Page 41 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

“And how she had true love with Harry—”

“So it’sHarry, is it?”

“—And I’m saying that I’m perfectly content and the whole time she was laughing at me, because not only had she married my betrothed, she’d also gone to bed with my husband!”

“They’re lying. I never touched her.”

He stepped toward her but she circled around, out of his reach, behind the shield of his armchair. She gripped its ornate cresting rail in both hands. The words kept pouring out of her, and all she could do was hold on.

“Thought it was funny, did you? Poor little jilted bride, little charity case. Let’s do her a favor and marry her because God knows no one else will. But why not have a joke at her expense? You do love to tease.”

“I did not do this.”

“Or maybe you thought to leave a little cuckoo in their nest? What a jolly good laugh for the future: Let’s see my wife’s former betrothed raise my son!”

“Curse you!”

He sprang for her but she leaped backward, her fingers still hooked over the chair. It tumbled backward after her as she stumbled into the wall, and narrowly avoided crushing her stockinged feet as it thudded onto the rug.

“Get away from me! Don’t touch me! I hate you!”

He froze, almost comical with arms still outstretched, and she thought she saw pain slice through his eyes. Then he pivoted away, strode across the room, and down one length and back again, like a caged animal. Cassandra pressed her shoulder blades into the wall, struggling for air, shivering at a trace of cold sweat down her back.

I hate you, she’d said. She never said things like that. Not her. She was always calm and sensible; her family needed her to be like that.

“I’m turning into Lucy,” she muttered. “That’s what you’ve done to me. You turned me into Lucy.”

Across the room, he was watching her warily. Her skin prickled with unfamiliar shame.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize.” He moved to the brandy decanter, poured out a measure with a loud clinking of glass. “You were upset, you let it out, and no one but the chair got hurt.”

Poor chair. It did look pathetic on its solid back, its legs sticking helplessly in the air.

“Take a seat. I’ll get it.” He tossed back his brandy with a single swallow and started pouring some more.

Numbly, she perched on the small settee across from the upturned chair, the crackling fire heating her legs. She watched him carry two full snifters over to the small table. Then, with a single easy movement, he set the heavy chair back on its feet, threw himself into it, and jerked his chin at the brandy between them.

“Drink,” he said.

“I thought you don’t drink.”

“I don’t, usually. It interferes with my thinking.”

“Other men don’t seem to mind.”

“Other men don’t think that well to begin with. Drink it. It’s meant to be good for shock or insanity or whatever the blazes is going on with you.”

She lifted one glass, weighed it in her hand. “Do you think I have no right to be angry?”

“Be as angry as you bloody well like. But I’ve done nothing wrong this time.”

She sniffed the brandy. The fumes tickled her nose. She remembered Lucy, how lively she was after drinking, how she had cut her foot on the glass but felt no pain.

“Better an aching head than an aching heart,” she muttered.

“Cheers.”

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