“Ouch,” he said, his mouth twitching. “That hurts.”

“The truth always hurts.”

He stuck out his hand. “I propose a truce, then.”

“A what?”

“Truce. A cease-fire. Temporary amnesty.”

She glared at him, ignoring his hand. “I know what truce means, you jackanapes. No one, least of all your mother, is going to be convinced that we are a love match. This is foolish. She’ll see right through this. Through me.” Her feeble confidence dissolved as panic set in. “I have a feisty tongue, made worse by weeks spent with your crew. I despise being told what to do. I couldn’t possibly make you or any Englishman a dutiful, proper wife. This is impossible.”

“You gave your word.”

Sarani clenched her jaw as the carriage rolled to a smooth stop. The sounds of the coachman descending from his perch reached her ears. Within moments, he would be opening the door in front of Rhystan’s childhood home, and then there would be no turning back. “Why don’t you want to be duke?”

The brief hint of humor evaporated, shutters closing down over his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It just does. Answer the question.”

He went silent for a long moment, but then he spoke, his voice dripping with coldness. “Because I’m not fit for it.”

* * *

Rhystan stared at Sarani, his throat like a vise. Hell if he ever wanted to admit that to her of all people. But as she’d so eloquently pointed out, he needed her as much as she needed him if he had any hope of thwarting his mother. And the only answer he could give to her question was the truth. The ugly, pathetic, awful truth.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s your birthright.”

“No,” he bit out. “I wasn’t even the spare. It was only by a horrific accident that this fell to me. They died in a fire. I didn’t.” His breath sawed out of him in short bursts. “Because I wasn’t there. I was never part of this life. It was never supposed to be me—the ne’er-do-well third son. The rotten egg.”

“You’re still the son of a duke,” Sarani said after a beat, reaching out to touch his sleeve and then pulling back as if uncertain of its welcome. “What happened to your father and brothers was tragic. We can’t always choose our paths. Sometimes, they’re chosen for us. And you’re not rotten.”

“Because you know me so well?” He laughed, the sound harsh in the confines of the coach. “You met an idealistic boy, one who had the naivete beaten out of him, and it taught me one thing: I carve my own path, Princess.”