younger than he. There had been seventeen pregnancies in twenty years for his mother. He did not want to think of his mother.
"How happy you must be, then," his wife said—he had almost forgotten that she shared the carriage with him, "to be coming home. How you must have been missing them."
She set one hand on his arm and he turned his head sharply to look pointedly down at it and up into her eyes. "It is the first time in eight years, my lady," he said, and he could hear the chill in his voice. "And my absence has been entirely voluntary. I come now only because the Duke of Withingsby is in failing health and has summoned me, doubtless so that he can assail my ears with a recounting of my shortcomings and a listing of my responsibilities. There are certain burdens attached to being the eldest of five living children and to being the heir to a dukedom and vast and prosperous estates."
Her very blue eyes had widened. They were a truly remarkable feature, lending considerable beauty to the rest of her features. He felt annoyance that she had kept them hidden through most of their initial interview. They detracted severely from the overall image she projected of a quiet brown mouse. Had she trained them on him from the start of that interview, he would not even have asked her to sit down. He would have dismissed her almost immediately. And her face was definitely heart-shaped.
"You have been without your family for eight years?" she said, her voice warm with sympathy. "Oh, it must have been a dreadful quarrel indeed."
"It was a matter with which you need not concern yourself, my lady," he said chillily, attempting to stare her down. It was something he was adept at doing. Very few people in his experience had been able to hold his gaze when he had no wish for them to do so.
She gazed right back at him. "I believe you must have been very deeply hurt," she said.
He clucked his tongue, made an impatient gesture with one hand, and turned back to the window. "Spare me your shallow analysis of what you know nothing about," he said, "and of a person you know nothing of."
"And I believe," she said, "you have protected yourself by shutting yourself up inside yourself—like a fortress. I believe you must be an unhappy man."
He sucked in his breath. He felt furious almost to the point of violence. Except that he had never been one to work out his anger or his frustrations in violence. He felt the icy coldness that the effort of control always caused in him. He turned his head once more to look at her.
"My lady," he said, his voice very quiet, "you would be very well advised to be silent."
Something flickered for a moment in her eyes—he thought it was probably fear—and was gone again. She tipped her head to one side, frowned fleetingly—and held his gaze. But she obeyed him.
He set his head back against the comfortable cushions of the carriage and closed his eyes. He kept them closed for a long time, letting the anger flow out of him, admitting that it was ill-founded. The woman was his wife and was being taken to his childhood home to meet his family. It was to be expected that she would feel some curiosity even if the arrangement they had was more in the nature of employment than marriage.
He could not expect her to behave as if she were totally inanimate, after all.
He spoke again at last, without opening his eyes.
"You do not have to concern yourself with what will happen when we arrive at Enfield Park," he said. "You need not worry about creating a good impression or any impression at all for that matter. I will speak for you. You may think of yourself as my shadow if you will. You may behave as you did when we met two days ago."
"Why?" It was not a defiant question. It sounded merely curious.
"The Duke of Withingsby is extremely high in the instep," he said. "He has an enormous sense of his own consequence and of that of his whole family. Although his heir has been busily sowing his wild oats for eight years
"How happy you must be, then," his wife said—he had almost forgotten that she shared the carriage with him, "to be coming home. How you must have been missing them."
She set one hand on his arm and he turned his head sharply to look pointedly down at it and up into her eyes. "It is the first time in eight years, my lady," he said, and he could hear the chill in his voice. "And my absence has been entirely voluntary. I come now only because the Duke of Withingsby is in failing health and has summoned me, doubtless so that he can assail my ears with a recounting of my shortcomings and a listing of my responsibilities. There are certain burdens attached to being the eldest of five living children and to being the heir to a dukedom and vast and prosperous estates."
Her very blue eyes had widened. They were a truly remarkable feature, lending considerable beauty to the rest of her features. He felt annoyance that she had kept them hidden through most of their initial interview. They detracted severely from the overall image she projected of a quiet brown mouse. Had she trained them on him from the start of that interview, he would not even have asked her to sit down. He would have dismissed her almost immediately. And her face was definitely heart-shaped.
"You have been without your family for eight years?" she said, her voice warm with sympathy. "Oh, it must have been a dreadful quarrel indeed."
"It was a matter with which you need not concern yourself, my lady," he said chillily, attempting to stare her down. It was something he was adept at doing. Very few people in his experience had been able to hold his gaze when he had no wish for them to do so.
She gazed right back at him. "I believe you must have been very deeply hurt," she said.
He clucked his tongue, made an impatient gesture with one hand, and turned back to the window. "Spare me your shallow analysis of what you know nothing about," he said, "and of a person you know nothing of."
"And I believe," she said, "you have protected yourself by shutting yourself up inside yourself—like a fortress. I believe you must be an unhappy man."
He sucked in his breath. He felt furious almost to the point of violence. Except that he had never been one to work out his anger or his frustrations in violence. He felt the icy coldness that the effort of control always caused in him. He turned his head once more to look at her.
"My lady," he said, his voice very quiet, "you would be very well advised to be silent."
Something flickered for a moment in her eyes—he thought it was probably fear—and was gone again. She tipped her head to one side, frowned fleetingly—and held his gaze. But she obeyed him.
He set his head back against the comfortable cushions of the carriage and closed his eyes. He kept them closed for a long time, letting the anger flow out of him, admitting that it was ill-founded. The woman was his wife and was being taken to his childhood home to meet his family. It was to be expected that she would feel some curiosity even if the arrangement they had was more in the nature of employment than marriage.
He could not expect her to behave as if she were totally inanimate, after all.
He spoke again at last, without opening his eyes.
"You do not have to concern yourself with what will happen when we arrive at Enfield Park," he said. "You need not worry about creating a good impression or any impression at all for that matter. I will speak for you. You may think of yourself as my shadow if you will. You may behave as you did when we met two days ago."
"Why?" It was not a defiant question. It sounded merely curious.
"The Duke of Withingsby is extremely high in the instep," he said. "He has an enormous sense of his own consequence and of that of his whole family. Although his heir has been busily sowing his wild oats for eight years
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