all.”
“That would make me very unhappy.” Looking her directly in the eye, he smiled awkwardly. “I . . . I apologize for the homecoming I gave you. I was angry that you abandoned our union, but I admit that I was the one who led you to that decision. Now I am glad you have returned.”
She stood and moved closer to him. “There you go again.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “What is it I’ve gone and done?”
“Your words and your expression speak something different.”
The loveliness of Isabella’s amber eyes flushed heat through his veins and his sex reacted.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your face doesn’t convey the same apology as your words.”
“Confound it!” He began to pace again. “I didn’t come here to be analyzed, like some patient in that blasted asylum.”
The color drained from her face.
Control your temper, Draven told himself. You need Isabella. Months ago he had tried to kill himself, but the knife wound to his heart had healed instantaneously. Now he was relying on his wife to stop him.
He halted in his tracks then took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Why did you come here?” she challenged him.
“To tell you that I request your presence at breakfast tomorrow morning.” He forced a dry thump down his throat. “I could not join you for the first two meals of the day due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Will you be joining me for breakfast on the morrow?” she asked.
“I shall.”
A heavy silence hung between them while he summoned a kinder tone. “You have my word. If I am forced to miss any more meals in the future, I will send word to you through Mrs. Eaton—or Rogers.”
She shot him a dubious look.
“Would it please you if we shook hands on such a promise?”
Draven extended his palm forward. When Isabella grasped it, her fingers quivered beneath his firm touch. He leaned in and whispered, “Have you been faithful to me these months, my dear wife?”
“I have.” Isabella raised her chin.
“Then you have no potential lover waiting for you in the wings—a lover willing to grant you children?”
Red blotches spread across her chest and her palm grew moist.
“As I thought,” he said. “You were bluffing about conducting a liaison.” Lowering his gaze to the ruffle that bared the swell of her breasts, he wet his lips.
“I was not bluffing!” she cried.
“You were because you wouldn’t disappoint me by being a harlot.”
She snatched her hand away. “You know nothing of what I will or will not do. Furthermore, my ultimatum stands.”
Draven drew back. She was making things bloody difficult. He wanted to bed her, feel her soft curves beneath him, but he wasn’t going to let her treat him like a puppet on a string.
With a swirl of his coattails, he turned to leave. “I will knock on your door and accompany you to breakfast tomorrow morning. I expect you to be ready.”
“I will never do as you command,” she raged.
Glaring, Draven slammed the door to avoid being hit by the candlestick Isabella thrust in his direction.
Chapter Ten
A nger makes nary a good bedfellow.
Waking from an abominable night’s sleep that testified to the adage, Isabella rubbed her eyes. As she willed them to focus on the somber haze that filled the room, her anger over Draven’s insolence returned full force.
Perhaps, she thought, a bath would soothe her fury.
She padded to the washroom where she located the servant’s cord. As she waited for Gwyneth to arrive with warm bathwater, she busied herself by smelling an array of fragrant bath salts that surrounded the tub.
The freckle-faced abigail arrived in no time with two buckets of water. Isabella resisted the urge to help the girl when she struggled to dump the water into the tub. After Gwyneth took her leave, she pinned her mass of curls atop her head and slipped out of her nightshirt. Gripping both sides of the bathtub, she dipped into the bayberry-scented water.
“That would make me very unhappy.” Looking her directly in the eye, he smiled awkwardly. “I . . . I apologize for the homecoming I gave you. I was angry that you abandoned our union, but I admit that I was the one who led you to that decision. Now I am glad you have returned.”
She stood and moved closer to him. “There you go again.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “What is it I’ve gone and done?”
“Your words and your expression speak something different.”
The loveliness of Isabella’s amber eyes flushed heat through his veins and his sex reacted.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your face doesn’t convey the same apology as your words.”
“Confound it!” He began to pace again. “I didn’t come here to be analyzed, like some patient in that blasted asylum.”
The color drained from her face.
Control your temper, Draven told himself. You need Isabella. Months ago he had tried to kill himself, but the knife wound to his heart had healed instantaneously. Now he was relying on his wife to stop him.
He halted in his tracks then took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Why did you come here?” she challenged him.
“To tell you that I request your presence at breakfast tomorrow morning.” He forced a dry thump down his throat. “I could not join you for the first two meals of the day due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Will you be joining me for breakfast on the morrow?” she asked.
“I shall.”
A heavy silence hung between them while he summoned a kinder tone. “You have my word. If I am forced to miss any more meals in the future, I will send word to you through Mrs. Eaton—or Rogers.”
She shot him a dubious look.
“Would it please you if we shook hands on such a promise?”
Draven extended his palm forward. When Isabella grasped it, her fingers quivered beneath his firm touch. He leaned in and whispered, “Have you been faithful to me these months, my dear wife?”
“I have.” Isabella raised her chin.
“Then you have no potential lover waiting for you in the wings—a lover willing to grant you children?”
Red blotches spread across her chest and her palm grew moist.
“As I thought,” he said. “You were bluffing about conducting a liaison.” Lowering his gaze to the ruffle that bared the swell of her breasts, he wet his lips.
“I was not bluffing!” she cried.
“You were because you wouldn’t disappoint me by being a harlot.”
She snatched her hand away. “You know nothing of what I will or will not do. Furthermore, my ultimatum stands.”
Draven drew back. She was making things bloody difficult. He wanted to bed her, feel her soft curves beneath him, but he wasn’t going to let her treat him like a puppet on a string.
With a swirl of his coattails, he turned to leave. “I will knock on your door and accompany you to breakfast tomorrow morning. I expect you to be ready.”
“I will never do as you command,” she raged.
Glaring, Draven slammed the door to avoid being hit by the candlestick Isabella thrust in his direction.
Chapter Ten
A nger makes nary a good bedfellow.
Waking from an abominable night’s sleep that testified to the adage, Isabella rubbed her eyes. As she willed them to focus on the somber haze that filled the room, her anger over Draven’s insolence returned full force.
Perhaps, she thought, a bath would soothe her fury.
She padded to the washroom where she located the servant’s cord. As she waited for Gwyneth to arrive with warm bathwater, she busied herself by smelling an array of fragrant bath salts that surrounded the tub.
The freckle-faced abigail arrived in no time with two buckets of water. Isabella resisted the urge to help the girl when she struggled to dump the water into the tub. After Gwyneth took her leave, she pinned her mass of curls atop her head and slipped out of her nightshirt. Gripping both sides of the bathtub, she dipped into the bayberry-scented water.
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