“Yes, well, you wouldn’t, would you? You’re a man. You will choose who you’ll marry.”
He should let this drop. Get back to the conversation he’d broached. The one he’d begun to enjoy before she brought up her marriage to another man.
“Is there…Do you have an intended? That is, you said by the end of the Season…”
“Have you seen me, Lord Randall?” she asked, but not in her usual conceited manner. If anything, her inflection was dejected. “Do you think my father will have any difficulty obtaining an offer for my hand?”
No, he did not. And he found he no longer wished to discuss or even contemplate the matter of Annabelle’s soon-to-be betrothed status.
He cleared his throat. “About last night,” he began again, “I wish to apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior.”
She was the innocent here. Curiosity or no, he could have—should have—never allowed the passionate embrace.
“Think nothing of it. You need not apologize. ”
“I disagree. And, as you’ll once again be a guest under my roof, I want to assure you that such a thing cannot—will not—happen again.”
“I quite agree. And to further clarify matters, in case you are under the misapprehension I might wish to repeat the endeavor, I most certainly do not.”
She could not have stated her avowal with any more feeling.
He was left momentarily speechless—and, frankly, taken aback. She was acting as if the kiss they’d shared had been run-of-the-mill. Mundane. Yawn worthy.
She might not have experience, but a blind man could see it had been anything but. Not that he intended to press the point. “Good,” he clipped out.
“Good,” she seconded, unnecessarily.
That settled that. Nothing more need be said on the subject. End of discussion.
“I forgot to ask. When do you think your chaperone will arrive?”
“How should I know?” she snapped.
“How should you…” His temper flared, and he made no effort to camouflage the fact. “You are the one who sent for her, that’s how.”
“There’s no need to shout,” she said crisply. “I’m directly in front of you.”
“I wasn’t shouting,” he said, though he lowered his voice, which evidently required him to speak through his teeth.
“I made it clear all due haste was required.” She sniffed. “I apologize if my being here is putting a damper on youramusements. Deterring anycalleryou might otherwise receive.” Her prim tone told him beyond a shadow of a doubt she meant her obscure statement as some sort of slur on his character.
For the life of him, he could make neither head nor tail of her cryptic insult. He wasn’t sure he wanted clarification, either. There didn’t seem to be a point. They did not get along, plain and simple.
“My amusements?” he heard himself asking.
“The gowns you offered me?” Her arch tone implied she expected him to comprehend her meaning.
“What of them?”
“I will not be clothed in the cast-off rags of whatever creature you…keep.”
It took a moment for the meaning of her words to penetrate. Then all, including her mood, which had soured leaving Fenwick, became crystal clear.
Oddly, his own mood took an immediate turn for the better. Indeed, he barely resisted the urge to laugh. “I see. You do not wish to borrow Lady Caroline’s gowns, then?”
She twisted to look at him. “Lady…Caroline’s gowns?”
“Mm hmm. You’ve been sleeping in her night rail,” he murmured, trying to soundblasé. “But never mind. I’ll instruct Babette to leave you to your own—”
