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Except.

She yearned for what Margaret had. Even if her cousin’s husband, Mr. Gibbs, was sometimes foolish and cowardly as when he had fled the scene of his wife’s labor, he still loved her. He hardly knew what to do with the baby, but he changed diapers and was learning to care for his son. They weren’t perfect, but they were happy.

And she was…not.

She was lonely. She had tried to cover up her longing for a family by indulging in the occasional discreet affaire, yet that had only been a temporary solution each time. Until Henry. Until she had gone and fallen in love with a man who didn’t remember his own name…

“How dare you be a duke?” she sobbed, and was horrified to find herself bursting into tears. What was wrong with her lately?

“Is that a yes?” he asked in puzzlement.

“No it is not a yes!” she exclaimed.

“That sentence doesn’t make sense.”

“Henry, I cannot marry a peer. I am not even a lady! I am a reasonably well-off widow who failed to give her husband an heir. You are a duke! You will need heirs!”

This was a disaster. Her inability to bear children had caused endless rancor in her first marriage. She could not possibly consign herself to decades of misery, not when the stakes were so high. Artemisia tried to collect herself but it was like trying to grasp water—she couldn’t hold it. Emotions slipped through her fingers and eddied in her stomach. A whirlpool, sucking her down.

Suddenly nauseous, she lurched out of her chair and lunged for the nearest chamber pot. Thank God it was clean. She emptied the contents of her stomach—very little, fortunately; her appetite had been off for days—into the ceramic basin. When she was done retching, she sat on her heels and pressed her forehead to the cold porcelain.

You just puked in front of a duke. He asked you to marry him, and you vomited.

There was no coming back from this. She was going to have to sell everything she owned, move abroad, and change her name.

“Artie,” he said softly. A large hand stroked her back. “I didn’t intend for my proposal to make you sick.”

He sounded chagrined. Artemisia couldn’t stop a hopeless chuckle from overtaking her. What a terrible feeling, to be ill and laughing at the same time.

“It’s not you.” She closed the lid and slumped against the wall, her skirt hiking up. What was the point of modesty when he had already seen everything? “Babies are so much work. I’m exhausted after only six weeks, and I am not even his mother.”

“Mrs. Gibbs was fortunate to have you with her.”

“But I will never have that experience. We would never have that, Your Grace.” She squeezed his forearm, wishing he understood instead of brimming with obstinate optimism. How flattering that he was determined to win her over; how foolish of him to want her in the first place.

“First of all, you cannot be certain about your inability to conceive. Second, while I would like to have children with you, Artemisia, I do not require heirs. I have four younger brothers and two sisters, both of whom have children of their own. The title shall pass down within the family regardless of whether or not I directly sire a son or not. Thirdly, even though you were physically ill at the mere prospect of becoming my wife, I am undeterred. You might not say yes now, but I am not giving up.” Henry cupped her chin and lifted it. Artemisia’s vision swam.

“That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, Your Grace.”

He kissed her forehead fondly. “Stop calling me that, unless you want me to start calling you Artie all the time.”

An airless chuckle took her by surprise.

“I spent most of my adult life avoiding marriage, Artemisia. But ever since meeting you, I have realized that it wasn’t the institution I objected to, it was the woman I was expected to wed. Once I met you, I was no longer opposed to the idea. If finding you required sacrificing my dignity to a lady thief and running away from my own wedding like a coward, then it was all worth it. We may have only had two days together in Cavalier Cove, but that was all I needed to know that I could love you for the rest of my life.”

Artemisia sucked in a harsh breath, and started bawling.

“I can’t, Henry. This is the worst thing ever to happen to me. I finally met someone I could love. I do love you. I hardly know you, but I think about you all the time. Yet I know what it’s like to endure disappointment every month for years on end. I’d hate for the real affection we have for one another to turn sour.”

“So that’s a maybe?” he said hopefully.

There was one thing worse than being sick and laughing uncontrollably, and that was not knowing whether she was laughing or crying.

“I’ll consider the idea if you accompany me during the journey home.” That was as much as she was willing to give him. For now.

They departed from Margaret’s a day later than Artemisia had planned to, but riding together in her carriage. Henry’s second head wound wasn’t nearly as serious as the first. Apart from a tender bump, he swore he had slept soundly and felt up to the journey.

“More than up to it,” he murmured in her ear as they waved goodbye to Artemisia’s kin. They were barely out of the drive before he was pulling her into his lap to demonstrate precisely what he meant.