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His expression became stony at the mention of her deceased husband. “His name has no place within these walls.” He determined.
“He has been part of my life for four years, there is no way I cannot mention him.” She said with finality.
He nodded in acknowledgement. “So you want to be my paramour.” He resumed.
What she wanted was to be reciprocated in her feelings for him. “Yes, precisely.” Her chin up, she eyed him with firm intent.
“What if a child results from our… liaison?” His eyes half-mast went so remote she acquired the impression she was talking to someone else.
“When and if this happens, we will deal with the situation.” Decidedly, this counted as the right thing to do, she concluded disheartened.
“Practical, as always.” There was no denying the coldness in the response.
“It is the best way.” She did not waver. To do so now would bring her more pain.
His back to her, he walked to the desk. “Let us do it your way.” Sitting down he caught a sheaf papers and began reading, dismissing her.
Resisting an urge to fidget, she curtsied. “Your Grace.” And left the solar with a heavy feeling in her chest.
* * *
That night she lay in the Duchess’ bed, wishing she could use the chambers she used when she first came here. She would be blind if she denied a breach had occurred between Romulus and her. They did not talk the rest of the day and she dined in the hall alone as the butler had informed her he had work to do and took dinner in the solar.
So, now she lay in this huge, lonely bed lost and confused as to where she stood. The talk in the solar got things blurrier than before, instead of defining the situation. And why did he have to talk about marriage, anyway?
She heard the connecting door opening. As she turned, his proud figure stood there, the light from his bedroom illuminating him from behind, highlighting the powerful outlines of him. Only breeches, shameless, a warrior of old.
“Why are you not in my bed?” He asked, grave and dark.
She sat up, holding the coverlet over her nightgown. Her eyes bulged on him when he closed the door and prowled towards her bed.
Tilting her chin proudly, she answered. “I am not your mistress to do your bidd-.” She broke off as she followed him with her eager eyes.
He lifted the coverlet and lay by her side.
“What are you doing?” She asked, brows pleated.
“If you think I will spend a single night in a cold bed, you are very mistaken.” He retorted, as he caught her in his arms and accommodated both on the mattress.
She lay there on his taut shoulder even more confused than before, as he made no move, or caress, or kiss. Nothing.
He held her closer and in a matter of minutes she registered his regular breath. He had fallen asleep. Darn the man!
A long time passed until sleep caught her.
* * *
Romulus opened his eyes to the faint light of dawn. The strange bed reminded him of the yesterday. He lay there with Annabel snuggled in him and the storm whipping the windows.
With deep inhales, the perfume of her wild ringlets entered his nostrils. He had been at the top of his anger yesterday when the damned woman refused him for a second time. She insulted him by preferring to remain his paramour. A huff at the bloody word escaped him. He did not want a paramour, he thought derisively. He wanted her firmly planted in his life as his wife, damn it. Could she not understand such a simple thing? Her refusal came as a stab of her sword full on his chest.
Stirring close to him her body clad in silky nightgown grazed his. Almost mounted on him, her legs entwined with his, her arms held him, her hair all over his chest. This is what he wanted, to wake up by her side every damned day!
He had wanted her during the night but knew he should give her time, if not space. The later was beyond him.
But then she tilted her head and smiled at him as if yesterday did never exist. Not resisting, he side-smiled back and tangled his fingers in her hair.
“It is raining.” She commented with a sleepy voice. Her head came to rest on him again.
