He did not win another laugh. Instead, she wrinkled her nose.
“I certainly cannot be married to a Tory.”
Obviously, it was going to take more than his word to prove himself to her.
“I promise you I’m not a Tory. I’m just a man with a passion for horses who worked for people who can afford to breed the best of them. If you come to Gardencourt, we can get to know each other once again, and I promise you that you will come to understand.”
He loved the idea of getting to know who she was now that she was a mature woman of nearly forty years. He could see the self-possession she’d been known for in her girlhood had evolved into an intimidating confidence. He was certain it was hard-won, given what she must have faced in transforming herself from an aristocratic maiden into an infamous, radical artist.
He longed to know her.
“The past speaks for itself,” she said. “Character is a question of one’s actions, and yours bespeak a lack of integrity. You must promise me a divorce once the will is executed. Marriage is against my principles. You are against my principles.”
“Fine,” he said, for what else could he say? He could not force her to like him, only do his best to make her understand him. Besides, to end their marriage would not cost him a wife—he’d never had one anyway.
She sighed. “You’re certain? It will be a terrible scandal.”
“I do realize that. But no more than when we announce you are my duchess.”
His duchess. The words gave him a thrill he knew better than to betray. Revealing he was proud of their connection—proud to be, in some way, hers—would do little to endear him to Cornelia.
“As to that,” she said, “why are you so confident anyone will believe we’re married? Our only proof is a tattered witness paper from Gretna Green. Will it not raise alarm with the executor of the will, you suddenly having a wife when you have made no subtle thing of your desire never to marry?”
It would indeed stretch credulity. He was certain the few witnesses to their vows were scattered, forgetful, or dead. But he had a plan.
“If you come to Gardencourt, you will be in residence when the executor arrives to meet with me next week.” He batted his lashes at her. “We’ll pretend to be in love.”
It would not be the first time.
Her face betrayed neither sentimentality for the past, nor humor.
“And what’s to stop the executor from thinking it’s a ruse?”
“I’ve thought of that,” he said. “I will make it known to a few loose-lipped, high-placed souls that I was wed in secret as a young man, and intend to invite society into my home to meet my duchess in a fortnight. We shall have a masked ball where you will reveal your true identity. The solicitor will not be able to take exception to such a public display of wedded bliss.”
She considered this. He saw it on her face as she worked through the possibilities and slowly, reluctantly, acknowledged the potential of the scheme.
It was very pleasing to watch.
“I suppose it could work,” she mused. “I suppose for five thousand pounds, I could see to it that it works.”
He suspected there was little in this world Cornelia Ludgate could not make work, if she put her mind to it.
“But I don’t trust you,” she said flatly. “And if you display even the slightest hint that you are lying or manipulating me, I will leave Gardencourt immediately.”
The word trust brought back the last time they had seen each other. The way she had stared at him, looking beautiful and bereft at an inn in Gretna Green. How he’d fallen to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist and begged her forgiveness. How she’d wrenched herself away.
This was his chance to redeem himself. To prove to her he was better than she thought he was. Better than he had been all those years ago. That he was a man she could trust.
He held out his hand. “We have an agreement?”
“For now.” Tentatively, she reached out and touched his fingers. Her nails were speckled in paint. Her touch gave him a pang of longing so sharp he wanted to pull those fingers to his mouth and kiss them.
Instead, he dropped her hand and gave her a brisk nod.
“Then I’ll send my carriage for you two days from tomorrow.”
She laughed softly to herself. “Oh, I recall the duke’s carriages. More luxurious than my bedchamber.”
They were indeed. Everything at Gardencourt was comically indulgent. He was going to change that. But in the meantime, he was going to see that they both enjoyed it.
He grinned at her. “Do you know what, Cornelia? It’s fun to be a duke.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Trust that I have never doubted that.”
“And I think you may enjoy being a duchess. Just wait.”
She shook her head.
“What I shall enjoy is leaving Gardencourt in a blaze of shame and ruin.” She paused and gave him a long, satisfied look. “Again.”
Chapter Three
Cornelia made sure to seem cool tempered as she saw Rafe out. Having floundered more than she was accustomed to today, and in front of him no less, she wished to be perceived with her usual elegant composure as she said farewell.
She lasted until the door was shut behind him. At which time she promptly locked it, collapsed on a settee, and stared at the ceiling, shaking.
She felt as though the floor had turned to water, and she was struggling to float.
She and Rafe had promised to take their secret to their graves. As a matter of survival, she had pushed him from her mind, erecting a brick wall between her past and future—a task that had become easier over the years as Rafe’s life had become tied to the sort of people that she loathed.
She’d shrunk him into a small, uneasy detail she rarely thought about. A slight pang in her side when she heard his name. A fleeting memory when she wore breeches, or smelled leather in the rain.
But it was a different matter entirely to be near him. For in person, he was no inconvenient detail. Nor was he the ogre she’d imagined when she heard his name in reference to Tory politicians.
She didn’t know what he was at all, save for six feet, five inches of oddly friendly man with a wild scheme that could lead to wilder riches. Her instincts told her not to trust him, but they were overpowered by what she’d gain if the arrangement he proposed worked. For if she herself was shocked by the idea of revealing she was a duchess, imagine how the public would react. And she was in the business of inciting public reactions. It was the lifeblood of her art.
But first, she must elicit private reactions. A more unappealing task.
She locked the studio and climbed the stairs up to her jewel box of an apartment. It was half parlor and half bedchamber with a little hearth and table where one could cook, were one so inclined. Cornelia was rarely inclined.
“What was that about?” Sera asked immediately.
She and Elinor were sitting on the floor in their tunics, drinking tea and playing with Seraphina’s daughter, Ella. They were a study in contrasts, Sera angular and tall with a mane of wild brown hair, Elinor short and plump, her perfect blond coiffure fading into white. Cornelia wanted to sketch them—were it not that she had to perform the odious chore of shocking them with her decades of a singular omission about her past.