Page 70 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

Pere stepped in before either could answer. “You have examples before you,” she said gently. “Henley and Anna. Gabriel and myself.”

Hawthorne interrupted at once. “Our marriage is perfect.”

Pere rolled her eyes. “It is close,” she amended with a pointed glance. Then she turned back to Edwin and Eliza. “Even the best marriages require effort. Compromise. Understanding.” Her voice softened. “And love makes that effort … easier to choose.” She let the thought linger. “When love is absent…” She did not finish the sentence.

She did not need to.

Edwin inclined his head. “That is not a point I dismiss lightly,” he said. “Nor do I pretend to understand all that it entails.” He glanced briefly at Eliza. “But I do know this—I intend to honor this arrangement. Fully. Whatever form it takes.” He paused.

“We are already aligned in mind. That is not nothing. And I believe it may yet become something more.” It was not poetry. But it was honest.

Eliza stepped forward. “This may begin as a marriage of convenience,” she said. “But that does not condemn it to failure.” Her gaze was steady. “Our path may differ from what we expected—but that does not mean it will lack its own beauty.” She lifted her chin slightly. “We have already proven we can meet difficulty with reason. With clarity. I believe we will continue to do so.”

Edwin felt a fleeting, irrational urge to applaud.

Instead, he met her gaze—and inclined his head in quiet approval.

Hawthorne released a long breath. “Well,” he said at last. “Now that we have settled the matter…” His gaze moved between them. “It would seem we must plan a wedding.”

Pere’s expression lit at once. “Oh yes,” she said. “A very large wedding.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Last night, Edwin had suggested they take a promenade through Hyde Park the following day. And so Eliza prepared for this first public outing with remarkable care.

She traced a finger along a pale green day dress before moving past it, considering the rest of her wardrobe with measured attention. She needed to be noticed—but not appear to invite notice. There was a distinction there, subtle but critical.

There must be color, certainly—but restrained.

With that in mind, she selected a dark lavender walking dress. It would contrast beautifully against the green of Hyde Park without appearing ostentatious.

Her hand stilled briefly against the fabric.

Langshire had once remarked—almost absently—that lavender suited her better than any other shade. That it softened her, made her appear … less guarded.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

How easily such small things lingered.

How inconvenient.

Her fingers tightened slightly before she forced them to ease, smoothing the fabric as though nothing had interrupted her thoughts at all.

Her shoes were chosen with equal deliberation—comfortable enough should their walk extend, yet elegant enough to pass without remark upon closer inspection.

As she dressed, she studied her reflection.

What will they see?

What will they assume?

What will he think?

The question came unbidden—and refused to be dismissed.

Langshire would understand. That was the difficulty. He would see the pattern of it, the logic, the necessity. He would not make a scene. He would not demand explanation.

He would simply … step aside.