“Aren’t all brides?”
“I wouldn’t know. You’re my first.”
“How reassuring.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Would you prefer I were practised at acquiring wives?”
“I would prefer to know what to expect.”
“Ah.” He studied her over the rim of his glass. “You want rules. Guidelines. Order.”
“Is that so strange?”
“Not at all. I appreciate clarity myself.” He set his wine aside with precise care. “Very well. Breakfast at eight, luncheon at one, tea at four, dinner at eight. You may keep whatever schedule you please, but inform Morrison if you intend to miss a meal.”
“That’s it? Those are the rules?”
“For now. Others may be required.” A pause. “You are free to go where you wish during the day, though I expect notification if you leave the house. For your safety,” he added, “not my control.”
“The distinction matters?”
“Immensely.” He rose to pour himself a brandy. “Will you take some? Or sherry?”
“Brandy,” she said—surprising them both.
He brought her a glass himself. As she took it, their fingers brushed—only for a heartbeat, but the touch was unexpectedlywarm, deliberate by necessity yet somehow intimate in its brevity. That same bright shock she’d felt in the church flared again, quick and unbidden, travelling up her arm before she could school her expression.
“To unexpected arrangements,” he said.
“To surviving them.”
“Survival is only the minimum.” His eyes glinted. “I’d hope for something more.”
“Such as?”
He studied his drink. “Understanding, perhaps. Or at least a cessation of hostilities.”
“Are we at war?”
“Aren’t we? You’ve been forced into marriage with a man you mistrust. I’ve acquired a wife who looks at me as though I might devour her. That is either war or an armed truce.”
“I don’t fear you,” she said—and found it true.
“No?” He turned to look at her fully. “Then what is it I see in your eyes when you look at me?”
She took a sip of brandy to buy time, feeling it burn down her throat. “Curiosity.”
“About?”
“Who you are behind all this.” She gestured lightly. “The walls. The rules. The armour. The man who reads Byron, keeps his mother’s favourite room untouched, and remembers a dress worn once last Season.”
“And if there is nothing beneath the armour?”
“Then you wouldn’t work so hard to maintain it.”
He went very still, and for a moment she thought she’d gone too far. Then he smiled—a real smile, not the knife-edge version she’d seen before.
“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”
