CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SEDUCTION WAS ALL very well, but first one had to dine. Mordecai ate with only part of his attention on his food—he noticed the ox rumps and the Rhenish cream, but little else. Each bite brought him closer to the end of the meal, to his offer of marriage and Miss Wrotham’s counterproposal—and his reply.

He found himself growing nervous—which would have amused him in other circumstances. He was Mordecai Black. People were nervous of him, not the other way around. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous. Eton, perhaps? And then he did remember: he’d been nervous when he’d asked Mr. Wrotham for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He’d been nervous the first time he’d proposed to Miss Wrotham. And the second time. And the third. Last night he hadn’t been nervous—he’d been fatalistic, already knowing what her answer would be—but he was nervous again tonight. His heart was beating faster than it usually did. He thought he might be sweating slightly.

“—tomorrow?”

Mordecai blinked, and dragged his attention to Miss Wrotham, seated across from him wearing her wig and spectacles. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mordecai tried to marshal his wits. “Uh . . . tomorrow I’ll speak with the midwives in the West Quarter.”

Alarm flickered across her face. “You promised you wouldn’t go there alone.”

“I shan’t be alone. I’ll take Phelps and Walter with me.”

Miss Wrotham bit her lip, and then said, “If you take them, may I come, too?”

“No.”

“But surely it would be safe—”

“No,” he said again, firmly.

She frowned at him.

Mordecai laid down his knife and fork. “If I take you with me, I’d be placing us all at a disadvantage.”

“How so?”

“It would divide my attention. I’d be worrying about you.”

Miss Wrotham drew breath as if to argue.

Mordecai held up a hand to forestall her. “It’s all very well to tell me that I needn’t worry about you, but I wouldn’t be able to help it. And if something happened—if it came to a fight and I was worried for your safety, if my attention was diverted for even one second . . .” He shrugged. “Hesitation can be fatal.”

Miss Wrotham closed her mouth.

“I’m not being dictatorial,” Mordecai told her. “I’m being honest. Phelps and Walter can hold their own in a fight; you can’t. Having you with us would be a hindrance.”

Her gaze lowered to her plate. She looked so crestfallen that Mordecai said, “And besides, it would draw more attention to have a lady with us. We’d more likely be targeted by pickpockets and cutpurses.”

She glanced up. “If I were a man, would you take me?”

“If you were a man and you knew how to fight, yes.”

Miss Wrotham’s mouth tucked in at the corners. Mordecai interpreted that as frustration, or perhaps exasperation.

He waited a moment, but she made no further comment.

They finished their meal in silence, but it wasn’t a brooding silence. He thought Miss Wrotham was sifting through her thoughts in much the same way that he was sifting through his.

“Is there anything I can do tomorrow to look for Sophia?” she said, when they’d both laid down their knives and forks.

Mordecai considered this for several seconds, and then shook his head.

“So I’m just to sit here while you go to the West Quarter?” Frustration was clearly audible in her voice.

“I’m sorry.” He folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I suggest you visit the cathedral and look at the shops on the High Street—but I must ask you not to go further afield than that. You don’t know which parts of the city are safe.”

“The cathedral.” Miss Wrotham threw down her napkin; not in anger, but frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Mordecai said again.

Miss Wrotham blew out a breath. “Oh, if only I were a man!”

I’m glad you’re not, Mordecai thought.

“Once this is over, I’ll teach you the fundamentals of boxing,” he offered.

Miss Wrotham blinked. She was silent for several seconds, while the frustration on her face transformed into surprise. “You will?”

“If you’d like to learn.”

She reached for her discarded napkin, smoothed it out, and doubled it over once, then twice, then a third time, slowly and methodically. “It wouldn’t be at all the thing,” she said, once the napkin was perfectly folded. Mordecai thought he heard a wistful note in her voice.

“Who cares?” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “If you wish to learn how to box, why shouldn’t you? If you want to ride like a man, why shouldn’t you?”

Miss Wrotham hesitated. He saw the conflict on her face.

“I’ll teach you how to fence, too, if you like. And shoot.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to bribe me into marrying you, Mr. Black?”

“What? No! I just thought you might like to learn. It has nothing to do with whether you marry me or not.” He hesitated—should he charge ahead, or retreat? Charge ahead. “But since you brought the subject up . . . will you marry me?”

She pushed the napkin aside. “Must you keep asking me that?”

“Yes,” Mordecai said.

Exasperation crossed her face. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear last night. I’m prepared to be your mistress, but not your wife.”

“You did make yourself clear.” Mordecai thought of the marriage license in his pocket. He took a deep breath and said, “I accept your offer.”

Shock and astonishment chased themselves across Miss Wrotham’s face before her expression congealed into frozen disbelief. “I beg your pardon?” she said faintly.

“I accept your offer.”

Panic flared on her face.

“But if you wish to change your mind, that’s perfectly all right,” Mordecai said hastily.

There was a long, taut moment of silence. The panic on Miss Wrotham’s face faded. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. Mordecai found himself holding his breath. Half of him hoped she would withdraw her offer—and the other half hoped she wouldn’t.

The silence lengthened. And lengthened further.

Mordecai leaned back in his chair and tried to look neutral. This had to be Eleanor Wrotham’s decision. He couldn’t push her one way or the other, wouldn’t push her.

She was thinking—thinking hard—her expression that of a person trying to balance a difficult equation.

Mordecai had a fairly good idea what the equation looked like. Propriety, prudence, and caution would be on one side; curiosity, recklessness, and a desire to thumb her nose at Society would be on the other. And somewhere in the middle—the unknown element in the equation—was physical attraction. How strongly was Eleanor Wrotham attracted to him?

If the answer was very, then she’d be more likely to risk an affair. If it was not much, she wouldn’t.

She was a woman prepared to take risks. She’d never have left her great aunt’s home otherwise—not with so little money, not with just a single valise—and the longer the pause drew, the longer it took her to decide, the more likely it was that she would decide to take another risk.

After nearly a full minute of silence Miss Wrotham said, “Very well. Let us have an affair.”