Page 19 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

“What happened to you last night?” she said. “It looks like someone punched you in the face.”

“Someone did.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not very.”

“Oh.”

She took a knife and quartered her pear.

“Is that it?” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh.’” She looked at him blankly. “Where’s the love and sympathy, wife? You aren’t wondering what happened? You aren’t wondering if I’m in pain? You aren’t wondering if your dear husband will be all right?”

“Mainly I’m wondering why you don’t get punched in the face more often.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. She kept surprising him. “Because I’m rich,” he said.

Still laughing, he went to fetch his breakfast from the spread on the sideboard. When he turned back, loaded plate in hand, he caught her twisted around in her chair to watch him, although she quickly twisted back and pretended a fascination with her cake. Her head was bowed but her shoulders were tellingly tense: Her attention was on him, loitering behind her where she could not see. He was making her nervous, perhaps. It seemed an excellent notion to loiter a bit longer.

Her mass of brown hair was caught up in a simple bandeau, the morning sunlight picking up its red highlights and the fine hairs on the back of her neck, the bumps of her spine. Her hairstyle left her ears exposed, slightly pink if he wasn’t mistaken, as well as the curve of her neck, down to where it met her shoulder. The edge of her gown rode just past the spot where he would place a lingering kiss if they were lovers.

It came to his attention that he was enjoying their conversation immensely, which was utterly irrelevant. It also came to his attention that her eyes looked more brown than green today, that she did everything with a fuss-free competence but betrayed her sensuality by inhaling aromas and caressing the china, and that she was not nearly as saintly as she pretended.

All of which was also utterly irrelevant.

Whatwasrelevant was that when she cared, she cared a lot, fiercely and firmly, and this made her more tenacious than he had anticipated.

“I shall ask Mr. Newell, as our Secretary In Charge Of Matrimonial Affairs, to hire a valet for you,” she said, when he was back in his seat. “You need help with your grooming.”

“I already have a valet. Somewhere.”

“Then he will buy this valet a shaving kit and teach him how to use it.”

“Shaving is a waste of time. Bloody beard just grows back again. You object to my whiskers, Cordelia?”

“Catshave whiskers,Jonah. Men have scruff. You look…”

“Disreputable? Do say I look disreputable. I adore looking disreputable.”

She glared at him. He grinned at her. What a marvelous sport this was, being ridiculous and riling her up.

“Old-fashioned,” she finished.

“I never.”

“Men have not worn beards and earrings since Tudor times,” she argued. “Why do you even wear an earring?”

“Because I have ears. We could get matching earrings.”

“That’s a silly idea.”

“Got to have silly ideas to get to the good ones. Matching rings, then.”

She held up her left hand with its slim gold band. “We already wear matching rings.”

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