“Is the library at Willowhurst organized in the same fashion?”
She tensed again at his use of the name of her childhood home. Indeed, he remembered. In fact, he remembered more things his new wife had told him over the course of their courtship than he’d even realized.
“Yes, at one time. Our collection was sold at auction.”
“Pity,” he said sincerely. “I have considered many a books a friend.”
Shadows of suspicion returned—a hint of a frown, a furrow in her brow. Clearly, she had no intention of making any overture on his part easy.
“Are you an enthusiast of the written word, too, then?” he pressed.
“I enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” she said with an edge of challenge.
“As do I…”
Her scowl deepened, but she leaned forward as if intrigued against her will.
“High in sentiment,” he continued. “Excellent entertainment for those of us who enjoy…how did you put it?Repeated indulgence of misery?”
As he cocked his head and smiled pleasantly, waiting for her response, her teacup rattled in her saucer.
She set down the china. “I really must beg your pardon.”
“You already apologized, remember? Besides, I don’t want your contrition; I simply want to understand why you’re angry with me.” He held his breath through a long silence.
“I wish I could explain,” she began tentatively, “but the truth is, I don’t know why I insulted you; I only know I should not have spoken in such a wounding manner.” She averted her eyes, studying her handsas she folded her lovely, long, shaking fingers into one another and then held them tightly in her lap.
Did she fear him in addition to disliking him?
Impossible.If she had feared him, she wouldn’t have turned his library inside out.
“When one wishes to wound,” he asked softly, “what other manner should one use?”
She raised a conflicted gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t you?” He searched her face. “I think you do. I think you’re more than angry with me. You’re furious.”
She stiffened. “Am I to be allowed no privacy, even in my own mind?”
“Bravo. Much better.”
“Better? How?” she demanded.
“You raised your voice and lowered your tone. You were resolute. Honest.”
She shook her head no. “Don’t ask me to be honest.” She shrank back. “As I told you this morning, I don’tknowmyself right now. If I start speaking honestly, I may never be able to stop.”
“Better your hatred than your indifference.”
“I am not—” She stopped abruptly. She looked away. “I couldneverbe indifferent to you.”
Well,not indifferentwas, at least, a place to start.
“And I don’thateyou. I’m far from hating you.”
The softness in her voice, along with her sad and reluctantly given admission made his throat thicken. He wanted friendship. Possibly even passion. But, before now, he hadn’t pondered how he wanted her to feel about him.
Butnot indifferenthad suddenly become insufficient.
