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“I am,” he agreed. “I did intend we would breakfast together this morning, but the lambing has started, and the farmer is short of hands.”
Ivy set the knitting in her lap and twisted to view her husband. “You helped with the lambing?”
“Well, someone had to.”
“I would wager no one would expect a viscount to help with lambing.”
“I am hardly a viscount.”
“Debrett’s will say otherwise in their next printing.”
“I wasn’t raised to be one,” he pointed out. “I was fourth in line for many years.”
She nodded. “Until the viscount lost one of his sons and then he and your cousin died in quick succession.”
“I’m no good at being a gentleman.”
Ivy let her lips curve. “Mr. Irving was a supposed gentleman. You do a much better job at it than he.”
His expression softened. “I’m glad you think so.”
This was it. The moment she could ask questions of him, find out more about the man who was her husband. All she had to do was be brave and ask.
But then she darted her tongue over her lips and his gaze dropped. Everything felt odd and thick around her, like a fire blazing too hot in a small room. Thoughts of questions or polite conversation fled. He desired to kiss her, she was certain of it, so why then did he keep avoiding her? Why then had they yet to consummate the marriage?
He took the knitting from her hands, and she offered no fight as he set it on the windowsill behind him. Then he touched a thumb to her lips and her mouth parted of its own accord. She drew in a long, heated breath as her skin pricked.
“Ivy,” he said in low tones while sweeping his thumb back and forth over her bottom lip and cupping her chin.
Effectively keeping her prisoner. Keeping her waiting. She let her eyelids flutter closed.
“What the hell…?”
She snapped her eyes open to find Cillian on his feet, his fists pressed to the windowsill as he stared out, his brow deeply furrowed.
“Stay here,” he ordered and hastened out of the room.
He was gone before she could protest or ask why. Twisting, she peered out of the window to try to figure out what on earth Cillian had seen.
A hollow sensation dropped into her stomach when she spotted the man. Unmoving, arms folded, he stood by the line of trees that delineated the formal gardens from the orchard. Ivy had no idea who he was but apparently Cillian did. Her husband marched directly toward him.
***
The man’s name tore from Cillian’s throat as he marched across the lawns toward the oak trees.
“What are you doing here, Marshall?” he demanded, half-expecting the man to turn on his heel and run. “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing here?” Cillian yelled.
The man remained where he was, arms folded. It had been nearly twenty years since Cillian had last seen Harry Marshall and though time had turned his fair hair a little ashier and added a little weight to his jaw and maybe waistline, it hadn’t erased the smirk on his face or that constant tilt of superiority. Cillian couldn’t imagine why they had ever been friends.
“You have some balls showing your face.” Cillian stopped a few paces from him.
If he didn’t, he might be responsible for ploughing a fist into his face and he was aware Ivy was likely watching.
“As do you, Cillian.”
“Get off my land,” he bit out.
“Everything’s gone well for you has it not, Cillian?” Marshall smirked. “What did you do? Kill off your cousin too?”
