“Considering the fact that I had you against the wall a mere hour ago, you are quite likely carrying my child,” he replied, knowing that his voice had dropped an octave.
Another woman would have winced or been embarrassed. He could have sworn he saw yearning flash through her eyes. But then it was gone; he must have imagined it.
India’s mouth tightened. “I am not carrying your child.”
“You cannot know that.”
“No. But I can be reasonably certain.”
“There is no certainty in these things. I have sent for a special license, and we will be married on the morrow or, at the latest, the day after.”
She blinked, apparently shocked. Did she think that he would simply saunter away after that?
Finally she put that damned book to the side and came to her feet. “Thorn, I will not marry a man due to a momentary foolishness. You are essentially promised to Lala. You have spoken to her father, whether he declined to answer or no. She is dreaming of your future life together. The fact that I acted like a whore does not compel you to marry me.”
He was frozen for a moment, then he found himself standing before her, hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “Do not ever say something like that about yourself. You are nothing like a whore.”
India stared back at him, her eyes flat. “Well, it’s true that I didn’t charge you for my services. But I don’t think that Lady Rainsford will care about that distinction.”
“Lady Rainsford is a monstrous woman,” he bit out.
“She is your future mother-in-law,” India observed. “Our unfortunate behavior does not and should not compel you to marry me—and neither does it mean that I am compelled to marry you. You appear to have forgotten to propose, but you needn’t bother. My answer is no.”
Thorn felt astonishment roaring down his spine. “Your answer is yes.”
“Do not think for a second that you can force me into marriage!”
India turned blindly away from Thorn’s black expression and walked to the mantel. The truth could not be avoided. He deserved better than she, someone sweet and soft. She swallowed hard.
And she deserved someone who loved her, not someone forced by his sense of honor to marry her. Tears threatened again, but she managed to choke them down.
“India,” Thorn said from behind her, the bite in his voice easing.
She had to cut him off before he persuaded her, because it would only be his conscience talking. She refused to be sacrificed on the altar of any man’s conscience.
Not when it would change the course of her whole life. Not . . . not loving him the way she loved him, especially if he grew to hate her because he lost his “ideal” wife.
He would hate her, if not now, then later, after the pleasure of illicit encounters in hallways had worn off. She would rather die than live that way.
“At any rate,” she said, steeling her voice. “I’ve changed my mind. I am not giving up my profession. I have decided to accept an offer from the Prince of Wales; I shall renovate his private quarters at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton.”
His eyes narrowed. “You will not go anywhere near that fat lecher’s chambers.”
She gripped the mantelpiece, using it to keep herself upright as she turned to face him again. “I shall go where I wish. And I would be daft not to accept the job. Perhaps after that, I shall marry—but never because of a moment’s indiscretion. My parents were neglectful, as you know. But they loved each other. I didn’t realize until recently how important that was, and I shall certainly not marry a man who doesn’t even think he has to propose.”