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which in no way that I can see preclude a husband.”
    She had never in her adult life had to explain herself to anyone; that was clearly written in the astonished, slightly hoity expression that infused her green eyes. Then they flared. “I don’t have time for a husband!” Quick as a flash, she added: “For the arguments, like this one.”
    â€œWhy should you argue?”
    â€œWhy, indeed—but all men argue, and a husband certainly would. He would want me to do things his way, not my way—not The Lady’s way.”
    â€œAh—so your real concern is that a husband would interfere with your duties.”
    â€œThat he’d seek to interfere in how I perform my duties.” She paused in her pacing and eyed him narrowly. “Gentlemen such as you have a habit of expecting to have your own way in all things. I could not possibly marry such a man.”
    â€œBecause you want to have your own way in all things?”
    Her eyes flashed. “Because I need to be free to perform my duties—free of any husbandly interference.”
    Calmly, he considered her. “What if a husband didn’t interfere?”
    She snorted derisively and resumed her pacing.
    Richard’s lips twitched. “It is possible, you know.”
    â€œThat you would let your wife go her own way?” At the far end of her route, she turned and raked him with a dismissively contemptuous glance. “Not even in the vale do pigs fly.”
    It was no effort not to smile; Richard felt her raking gaze pass over every inch of his body—he had to clamp an immediate hold over his instinctive reaction. Ravishing her wouldn’t serve his purpose—he had yet to decide just what his purpose was. Learning more of her would, however, greatly assist in clarifying that point.
    â€œIf we married, a man such as I,” his tone parodied her distinction, “might, given your position, agree to”—he gestured easily—“accommodate you and your duties.” She shot him a skeptical glance; he trapped her gaze. “There’s no reason some sort of agreement couldn’t be reached.”
    She considered him, a frown slowly forming in her eyes, then she humphed and turned away.
    Richard studied her back, the sweeping line of her spine from her nape to the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. The view was one designed to distract him, attract him—the stiffness of her stance, the sheer challenge of her reluctance, only deepened the magnetic tug.
    â€œYou’re not seriously considering marrying me.”
    She made the statement, clear and absolute, to the darkness beyond the window.
    Richard lowered his arm and leaned back against the mantlepiece. “Aren’t I?”
    She continued to gaze into the gloaming. “You only claimed the week’s grace because we all took it for granted that you would refuse.” She paused, then added: “You don’t like being taken for granted.”
    Richard felt his brows rise. “Actually, it was because you took me for granted. The others don’t count.”
    The swift glance she shot him was scathing. “I might have known you’d say it was my fault.”
    â€œYou might have noticed I haven’t. You were the reason I so promptly claimed the time, but . . . on reflection”—his gesture encompassed the woods through which he’d tramped—“I would have claimed it anyway.”
    She frowned. “Why?”
    He studied her and wondered if he could ever explain to anyone how he felt about family. “Let’s just say that I’ve a constitutional dislike of making rushed decisions, and Seamus laid his plans very carefully. He knew I wouldn’t appreciate being used as a pawn to disenfranchise his family.”
    Her frown deepened. “Because of being a bastard?”
    â€œNo. Because of being a Cynster.”
    Her frown grew more puzzled. “I don’t