite period of time.” She came to her feet. Her voice rose two octaves. “What if I am infertile? What if I am one of those women meant only to have daughters? What if—”
She broke off in midsentence, as if realizing that she was reacting in a most uncharacteristic manner. He was transfixed: He hadn’t seen her display this much emotion since their honeymoon—and then it had been because he’d been in danger of ruining both his health and his mind.
She swallowed. “My assessment of the matter differs from yours.” Her voice was once again modulated—under control. “I understand perfectly that your arrangement is to be a lasting one and I applaud it. And I think that after all the years that have gone by, you should not waste any more time.”
An appalling realization stole upon him: She didn’t want him to touch her. Even with their marriage transformed by friendship and affection, the thought of sleeping with him still upset her as much as it had when she’d first proposed their pact.
“It won’t be very long,” he said. “Six months. It doesn’t matter whether you conceive or not and it doesn’t matter whether the child is a boy or a girl: six months and the rest is the will of God.”
“Six months,” she repeated faintly, as if he’d said sixty years in Siberia.
On any given day, he could recite her schedule by the minute. Yet her heart was like a walled garden, invisible to one not granted entrance.
“I know the real reason you’d prefer our pact never come to pass,” he heard himself say. “You wanted to postpone it several months ago, before we even learned of Mrs. Englewood’s plans to return.”
She stared at him, as if afraid of what he was about to say.
“You don’t mention him but I haven’t forgotten. There was someone you had to give up to marry me.”
She gave a queer little laugh. “Oh, him.”
He closed the distance between them. She never wore perfume, but her soap smelled of the lavender from their estate—along with a hint of something softer, sweeter. So that when combined with the warmth of her body, the otherwise austere scent of lavender became subtle. Interesting. Sultry, even.
He placed one hand on her shoulder. She trembled almost imperceptibly at his touch—he hoped it was surprise and not revulsion.
“Millie—I think I may safely call you Millie, no?”
She nodded.
“We are friends, Millie—good friends, furthermore. We’ll get through this together. And when it is all said and done, I won’t be the only one free to pursue old dreams. You will be able to go after yours with all my best wishes.”
She looked away. “I scarcely know what to say.”
“Say yes, then.”
“You won’t—you won’t require that we begin tonight, will you?”