Page 26 of Duke of Moonstone
“And if she is happy?”
“Happiness is not a strategy. It is a feeling, and feelings change. Duty does not.”
The Duchess picked up her teacup, held it for a moment without drinking, and set it down again. “You speak of duty as though it is the only thing worth living for.”
“I speak of duty as the only thing that can be relied upon.”
“That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”
“It is the truth. Love is inconstant. Duty endures. One builds a life on what endures.”
“One builds a prison on what endures if there is nothing else inside it.”
He looked at her. Her chin was raised, her shoulders were squared, and she was not backing down. The part of him that admired this—which was a larger part than he was comfortable admitting—was at war with the part of him that just wanted her to agree, so he could finish his eggs in peace.
“We are not going to agree on this,” he said.
“No,” she affirmed. “We are not.”
The silence that followed was different from the one that had preceded it. Thinner. More charged. He could feel theconversation tilting toward something, the way one could feel a carriage beginning to lean before the wheel actually left the road.
The Duchess set her teacup down with a small click. “Then perhaps we should discuss the terms of this marriage instead of arguing about your sister’s.”
“Do you wish to discuss the terms?”
“You proposed rules last night. Or you began to before the conversation became... unpleasant.” Her gaze did not waver. “I have rules of my own.”
Alexander leaned back in his chair and studied her. She was sitting across from him with the composed bearing of a woman conducting a negotiation, and he found himself, against every rational instinct he possessed, curious. “Very well. You may begin.”
“I do not want an heir.”
Alexander’s hand stilled around his coffee cup. He felt the words settle, felt them meet the argument he had made the night before and sit there, unanswered.
“This is not a marriage of love,” the Duchess continued, and her voice did not shake at all this time, which he noticed. “You said so yourself. It is a marriage of convenience. And if it is only convenience, then I see no reason to bring a child into it.”
She is not wrong.
The thought arrived before he could stop it which was deeply unwelcome. He set down his cup.
“An heir is not merely a personal matter,” he argued. “It is a responsibility to the title, to the estate, to everyone who depends upon?—”
“Then find another way to meet that responsibility. I will not bear a child for the sake of a name.”
He looked at her. She held his gaze with the firm resolve of someone who had thought this through and was not going to be swayed, and her mouth’s set was the same as it had been in the garden the night of the masquerade, in her sister’s drawing room when he had proposed, and in her bedchamber last night when she had pointed him toward the door. She meant it. She would continue to mean it tomorrow, the day after, and probably for the foreseeable future of their acquaintance.
“Very well,” he said. “If that is your position, I will not press the matter.”
Something moved across her face—surprise, perhaps, that he had conceded. She covered it quickly. “Thank you.”
“I have a condition of my own, however.” He reached for the toast rack and selected a piece with rather more deliberation than the task required. “If this marriage is to be one ofconvenience, as you say, then there is no reason for us to be in each other’s company more than the situation demands.”
Her hand paused on her teacup. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that we shall appear together for formal occasions. Dinners. Balls. Social engagements where the absence of a duchess would be remarked upon.” He looked at her steadily. “Beyond that, we need not trouble each other.”
The Duchess stared at him for a moment that was one beat too long. Then she lifted her chin. “That suits me perfectly.”
“Good.”
