Page 94 of The Dangerous Lord

Some may question how a marriage between Lord St. Clair and any respectable woman can succeed when the man’s past is so mysterious, but despite what your faithful correspondent has previously written concerning the viscount, I wager that the man’s honor will compel him to be forthcoming with his wife, if not with anyone else.

“Yes,” she responded nervously, “I inserted my usual commentary.”

“You mean, your usual reprimand.” He folded the paper with a smile. “Tell me, querida, do you intend to lecture me in every edition of your column?”

Drat it, he wasn’t even angry. “It’s a thought,” she said peevishly. “It got your attention in the past, didn’t it?”

With a roguish smile, he dropped the newspaper in her lap. “Yes, but if you mention our marriage in every column, even the most dim-witted reader will eventually guess your identity.”

His continued good humor made her feel defeated. She returned to writing. “Rest assured, I’ve no intention of doing such a ninny thing.” Especially when her one mention had nettled him so little.

“That’s a relief.” Leaning over her, he snatched up the article she was working on. Quickly he scanned the lines, and his smile abruptly vanished. “How very interesting, my dear. Apparently you don’t need to mention our marriage to make your point. You simply choose those pieces of gossip that are material to our situation.”

His amused tone had hardened to sarcasm. “Merrington’s mysterious quarrel with his uncle? Pelham’s latest mistress and his pathetic wife’s ignorance of his unsavory character? How clever of you to lecture me in a manner no one would understand but you and I.” He tossed the foolscap on her writing table with a look of disgust.

She’d certainly gotten a reaction now. Only this wasn’t one she’d sought. “I didn’t lecture you in this column. I simply wrote gossip as I always do. You’re reading more into it than I wrote.”

“Oh, yes, it’s mere coincidence that you mention Merrington and his uncle.”

“That tale has been all the talk of London, and you know it.’

A wealth of contempt laced his tone. “And what about Pelham? You can’t tell me that the ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his silly wife by taking mistresses before her very eyes’ isn’t meant to be me. I know you too well.”

The unfair accusation stung. She would never liken Ian to Pelham, of all people. “Apparently not as well as you think. It isn’t about you, Ian.”

“But you do enjoy taunting me in your column. And an ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his wife’—”

“Everything is not always about you.” She rose from the chair, emotions roiling as she crossed the room to put herself as far away from his nasty temper as possible. “How clearly must I say it? I didn’t even consider our situation when I wrote it!”

Bracing his hip on the writing table, he glared at her. “You forget that I’m an expert on your column. You never poke fun at the helpless or the weak as you do here with Pelham’s pathetic wife.”

“Perhaps that’s because she isn’t pathetic, nor do I refer to her as such.”

He ignored the remark. “Besides, there’s too much passion in your words for them not to have some personal meaning. ‘Unfeeling brute’? ‘Mocking his wife’? As a spy, I excelled at interpreting coded messages. But then you know that, don’t you? That’s why you write such things—so that I’ll understand your meaning even when no one else will.”

“Sometimes you can be the most arrogant, unfeeling—” She broke off in sheer exasperation. The foolish man refused to listen to her, and she was in no mood for this. Resolutely, she headed for the door. “Think whatever you like. Clearly I’m not the only person in this marriage who jumps to conclusions.”

In a few strides, he was beside her, catching her arm to halt her. “You can’t mean you pilloried Pelham and his wife for their own sakes? He’s a vain idiot, to be sure, and has an eye for young women, but ...” His words trailed off, and she felt his hard stare on her. “Wait a minute. Your father designed one of Pelham’s houses, didn’t he? I heard the duke mention it once.”

Old memories rose to choke her, and she nodded, unable to speak.

Ian’s fingers tightened on her arm. “At Lady Brumley’s ball, Pelham made remarks about your person that I shrugged off because he speaks of all young woman that way, but—” He turned her to face him, his expression stark in its remorse. “My God, he did something to you, didn’t he? That’s why you wrote about him! He hurt you!”

“It was nothing ... a silly nothing.”

She bent her head to hide her tears, but he wouldn’t let her, tipping up her chin so he could look at her. When he saw the tears in her eyes, he swore under his breath. “Obviously not a silly nothing.”

That was all it took for the tears to escape and flow freely down her cheeks.

Looking stricken, he gathered her up in his arms and moved to sit on the bed where he could cradle her on his lap. “There, there, querida.” He stroked her back, her hair, her arms. “You mustn’t cry. He can’t hurt you again.”

“I know.” She rubbed away the tears and cursed the melancholy that made her so weepy at this time of the month. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Ian pressed soft, penitent kisses into her hair. “What did he do? And where was your father? Why wasn’t he protecting you?”

“You mustn’t think it was Papa’s fault. He was always so engrossed in his work that he never noticed the men’s advances.”

Ian stared at her, a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face. “Men’s? Pelham wasn’t the only one? What did they do? How did it happen⁠—”