Page 18 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

“I hired him as Secretary In Charge Of Matrimonial Affairs. That makes himmine.”

“And Iamthe Matrimonial Affair, which makes himmine.”

“That is specious logic. I refuse to entertain specious logic at the breakfast table.” He waved his arms again, the footman by the wall watching the trajectory of the coffee cup nervously. “His job is to deal with you and your affairs, so I don’t have to. He failed, because look, here we are.”

“Which is your fault for changing your schedule.”

“Which wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t disobeyed me.”

“Which I wouldn’t have done if you had been reasonable.”

“I amalwaysreasonable.”

“You are…Oh! You will drivemeto drink.” She caught herself waving her arms around too—heavens, even Lucy never inspired her to such transgressions!—and brought them under control. “This is why we need Mr. Newell,” she said. “We cannot possibly communicate with each other directly.”

It seemed that Mr. DeWitt took this as a challenge.

In an exaggerated gesture better suited to the theater, he carefully put his cup to one side. In another slow, deliberate movement, he placed first one hand, then the other, flat on the table in front of him.

Then he half-rose and leaned toward her, that broad, naked chest drawing near.

“Newell,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Tell my wife to go home.”

Cassandra mirrored his pose. “Mr. Newell. Tell my husband that I mean to stay until I have satisfactorily arranged my sister’s entry into society.”

He leaned in closer, so she could see the thick lashes framing his eyes. “Newell, tell my wife that her sister can have a fat dowry, and then pack some desperate gentlemen off to Warwickshire to fight over her.”

She leaned in further too. “Mr. Newell, tell my husband that not every problem can be solved with money and secretaries.”

“Newell, tell my wife that I will not tolerate this pigheadedness.”

“Mr. Newell, tell my husband that the only pigheaded one here is he.”

“And Newell—” Mr. DeWitt stopped, frowned, and turned his head, giving her his strong, scruffy profile. “Where the blazes has he got to?”

Cassandra turned too. “Oh,” she said, seeing the now-empty chair. “We frightened him off, the poor man.”

She turned her head back, at the same moment Mr. DeWitt did; their eyes met and she realized that they were almost close enough to bump noses. Hurriedly, she plonked herself back down, but she found it hard to take her eyes off him, as he lounged back in his chair, all lazy grace and naked chest, and reclaimed his coffee. The sleeve of his dressing gown slid back to reveal a strong forearm. Cassandra quickly busied herself with her teacup.

“Poor Mr. Newell doesn’t like arguments,” she said. “He often has to run for cover at Sunne Park.”

“Is your house such a battlefield?” He sounded amused now. “Pincushions flying through the air? Exploding bonnets? That sort of thing?”

“You’re not far wrong. With Lucy…” She sighed. “I suppose you do not wish to know about Lucy.”

“Not really. She’s the sister you’re trying to launch, I take it.”

“Yes. And she’s…” Never mind. He didn’t want to know. Lucy was her problem, not his. She could not expect her husband to support her; she could only hope that he did not obstruct her. “I do not mean to be difficult or disruptive, Mr. DeWitt. I would not have come if it weren’t important. I must do what is best for my family, and on that point I shall not be moved.”

“You mean, I’m not going to get rid of you.”

“Be grateful it’s only me. It could be worse. Lucy could show up instead.”

* * *

Joshua had somehow losttheir argument, but he found it hard to mind, as he settled back with his coffee, watching Cassandra drink her tea. Before she lifted her cup, she stroked the painted cherries on the china, and before she sipped, she inhaled the fragrance with obvious pleasure.

When she forgot to be polite, she was highly entertaining. When she was being polite, on the other hand, he could cheerfully consign her to hell.

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