The question quieted him. She was standing with one hand resting against the back of the chair, her fingers curved around the carved wood. The firelight trembled over her face. There was anger there, but something else, too, something disappointed. Andrew found he preferred her anger.
“I know enough,” he murmured.
“No,” she replied. “You know what you wish to protect, and you mistake that for knowing me.”
His control thinned another degree.
“Do not make this into philosophy, Frances.”
“Then do not make it into possession.”
The word entered the room and altered it. Andrew looked at her for a long moment. He ought to have stepped away. He ought to have bowed, wished her goodnight, and left before the argument found the place in him where good sense had already begun to fail.
Instead, he moved one step closer.
“You are my wife,” he said again, more quietly this time. “And no one touches what is mine.”
Color rose swiftly in her cheeks. For one suspended instant, he thought she might soften. Not yield, for Frances would sooner duel him with a fireplace poker than yield easily, but be moved by the rough truth of it. Then her chin lifted.
“What isyours?” she repeated.
Andrew said nothing.
Her eyes flashed. “How convenient. I am yours when another man speaks too freely, but not yours when the rules of our marriage must be honored.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Is it not?”
“No.”
“Then whatdidyou mean?”
He could not answer. It wasn’t because he didn’t know, but because some dangerous part of him did. He meant that he had not been able to watch another man lean toward her without wanting to put himself between them. He meant that the idea of Frances laughing with some careless young fool, ofher bright eyes turned upon another gentleman, of another man discovering the sharpness and warmth and secret tenderness she hid beneath wit, had filled him with a jealousy so sudden and complete that he scarcely recognized himself. He meant that the thought of separate houses had begun to feel less like a sensible conclusion and more like punishment. He meant that he had spent the evening aware of the place where her hand had rested on his arm. He meant that he did not want to lose her.
But that was impossible. Wanting did not make a thing wise. Wanting did not make a man safe to trust. Wanting did not undo vows made in childhood, promises given in fear, habits formed over years of carrying burdens alone. He had never intended to be a husband in any true sense. He had never intended toneed.
“I meant that he insulted you,” he said instead.
Frances laughed softly, but there was no amusement in it. “And I thank you for your concern. But I do not belong to you merely because the world has forced us to share a name.”
He took another step. The space between them narrowed.
“No,” he said. “Not merely because of that.”
Her breath altered. He saw it, slight but unmistakable.
“Andrew.”
His name sounded like a warning. He ignored it.
“You speak of rules,” he said. “You remind me of them whenever they are most convenient to you.”
“They were your rules as much as mine.”
“Yes.”
“Then remember them.”
