“Sara, then,” he conceded, resenting the shorter sound of it on his lips. He much preferred the lyrical sound of her whole name but would yield if it meant that much to her. “The duchess will ferret out any lie in a heartbeat. As my fiancée, you must act the part, because she has to believe it’s a love match.”

Her slender throat worked. “Why? Most gentlemen hardly marry for love.”

“Because she is well versed on my vow never to marry. The fact that the ever prosaic, unsentimental duke has been brought low by Cupid will undoubtedly appeal to her female sense of romanticism.” He didn’t add that the Duchess of Embry did not have a romantic bone in her body.

Sarani narrowed her eyes, lips pursing. “Female sense? I didn’t expect such a deeply elemental thing to be relegated to one particular sex or for you to describe it so.”

His lips twitched, that tart rejoinder reminding him of their many vigorous discussions. From politics to literature to philosophy to science, they’d never been at a loss for topics of discourse, and she’d always argued her points passionately and with conviction. Those few times that he’d won an argument, she’d conceded with grace, willing to learn and widen her worldview. He’d never met another like her. Smart, articulate, and deviously clever.

Had she been born a man, she might have left revolution in her wake.

“Everyone knows women are hopeless romantics,” he said, biting back his smile.

“A sweeping generalization,” she said, eyes sparking. “I know of many men who would stake their fortunes on the value of a single romantic gesture.”

“Let me guess, poets like Byron?”

She sniffed. “And Coleridge, Wordsworth, and other poets of English note while you’re at it. Not all of the great poets hail from the west, you know. Jalal al-Din Rumi’s evocation of divine love could be read as the most intimate kind of love poetry.”

“I’m familiar with translations of his work. It might surprise you that James Redhouse is a distant acquaintance of mine.” He smiled, seeing her brows pleat at the mention of the well-known literary translator.

“I thought I saw something from the Royal Asiatic Society in your bookshelf,” she said. “I did not take someone like you to be a connoisseur of Rumi or a collector of peregrine literature.”

“Why? Because I’m a humble ship’s captain?” He shot her an arch look.

“No. Because you’ve…”

Changed.

He saw the moment the banter fled from her eyes and the wariness returned. Once more, she turned a desperate, panicked gaze to the shoreline. “I don’t—”