“Humanity.” The carriage stopped and the groom handed her down. The driver looked around at their squalid surroundings, his nostrils pinched in disapproval.
“Drive twice around the block, and keep your pistol out and at the ready,” Ian commanded before taking Angelica’s arm and leading her away from the carriage.
They were somewhere on the outskirts of the district of Soho. Angelica clung to his arm with one hand and pressed a handkerchief to her nose with the other. The reek of the place was unbearable. Her boots squelched sickeningly in the quagmire of mud and excrement that covered the rutted street.
Even at this late hour, the streets were filled with people. Scantily clad women with faces covered with rouge and sores beckoned to gentlemen from doorways to ramshackle buildings and crooked alleys. Some even lifted their skirts, calling out lewd invitations that she only half understood. Little boys ran barefoot with runny noses, trying to catch rats. There were even people lying in the gutters. Whether they were drunk, sleeping, or dead, Angelica couldn’t tell.
One of the bodies nearby suddenly sat up. “Spare me a coin ’er two, milady? Please, take pity on a dying man.” His grimy fingers clutched the hem of her dress, and she could smell his rancid breath through the handkerchief. His nose was a gaping hole of rotten flesh.
She reached into her reticule and tossed him a guinea, trying not to shriek in revulsion. Unbidden, her eyes strayed back to the doxies. From what she overheard from the servants, these women earned their living by satisfying men’s “baser desires,” whatever those were. The ones she observed looked pitiful and brittle. Angelica looked down at her fine clothes and shuddered.
I have been such a spoilt fool! Her stomach churned in self-disgust. Here I was, throwing a childish tantrum to escape marriage to a beautiful man… a beautiful titled man, no less, and a life of luxury and ease. And these half-starved women have to degrade themselves every evening just to stay alive.
“Tell, me Angelica,” Ian said coldly, leaning on a jeweled walking stick. “Is this squalor what you would prefer to being wed to a monster?”
“No!” she cried, choking on the word as she realized what he was doing. Oh God, I hurt him. He thinks I’m afraid of him. That’s what this is all about. “Ian, you are not a monster.” She walked closer, reaching for him to prove her point.
He closed his eyes, digesting her words. “Then why were you afraid to marry me, if not in fear of what I am?”
She clutched his coat sleeves and looked up at him, willing him to see the truth in her eyes. “I wasn’t afraid of what you are at all. Well, I was afraid because you are a man. I was terrified of losing my freedom.”
Doubt and confusion filled his gaze, but there was a glimmer of something else. Was it hope? “What do you mean?”
Angelica took a deep breath and explained. “My mother told me that a man would never countenance his wife writing gothic novels. I thought I wouldn’t be able to bear giving up writing, especially not to dedicate my life as an ornament for your arm and a ‘perfect’ hostess. Besides,” she added with narrowed eyes. “I’ve read The Sylph, so I know how miserable life as a duchess can truly be.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She struggled not to drown in his glowing silver eyes. “What made you change your mind?”
She faltered, looking down at the slimy cobblestones beneath her feet. “Well, my family has convinced me that my duty is to marry, and our engagement is healing rifts between my grandfather and my mother and father. And, well… you are not really a fate worse than death.”
“Indeed?” he asked with a raised brow.
“Oh, yes. In fact, you are very handsome and…” She resisted the urge to place her hands against her burning cheeks. “Quite nice!”
The tender smile that she loved returned to his face. “Oh, Angel, truly, you will have more freedom with me than you had in your home. After all, a duchess may do as she pleases.”
“Even write?” she breathed, daring to hope.
He nodded, and caressed her cheek. “Even write.”
Pleasure curled through her, all the way down to her toes, until she saw a large rat skitter by, reminding her of something else. “In that case, Your Grace, may I request a wedding present?”
“Anything,” he said indulgently.
“May I have a cat?” Her lips curved as she voiced a long-denied wish. Her mother would never allow animals in her home.
“A cat?” He chuckled at the odd request. “Surely you would prefer a little lapdog like the other ladies?” He smiled and his voice turned teasing. “Or perhaps you would enjoy having a monkey like those that belong to the more eccentric matrons?”