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“Jack,” she said again, “if you are the duke, you will be expected to marry a woman of high birth.”

He swore under his breath. “You speak of yourself as if you were some dockside whore.”

“No,” she said, trying to be patient, “I do not. I know exactly what I am. I am an impoverished young lady of impeccable but undistinguished birth. My father was a country gentleman, my mother the daughter of a country gentleman. We have no connections to the aristocracy. My mother was the second cousin to a baronet, but that is all.”

He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Or as if he’d heard but hadn’t listened.

No, Grace thought miserably. He’d listened but he hadn’t heard. And sure enough, the first words from his mouth were: “I don’t care.”

“But everyone else does,” she persisted. “And if you are the duke, there will be enough of an uproar as it is. The scandal will be amazing.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you should.” She stopped, forcing herself to take a breath before she continued. She wanted to grab her head and press her fingers into her scalp. She wanted to make fists until her fingernails bit into her skin. Anything—anything that would eat away at this awful frustration that was pulling her inside out. Why wasn’t he listening? Why couldn’t he hear that—

“Grace—” he began.

“No!” She cut him off, perhaps more loudly than she ought, but it had to be said: “You will need to tread carefully if you wish to be accepted into society. Your wife does not have to be Amelia, but it must be someone like her. With a similar background. Otherwise—”

“Are you listening to me?” he cut in. He grasped her shoulders, holding her in place until she looked up at him, directly into his eyes. “I don’t care about ‘otherwise.’ I don’t need for society to accept me. All I need is you, whether I live in a castle, a hovel, or anything in between.”

“Jack…” she began. He was being naive. She loved him for it, nearly wept with joy that he adored her enough to think he could so thoroughly flout convention. But he didn’t know. He had not lived at Belgrave for five years. He had not traveled to London with the dowager and seen firsthand what it meant to be a member of such a family. She had. She had watched, and she had observed, and she knew exactly what was expected of the Duke of Wyndham. His duchess could not be a nobody from the neighborhood. Not if he expected anyone to take him seriously.

“Jack,” she said again, trying to find the right words. “I wish—”

“Do you love me?” he cut in.

She froze. He was staring at her with an intensity that left her breathless, immobile.

“Do you love me?”

“It doesn’t—”

“Do…you…love me?”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to say it. If she did, she would be lost. She would never be able to resist him—his words, his lips. If she gave him this, she would lose her last defense.

“Grace,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. He leaned down and kissed her—once, with aching tenderness. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

“Then that is all that matters.”

She opened her lips to try one last time to talk sense into him, but he was already kissing her, his mouth hot and passionate on her own.

“I love you,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her brows, her ears. “I love you.”

“Jack,” she whispered, but her body had already begun to hum with desire. She wanted him. She wanted this. She did not know what tomorrow would bring, but at this moment she was willing to pretend that she did not care. As long as—

“Promise me,” she said urgently, grasping his face firmly in her hands. “Please. Promise me that there will be no baby.”

His eyes shuttered and flared, but finally he said, “I promise you I will try.”

“You will try?” she echoed. Surely he would not lie about this. He would not ignore her plea and later pretend that he’d “tried.”

“I will do what I know how to do. It is not completely foolproof.”

She loosened her grip and showed her acquiescence by allowing her fingers to trail along his cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning up for a kiss.