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His eyes drifted over her and even though she was rather dusty and tired, suddenly, under his gaze, she felt all curves and female beauty.

“I’ve heard mysterious thumps,” he said, recovering first. “What on earth has been happening, Honeydew?”

“Her Grace has sent all the furniture to London,” Honeydew said. He was no fool, and was backing toward the hallway. “If you’ll forgive me, Your Graces, I must see to luncheon.” He stopped. “The table!”

“We’ll eat in the Dower House,” Isidore said soothingly. “Her Grace will undoubtedly wish a light luncheon in her chambers, just as she did last night.”

“What happened to the table?” Simeon asked, once Honeydew disappeared. “Did a leg fall off?”

“Oh no,” Isidore said. “I’ve sent everything to London, just as Honeydew said. Wouldn’t you like to see?”

They walked into the dining room. Without furniture, and with the moldering curtains torn down, it was a wide, echoing room. Honeydew had sent maids in the moment the furniture was gone, and even the walls glistened.

“The house should be ready to receive guests in a few weeks at most,” Isidore said, since Simeon seemed to be silenced by the total lack of furniture.

“You got rid of all the furniture?”

There was a kind of controlled anger in his voice that made Isidore’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t get rid of it,” she said. “Well, I got rid of some it. But everything that could be refurbished has been sent to London.”

Simeon walked to the door leading to the great sitting room and stopped. Isidore knew exactly what he was looking at: the empty, stained floor where there had been two threadbare Aubussons and clusters of furniture in various states of disrepair.

“You sent away all my furniture,” Simeon stated. He ran a hand through his hair.

Isidore stared at his back. His shoulders seemed very tense. “It is presumably my furniture as well,” she told him.

“If we remain married,” he said. Then he whirled about. “You have no right to send away every stick of furniture in this house. People live here. I live here. You could have done me the nominal courtesy of asking my permission.”

“Your permission?” Isidore echoed. “Your permission for what? Would you have said that you wished to keep the rug that your father’s incontinent dog chose as his private privy, or the one with a rip down the middle?”

“Do you mock me?”

Surely there were women who would have cowered at this point. But Isidore had never cowered at anyone, including Simeon’s mother, and she wasn’t going to start now. “Absolutely,” she said. “Mock where mockery is due, I say.”

“You—” he said violently, and broke off.

“Yes?”

And then, when he didn’t answer: “Are you sure you don’t want to characterize my heinous crime? That of sending the furniture out to be repaired so that this house is livable, if not hospitable?”

“Where is my mother to eat dinner?” he asked.

Isidore opened her mouth—and paused. “In the Dower House?”

“All four of us, happily crowded in the corner?”

“Honeydew will find a larger table,” Isidore said.

“Could you please consult with me before you embark on projects such as emptying out the house?” he asked.

He had himself under control again. Isidore almost sighed. There was something magnificent about Simeon in a rage. Not that she wished to court that condition, she told herself. “Of course,” she said. “Instantly. Every time. I’ll ask you so many questions that you’ll grow tired of the very sound of my voice.”

He shot her a sardonic look, but at least his mouth relaxed.

“What on earth could have happened to this wall?” he asked, wandering over to examine a gap in the paneling.

“Your father kicked it,” she said, answering his query.

“My father—”