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Touching her would be defeat, would be a certificate to his stupidity.
It would be paradise!
Those servants must put out the blazing fire in the hearth, Annabel thought. The great hall became too hot for her. Though the weather outside grew chilli. Breathing proved to be difficult. The Duke’s deep attention on her disconcerted her, made her think the unthinkable, want all that was disreputable, unconfessable.
“I did not?” The fire on the hearth played light and shadow with his rugged features, sharpening them. His murky eyes the more unfathomable, the more dangerous to dive in under that dim light. “How negligent of me.” The remark came dripping in sarcasm.
The subject might be a good start for her to have an insight into his activities at the time.
“Not so much.” She imprinted an agreeable tone to this. “Opportunities for social talk did not abound, as you will agree with me.”
“No, they did not.” He took a sip of wine, his broad black-clad shoulders in a relaxed angle, contradicted by the displeasure on his shady countenance. “What would you like to know? The war strategy, the diplomatic efforts, France?
She knew this did not list among the subjects men talked to women. More’s the pity because women did not have an idea of the hardships they endured. Even if she herself acquired facts on that through her superiors. “All of them sound noteworthy.”
“Perhaps France would be of interest.” He quipped. “I could tell you about how… warm-hearted the women are, for example.” He did not have to say this as if he held a weapon to her. His words undertook the role well enough.
Galling emotion erupted in her middle, rising to scarlet flaming over her skin. The insinuation he was unfaithful while away threw acid to her mood. They had been as good as engaged to be married. Granted, it did not come to be public, but an agreement between them.
She made a strenuous effort to swallow that ball of fire. And hoped she could digest it because she preferred to die than to give him the chance to see how choleric he made her.
The sickening sweet smile she put on h
er lips would have made a child weary of candies. “I much prefer the political side of it.”
He did not miss a single flicker of her expression. The lopsided smirk on his sensuous thin lips spoke of victory at the barb he threw at her. “A shame it is the most boring aspect.” He leaned back on his chair giving the impression the whole conversation meant nothing to him.
“I beg to differ, my lord.” Would the man not give an inch of his personal experience or what he did there? “It is always the most absorbing part when we learn history.” She touched her napkin to her lips to see his gaze fall to them intent. Oh, so we are not so indifferent to the talk, are we? She thought with a certain complacency.
“Let us just say politics failed if we had to send thousands to perish.” He got a point there, evident. Still, nothing about himself.
“Lord Winchester and me wanted to make our rounds in the continent.” She started after a sip of wine. “Due to the war, we conformed to enjoy married bliss in England.”
At that, his eyes became two tempestuous cyclones. His body strung rigid as if filled with violent energy. Then it was her turn to laugh last.
“An experience I cannot say I have.” This came hard and cold.
It brought about the question of why he never married. But she preferred to live a whole life without tea than to ask. His family would need an heir, she knew, though he had a younger brother, as well, married, a child on the way.
The rest of dinner elapsed tense and full of broken, meaningless small talk. When she stood to retire, he followed her. At the foot of the stairs, he took her gloved hand and bowed over it, his molten stare on her all the time. The touch zinging through her.
“My lady, I wish you good night. I fear I have work to do still.”
She plastered a mild smile that hurt her muscles after keeping her composure the whole dinner. “I bid you good night, then, Your Grace.” She curtsied and climbed the steps trying to keep a civilized speed, her chin high.
* * *
Annabel had not been happy in her marriage. She digressed as the lady’s maid appointed to her helped her prepare for bed. It might be an obvious fact to infer, but it was not. Lord and Lady Winchester were married for about a year by the time she met Romulus at that infamous ball in town.
At first, she had been too numb to care for anything that happened around her. When she decided to stop mourning, she wanted to make the most of the situation, since she liked to think of herself a practical person. Romulus would not come back, ever. What would she do with her life? She must live it in the best way she could. The Winchester luxurious town house exhibited comfort and an army of servants. The Winchester seat stood well rebuilt by Lord Winchester’s father. Their finances on upraise, with land’s price soaring. His parents treated her in a pleasant manner. There should not have been any impediment to a content life.
But there was.
Charles presented a health condition. He was not able to consummate their marriage, try as he must. And did. He could not… could not… well… He did not have all that stamina, shall she say. Not like Romulus showed, in a perpetual state of... desire for her. Charles had never been in such state. Not a single occasion.
Every time they endeavoured it, he failed, becoming nervous, frustrated. And blamed her for their situation. In the beginning, she resonated his accusations and felt guilty because she did not love him, did not desire him. What resulted was indifference for her marriage though she decided to make it work.
As a married lady, she gained access to certain books; and she remembered her time with Romulus as to compare it with that predicament. Old books always interested her. In Charles’ library she came across a curious one. The Perfumed Garden, by an Arab writer, Sheik al-Nafzawi translated to French a few years earlier. A fifteen-century treatise on affairs between women and men, it held a section on health. That was where she discovered her husband’s problem befell many other men.
