Regency Christmas Wishes(74)

This was only the third fight they’d had. The first two had been so foolish she thought they’d fought only to be able to make up again, as they had, delightfully. They’d been married three months now and she’d never been angry with him before. Not really. Oh, she hadn’t liked little things he did here and there, now and again, but she never mentioned them. They were, after all, trivial and no one was perfect. For example, he ate kippers for breakfast and the scent made her ill at any time but especially made her breakfasts unpleasant; he didn’t love music as much as she did, so they didn’t go to as many concerts as she’d like; he kept dogs but not cats. And he never raised his voice, even when he was annoyed.

These were, admittedly, little things. Doubtless he’d had the same sorts of minor complaints about her.

But this was enormous, in her eyes. Worse, she suddenly realized he did have minor complaints about her, but he told her about them and they laughed over them together. She’d never complained about him, to him. Until now. But now she had a lot to complain about and could not let it go.

She straightened her back. She was very angry, and if he was surprised she was capable of such fury, it was only his own fault. There were many things she felt deeply about, and if he’d known her longer he’d have seen evidence of them before this. Her family was not a fractious one, but they had words, and sometimes those words were loud. It helped clear the air. The air in here was getting heavy and thick with unspoken resentment. She didn’t know how to fight with raised eyebrows and curling smiles, the way he and his set did. She wanted to have it all out in the open. But he didn’t know that. How could he? It wasn’t her fault they hadn’t disagreed about anything before they were married. They’d married so quickly.

He was the one who had wanted an immediate wedding. She’d only instantly agreed. They’d met in May and married in September. True love, their friends said, such love needed consummation, not more time to come to fruition. It had seemed so at the time.

She’d had some reservations, but they never gave her more than a moment’s pause. He was eight years her senior. But her own father was that much older than her mama, and they had a wonderful marriage.

Jonathan was so clever and worldly wise, and she had only book knowledge of the world. But she was as smart as he was, or at least she always felt she had a great deal of knowledge, if not experience. Also true, and most significant, her new husband, Jonathan, Viscount Rexford, was a reserved fellow, distant, even with her.

But that was an essential part of his charm. He was the very paragon of a perfect gentleman. Handsome in classic fashion, he was tall, lean, and elegant, a study in dark and light with his inky close-cropped hair and steady slate eyes. He was sophisticated, with a famous dry wit and a signature style that was cool and reserved. His smile was hard-won, but once won, unforgettable in its warmth and charm.

Everyone said they were surprised to see him tumble into love with a pretty little thing from the countryside. She knew they always said, “Good family” when they talked about her behind their hands, but she also knew they then added, “ . . . of no particular distinction.”

“She was new to town, and fresh as the morning,” she’d overheard one buck say about her to another just the other week at the theater, when they didn’t know she was behind them. “That’s what probably accounted for that surprising marriage. Damned pretty filly, though, with such a sweet little ars . . .” He’d stopped talking abruptly when he’d seen Jonathan’s eyes on him.

Well, she’d thought, who wouldn’t freeze under that stare? Such cool gray eyes Jonathan had, they were what first attracted her to him—when she’d seen them light with silver when he laughed. Tonight, as that night at the theater when he’d overheard the improper remark, those gray eyes were flinty, cold as the surface of an icebound lake. The foolish young buck who had been overheard had turned pale and quaked, before he’d fled. But she was too angry to be afraid.

“I won’t go,” she said again.

She stood at the foot of their bed, staring, sure her eyes were burning holes in the back of the book he still held.

He put a long finger into the book to keep his place—if he even remembered what book he was reading now, she thought spitefully.

“I see. Am I to assume you are going back on your word?”

“I never gave my word. I don’t remember being asked.”

“I remember telling you.”

“Aha!” she cried. “There it is! There you are! You told me. You never asked.”