The Bromance Book Club (Bromance Book Club, #1)(26)

She hesitated, probably caught off guard by the formality of his tone, but then she obeyed. She sat in a stiff, ladylike pose—spine straight, hands primly folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles and draped elegantly to the side.

“I have another gift for you,” he said.

Her sigh could have powered a steam engine. “My lord—”

“Benedict.”

“—this has to stop.”

“You do not like the other gifts I’ve given you?” He’d given her seven so far. Earbobs and necklaces and bracelets in every shade of gemstone.

“They are unnecessary.”

“You are the only woman I have ever met who would describe earbobs and rings as unnecessary.”

“Then you must not know many women.”

“Touché.” Benedict pulled away from the mantel and crossed to his desk. From the drawer, he pulled out the unwrapped box. It took only a handful of steps to reach the sofa, but it felt longer under the weight of her gaze and the threat of his failure. “Perhaps this gift will be of more use to you.”

She accepted the box and wordlessly opened it. Her eyebrows pulled together as she withdrew the slim, silver instrument. “What is it?”

“That,” Benedict said, lowering himself to sit beside her, “is a fountain pen.”

“I see.”

“You dip this part here,” he said, pointing to the sharp nib at the end, “into the well, and it draws ink up into a thin capillary, which then holds the ink and deposits it onto the paper when you write. It allows one to write much longer without pausing for more ink.”

He watched as she fought a battle between stubbornness and fascination.

Stubbornness won. She replaced the pen in the box. “What use do I have for such a frivolity?”

“You write to your younger sister every day, Irena. I thought this would make the task much easier for you.”

The mask of indifference that had held her features in stony neutrality now slipped, revealing a hint of loneliness that tore at his conscience.

“I’m sorry that you miss her so much,” he stated.

“I worry about her,” she corrected flatly. “The scandal of our marriage has tainted her as well. My parents have become ruthless in seeking her a respectable marriage of her own before it’s too late, regardless of what she wants. There is nothing I can do to protect her now.”

Guilt threatened to suffocate him—not only for what he’d done but for what he was about to do. He reached over and covered her hands with one of his. “Irena, I have come to a decision.”

Her eyes darted to his. “What kind of decision?”

“There will be no heir.”

Panic flashed through her eyes, widening the pupils and darkening her emerald irises. “What?” she breathed, swaying where she sat.

“You have refused to accept any of my overtures to prove that I love you.”

She shot to her feet, the pen clattering to the floor. “And this is how you are going to do it? By denying me a child?”

“I will deny you nothing.” He rose and grasped her hands in his. “If I cannot win your love again, I will get you with child in whatever cold, passionless manner you require. Then I shall purchase you an estate with an ample stable where you and the child can retire with your beloved horses, and I shall never bother you again. But not until you give me a chance to remind you how much more there can be between us.”

Her head shook back and forth in a frantic pattern. “How can you possibly think I would agree to engage in such a cruel bargain?”

“Because you have everything to gain if you win. I, on the other hand, have everything to lose.”

Disgust darkened her expression as she yanked her hands away. “Spoken like someone who has viewed the world for too long through the cloudy lens of the male gaze. No matter what happens between us, you maintain your status, your title, your money, your ownership of the entire world. You will remain welcome in every club and every ballroom. You will forever be the victim of a vicious, scheming woman, whereas I will forever be the Delilah who cut off your hair. You stand to lose nothing.”

Benedict gripped her shoulders. “I stand to lose you!” he exclaimed.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips.

Benedict shifted his hands to cradle the curve of her jaw. “If you think I care about any of it—the money, the title, any of it—you’re wrong. None of it matters if I lose you.”

She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes. Yet she pulled from his touch, turned away, and walked to the line of decanters on the bar against the opposite wall. He watched with bittersweet bemusement as she poured a stiff serving of brandy and shot it back with practiced precision. His love, always full of surprises.

“I don’t understand what you want me to do, my lord.”

“Let me court you. Let me take you to the theater, to balls. Sit with me in the evening and speak with me at dinner. Dance with me. Ride with me in the park. Let us do all the things we did before—”

He cut himself off. She finished in a scathing tone. “Before you accused me of treachery against you and refused to hear my side of the story.”

“Yes,” he answered calmly.

“And if I refuse to do your bidding?”