A corner of Cassandra’s mouth curled with reluctant amusement. “You’re trying to appear as harmless as a lamb. But we both know you’re not.”

“I have lamblike moments,” Tom said. At her dubious glance, he insisted, “I’m having one right now. I’m one hundred percent lamb.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I’m truly grateful for your offer, but I have no interest in a hectic, fast-paced life in the middle of the world’s largest city, with a husband who can never love me.”

“That’s not what I’m offering,” Tom said swiftly. “At least, it’s not all I’m offering. You should at least find out more about what you’d be turning down.” Catching sight of the abandoned chairs and place settings on the other side of the library, he exclaimed, “Tea. Let’s have tea, while I mention a few points for you to consider.”

Cassandra continued to look skeptical.

“All you have to do is listen,” Tom coaxed. “Only for as long as it takes to drink one cup of tea. You can do that for me, can’t you? Please?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said reluctantly.

Tom didn’t let his expression change, but he felt a stab of satisfaction. During bargaining talks, he always tried to maneuver the other side into saying yes as early and as often as possible. It made them far more likely to agree to concessions later on.

They went to the settee and low table. Tom remained standing, while Cassandra took some items from the tea cart and arranged a new place setting. She gestured to the place on the settee where she wanted him to sit, and he obeyed immediately.

Cassandra sat beside him and arranged her skirts, and reached for the teapot. With deft, ladylike grace, she poured tea through a tiny silver strainer and stirred milk into the cups with a silver spoon. When the ritual was done, she lifted her own cup to her lips and glanced at him expectantly over the gilded porcelain rim. The sight of her wet eyes launched his heart into chaos. He was nothing but raw nerves and longing. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and against all odds, he had half a chance of winning her if he could just find the right words, the right argument …

“You once told me it was your dream to help people,” he said. “As lady of the manor, you’d be limited to knitting stockings and caps for the poor, and taking baskets of food to local families, which is all fine and proper. But as my wife, you could feed and educate thousands. Tens of thousands. You could help people on a scale you’ve never dared to imagine. I know you don’t care about my money, but you definitely care about what it can do. If you marry me, you might not be part of the select circles of the upper class, but your political and financial power would go far beyond theirs.”

Tom paused, covertly assessing Cassandra’s reaction. She seemed more perplexed than enthusiastic, trying to envision the kind of life he was describing. “Also …” he added meaningfully, “… unlimited shoes.”

Cassandra nodded distractedly, reaching for a cake, but then drew her hand back.

“You’d have freedom as well,” Tom continued. “If you won’t bother me about my comings and goings, I won’t bother you about yours. Write your own rules. Arrange your own schedule. Raise the children however you like. The house will be your territory to run any way you choose.” He paused to glance at her expectantly.

No reaction.

“Furthermore,” Tom said, “I’d give you all the benefits of companionship with none of the difficulties of love. No ups and downs, no turmoil, no thwarted expectations. You’ll never have to worry about your husband falling out of love with you, or falling in love with someone else.”

“But I want to be loved,” Cassandra said, frowning down at her lap.

“Love is the worst thing that can happen to people in novels,” Tom protested. “What good did Heath-cliff and all his passionate foaming at the mouth do for Cathy? Look at Sydney Carton—if he’d loved Lucie just a little less, he would have waited until her husband was guillotined, married her himself, and carried on with his successful law practice. But no, he did the noble thing, because love made him stupid. And then there’s Jane Eyre, an otherwise sensible woman so dazzled by lovemaking, she didn’t happen to notice the scurrying of an arsonous madwoman overhead. There would be far more happy endings in literature if people would just stop falling in love.”

Cassandra’s jaw had gone slack with astonishment. “You’ve been reading novels?”

“Yes. The point is, if you could just overlook this one small issue of my inability to form emotional attachments to other human beings, we’d be very happy together.”

She was still focused on novels. “How many have you read?”

Tom went through them in his head. “Sixteen. No, seventeen.”

“Which author is your favorite?”

He considered the question, weaving his fingers together and flexing them a few times. “So far, either Charles Dickens or Jules Verne, although Gaskell is quite tolerable. Austen’s marriage plots are tedious, Tolstoy is preoccupied with suffering, and nothing by anyone named Brontë bears even a passing resemblance to real life.”

“Oh, but Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester,” Cassandra exclaimed, as if the couple were the epitome of romance.

“Rochester is an irrational arse,” Tom said flatly. “He could have simply told Jane the truth and installed his wife in a decent Swiss clinic.”

Cassandra’s lips twitched. “Your version of the plot may be more sensible, but it’s not nearly as interesting. Have you tried any American novelists?”

“They write books?” Tom asked, and was gratified when Cassandra chuckled. Noticing he had now earned her full attention, he asked slowly, “Why does my novel reading interest you?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I suppose it makes you seem a bit more human. With all your talk of business and contracts, it’s hard to—”

“Contracts,” he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers.

Cassandra, who had been reaching for a tea cake again, jumped a little and snatched her hand back. She gave him a questioning glance.

“We’ll negotiate a contract, you and I,” Tom said. “A mutually agreed-upon set of marital expectations to use as a reference and amend as we go along.”

“You mean … a document drawn up by lawyers … ?”

“No, none of it would be legally enforceable. It would just be for our private use. Most of what we put down would be too personal for anyone else’s eyes.” He had her full attention now. “It will give us both a better idea of what the future will look like,” he continued. “It may help to ease some of your worries. We’ll start designing our life together before it even starts.”

“Design,” she repeated with a faint laugh, regarding him as if he were a lunatic. “As if it were a building or a machine?”

“Exactly. Our own unique arrangement.”

“What if one of us doesn’t uphold the contract?”

“We’ll have to trust each other. That’s the marriage part.” Seeing her steal another glance at the tea cakes, Tom picked up the plate and set it in front of her. “Here, would you like one?”