She narrowed her eyes. “So I am to be allowed to share some of your life—the parts you deem appropriate—but I am to be excluded from those business ventures, those adventures, you wish to keep private, to yourself.”
She paused to give him a chance to respond, but although his nostrils pinched as he drew in a long breath, he refused the unstated invitation to correct her.
Taking that as a sign—a negative one—she evenly continued, “I have already stated that such boundaries are not what I expected in our marriage—one I wish to be based firmly on the concept of shared enterprise. As I understand your mother has always sailed with your father, I had not realized that you might think I would be happy being left at home.”
His lips thinned. “My mother’s case is different.”
She arched her brows. “How so?”
“She—” He stopped. His eyes remained locked with hers as his expression turned openly exasperated. “My mother is not you,” he eventually stated, his tone clipped and hard. “She’s my father’s responsibility, and you are mine.”
She returned a terse nod. “Indeed. Our marriage is as much your responsibility as mine. And I will go further and definitively state that I am not prepared to accept the restriction of not sailing with you, short of there being sound reasons and a compelling argument against it. I am not prepared to acquiesce to such a limitation being put on our sharing—on our marriage.”
She’d concluded on a belligerent note. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and she was as certain as she could possibly be that—granite-headed though he clearly was—he, too, would gain enormously from a sharing union. The entire point was to support each other through no longer being alone. By no longer having to face life and its challenges, threats, and dangers alone.
That meant they had to share their lives.
He could argue until he was blue in the face, but she was not going to back down.
Declan looked into her face, saw the stalwart determination infusing her features, and understood that, entirely unexpectedly, he stood on very thin ice.
He wished it was otherwise—wished he’d comprehended her vision of their marriage before they’d reached this pass, so that he might have known which way to tack to better avoid cutting across her bow. He wished he could convince himself that this was a temporary whim of hers, that she couldn’t possibly be truly serious, that her statements of direction and intent were not rooted in sincere belief…but he couldn’t. She was the least whimsical female he’d ever met. And while he hadn’t foreseen her direction regarding their marriage, he had unshakeable faith in her honesty, especially when it came to what lay between them.
That was why wooing her had been so damned easy. She’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, and she hadn’t been backward about letting him know.
While such emotional honesty—such emotional clarity—had been a boon earlier, it made what he had to do now very much harder.
He hauled in an unsettlingly tight breath, held her gaze, and quietly, evenly, said, “I regret, my dear, that in this instance, I cannot take you with me. I would if I could—I would lay the sun, the moon, and the stars at your feet if that was what you wished and it lay within my ability. While not fraught with danger, this journey is not one I can allow you to share.”
He paused, then—deciding that he might as well be hung for a wolf as a lamb—he added, “There will always be some voyages like this. With others…perhaps we can reach some agreement when I get back. However, for now, my decision stands. I am the captain of The Cormorant, and I have absolute authority over who boards my ship. I cannot, and will not, take you with me.”
He expected her to erupt, although, truth be told, he’d never yet seen her lose her temper. He’d seen her annoyed, irritated, but never truly furious. But he now comprehended that this issue meant a great deal to her, and he knew she was stubborn, someone who would fight for what she believed… Instinctively, he braced for her anger.
It never came.
Instead, she studied him through narrowed eyes, glinting an unusually hard, bright blue from beneath her fine lashes. Gradually, her expression grew pensive.
After several moments of fraught silence—of him waiting for some high-flown denunciation—in a relatively normal tone, she asked, “Is that because, despite you saying there’ll be no real danger for you, you fear exposing me to even that low level of danger?”
He blinked. “Freetown—the capital of Sierra Leone—is no Bombay, or Calcutta, or Cape Town. It’s basic in every sense of the word and definitely no place for a duke’s daughter.”
“And that’s where you’re going?” When he nodded, she said, “I see. So your decision is driven by wanting to protect me.”
“Yes.” Exactly. He didn’t say the word but was quite sure she read his exasperation in his eyes. Why else would he deny her?
She studied him for a moment more, then—to his complete surprise—she gave a little nod, more to herself than him, and rose. “All right. That I can accept.”
Suddenly, he felt oddly unsure, as if some unexpected wind had blown up and was steadily pushing him off course. He tried to study her face, but she was looking down and shaking her skirts straight. “Just so I have this issue clear, as long as my intention is to protect you, then you’ll accept whatever decisions I make?”
She raised her head, met his eyes, and smiled—gently, reassuringly. Then she stepped closer, came up on her toes, and lightly touched her lips to his. Drawing back, her hand on his chest, she stated, “I accept that, in seeking to protect me, you will make such decisions.”
Sinking back to her heels, she watched him for a second, then her smile deepened. “Now.” She turned and walked toward the door. “As we discussed last night, we’re having dinner here, just the two of us, and then spending a quiet evening in the drawing room.”
He followed as if drawn by invisible threads.
At the door, she turned and, smiling, arched her brows. “Unless you would prefer to attend more events?”
“No, no.” He quelled a shudder. Reaching past her, he opened the door. “I’m looking forward to spending a whole evening in which I don’t have to share you with anyone else.”
Belatedly, he realized what he’d said—which word he’d used—but she only smiled sweetly and led the way out.
Feeling very much as if he’d avoided a cannonball to his mainmast, yet having no clear idea how he’d accomplished the feat, he followed at her heels. They’d got over that stumbling block and peace and harmony had—somehow—been maintained. He told himself to be grateful.
* * *
The evening following Edwina’s discussion with Declan in their library, she stood by the side of Lady Comerford’s ballroom and pretended to pay attention to the various gentlemen surrounding her. A few ladies were scattered among the ranks, but to Edwina’s dismay, for some ungodly reason, a sizeable cohort of gentlemen seemed intent on vying for her attention.
Even though the group included several she’d heard spoken of in hushed whispers by the racier of her peers—the young matrons of the ton—and even though she recognized the attraction several of those gentlemen possessed, she had no attention to spare even for such potent distractions.
Declan had informed her that he would be departing London sometime the next day; he had begged off accompanying her to this ball on the grounds of having to deal with last-minute preparations. Given she’d already declared their purpose in appearing together at such major ton events achieved, she’d had to accept his decision with a gracious smile. She’d hidden her welling consternation; she had yet to decide how best to respond to his decision to leave her safely in London.
She