That the anniversary of my father's passing approaches. The terms of the will require proof of an heir, or at least a confirmed pregnancy by the fifth year. That gives us 8 months." The mutton suddenly tasted like ash. I carefully set my knife and fork down.
We had not spoken of it since my first night in the library. He slept in the east wing. I slept in the west. We had built a bridge of ledgers, mud, and shared exhaustion, but we had carefully avoided the vast, terrifying chasm of the marriage bed. I see, I managed to say.
The silence in the dining room felt heavy enough to shatter the crystal glasses. I will not force you, Cecilia. He stared at his plate, refusing to look at me. If you cannot bear the thought of, if you cannot do it, I will write to Finch. I will forfeit the estate.
I have enough personal funds remaining to secure a small cottage for us on the coast. You will not be destitute. He was offering to throw away his ancestral home, the very thing he had bought me to save, just to spare me the horror of touching him. The sheer weight of his self-loathing hit me like a physical blow. He truly believed he was too grotesque to be loved, let alone desired.
"Do not be absurd," I snapped. The sharpness of my tone made his head snap up. We have spent the last 8 weeks fixing roofs, clearing ditches, and arguing over the price of winter wheat. I didn't ruin my favorite boots in a freezing bog just to abandon this estate to your degenerate cousin. Nathaniel stared at me, his eye wide.
I will come to your rooms tonight, I said, keeping my voice as clinical as possible to mask the sudden violent hammering of my heart. I stood up, tossing my napkin onto the table. Have a fire built. I didn't wait for his answer. I left the room, walking steadily, until I reached the safety of my own chambers, where I finally allowed my hands to shake.
Hours later, the house was dead silent. I stood before my vanity mirror. I wore a plain white cotton night gown and a heavy wool shawl wrapped tightly around my shoulders. I looked pale. I looked terrified.
I was not a romantic fool. I knew the mechanics of the marital act, but this was not about mechanics. This was about navigating the deep, jagged wounds of a man who hated his own skin. I picked up a single candle and walked down the long dark corridor toward the east wing. Nathaniel's door was slightly a jar.
I pushed it open. His bed chamber was stark. No tapestries, no heavy velvet curtains, just a massive four poster bed, a wash stand, and a roaring fire in the hearth. Nathaniel stood by the window, staring out into the pitch black night. He wore a simple linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat and dark trousers.
He didn't turn around when I closed the door behind me. "You do not have to do this," he said to the glass. His voice was fractured. "You have proven your worth to this estate 10 times over, Cecilia. You don't have to pretend."