Page 59 of To Marry and to Meddle
Emily stiffened slightly at his dismissive words. “I apologize if I misread the situation, then,” she said tersely, and Julian frowned.
“Emily,” he said, frustration evident in his voice. “I don’t wish to quarrel with you. Why do our parents keep working their way into our marriage?”
“Because,” Emily said simply, “you don’t simply marry a person. You marry their family, too, even if you’d rather have nothing to do with them,” she added, thinking of her own parents. “I can’t simply dismiss my parents, despite everything, for the same reason I can’t simplyignore the possibility that your father wishes to reconcile with you.” She could feel her heart pounding as she spoke, fearful that she had overstepped, spoken too boldly, gone too far. She was not accustomed to speaking her mind, to pressing someone on a matter they clearly didn’t wish to debate any further.
Julian watched her for a long moment, then uncrossed his arms and reached out to loop his thumb and forefinger around one of her wrists, raising her hand between them.
A hand that, she belatedly realized, was trembling.
She hated this, hated the fact that her own body betrayed her discomfort, that she could do nothing to control it. She felt heat creeping up her neck—she was trying to be an adult, to have a proper conversation with her husband, and here she was, blushing and shaking like a schoolgirl.
“Are you frightened of me?” he asked her softly, allowing her hand to drop back to her side and making no further move to touch her.
She shook her head at once. “No,” she said emphatically, and something in his expression eased slightly—her answer mattered to him, more than she had realized. “I—” She took a deep breath. “My parents never encouraged me to speak my mind. I still find it… difficult, I suppose, to do so.”
He reached out a hand, then hesitated, uncertain, and she took a step toward him instead, reaching her own hand out to take his.
“You don’t need to worry about that around me,” he said, and she felt a slight surge of irritation.
“Except you dismiss me whenever I try to discuss your father,” she said evenly. “So I believe Idoneed worry about that, if this is how you will reply every time I broach the subject.”
He frowned, and she braced herself for a quarrel. She didn’t thinkshe had it in her to weather another argument, particularly so soon after their last one.
“You’re right,” he said, and her eyes shot to his in surprise; her feelings must have shown on her face, because a small smile curved at the corners of his mouth as he gazed at her. “Itispossible for a husband to utter those words, you know.”
A surprised laugh escaped her mouth, and his own smile widened a bit. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss there. “I apologize. My father is a… touchy subject, for me.”
“You don’t say,” she said tartly, and it was his turn to laugh.
“Can I make it up to you?” he asked, his hand reaching out to fiddle with the ties of her dressing gown.
“I don’t think we’ve finished our conversation,” she said, even as she felt the garment loosen. He reached out to tug her closer to him.
“Must we finish it now?” he asked, sliding his hand into the heavy fall of her hair, pulling it back to expose her neck. “When there are so many other, more interesting things we could discuss?”
It was difficult for her to think when he was doing this—as he no doubt intended. This thought strengthened her resolve so that, even as he lowered his head to place a lingering kiss on her neck and she felt warmth coursing through her, she found the presence of mind to speak at least somewhat intelligently.
“So, that’s it then?”
“Mmm?” he asked against her skin, and a shiver coursed through her. She could feel her resolve weakening by the moment. Her legs seemed to have a mind of their own and they took a step closer to him, close enough now that her breasts brushed his chest, only the fabric of her nightgown separating their skin. He took this opportunity to push her dressing gown off her shoulders entirely, and she felt it pool at her feet.
Realizing that the situation would shortly progress to a point at which she would no longer be capable of intelligent speech, Emily reached a hand up to his chest, causing him to pause.
“Something wrong?” he drawled slowly, lifting his head.
“I think we should send your father an invitation to the opening night ofMuch Ado About Heaven,” she said, pleased that she’d gotten all the words out in the correct order.
“He won’t come,” he said shortly. “I’ve—I know he won’t come.”
“Just because he didn’t come once—”
“It wasn’t once,” he said, straightening, the lazily seductive expression vanishing from his face. His hand was still at her waist, the fabric of her nightgown bunched in his fist. “I invited him to the Belfry at least a dozen times. I’m not such a fool that I’m going to continue sending an invitation to a man who doesn’t wish for one.”
“But,” she said slowly, “isn’t the whole point of this show that it will change how people see the theater? Wouldn’t this be a perfect time to try again?”
Julian sighed, raking one hand through his hair. “Some people, yes. But not him.”
“What’s the point of even doing the show, then, if you’re not willing to invite your father?” She frowned, feeling her frustration growing. “If you’re so certain he won’t even enjoy it, then why not simply do as you please? Stage one of your bawdy musicals. Or,” she added, a thought occurring to her, “why not stage the comedy Miss Congreave mentioned? The one about society ladies? It sounded most entertaining, to hear her describe it.”
