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“No,” he repeated. “Right now, it’s your room.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know it’s the best room in the house. I know you’ve been sleeping, essentially, in a dead woman’s bed. Or not sleeping, as you’re having bad dreams in that dead woman’s bed. I know that I like you and this is my home and I want you to feel comfortable here, and you haven’t been made very comfortable for a variety of reasons. And I know I don’t give a shit about the traditions this house has carried for four hundred years. If I ever have a wife, when I’m earl, I’m not going to sleep in the Cherry Room while she’s all the fucking way across the house in the Rose Room, like every earl and countess have done since Thomas murdered Joan in their bed in the Cherry Room. Instead, her body will be in my bed in whatever room she likes. I don’t give a shit which room it is.”
Always, without fail, every single one of his answers was a good one.
It was annoying.
But…Joan.
How could I forget about Joan?
“Are you over your snit?” he demanded.
I quit thinking of Joan and the fact Virginia mentioned her in my dream last night and I focused on Ian.
“My snit?”
“Yes, your snit.”
I got even closer to him. “You installed me in the countess’s room, and, oh yeah, I forgot, you’re going to be the earl next month. Something else you failed to mention.”
He shifted even closer, so our bodies were touching, and I could swear I felt his nose brush mine.
“I’m sorry, darling, we’ve been so mired in your shit, I must have missed when you were asking about me and my life in an effort to get to know me.”
See!
So annoying!
Every single one of his comebacks were good too!
I clenched my teeth.
“No reply?” he mocked.
“You’re infuriating,” I ground out.
“Infuriating?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“Because you have rational answers and good comebacks and everybody knows, darling, that’s the absolute worst when you’re having words with somebody.”
He scowled down at me.
I glared up at him.
Then he hooked an arm around my waist, plastered me to his long, hard body, threw his head back, and laughed.
“That’s the worst too, don’t you know,” I groused. Then went on to grumble, “And we do talk about you.”
He righted his head, but only so he could duck it so his mouth was again at my ear.
“I’m sorry, Daphne, but it’s your own fault you’re remarkably amusing.”
