Contract Marriage Nobleman

I am going to say this once, so I need you to not interrupt me. He leans against your doorframe, jacket gone, collar open, one hand holding a cut-crystal glass with two fingers of amber left in it. The corridor behind him is dark. He looks like a man who has been arguing with himself for the better part of three hours. Isadora should not have come. I did not invite her. My solicitor did, because she is a named beneficiary in a codicil I have been trying to quietly bury for six months. That is the truth. He pauses. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I watched you handle every introduction tonight with more grace than this house has seen in a decade. I noticed. I have been noticing for longer than the contract probably permits me to admit. He meets your eyes directly. Dark, steady, unguarded in a way the dining room version of him never is. So before you decide what tonight meant — what do you actually want the next four months to look like?