Was that a shadow of surprise she saw on his face? It was gone before she could tell.
“I recall our discussing it.”
“So do I. We discussed it. We did not decide it, or anything. I read you Mama’s letter asking if we were coming home for Christmas. I told you how much fun it was and how much you’d enjoy our traditions. You mentioned your invitations, including the one to the Fanshawes’. I made a terrible face. You laughed. We talked about other things. So, where is the word I gave, eh?” She tossed up her head, triumphant.
There was a silence.
He turned to his book again. “I said we were going. I assumed you agreed . . .”
“You had no right!” she cried.
“Pamela,” he said, snapping his book shut and putting it down with finality. “Whether or not I asked—and I do recall asking, but if you don’t it is possible there was a misunderstanding—the point is that I wrote to accept and said we were going. And so that is the end of that. Now, are you coming to bed?”
She stared. He’d said that in a conciliatory tone, in the deep smooth voice she’d fallen in love with. And he lay in their bed, waiting for her. The room was strikingly chill now that the fire in the hearth was dying, and the great bed was covered with a huge, plump, feather-filled silken coverlet that warmed a person within minutes. His body would be even warmer and would heat her even faster. It did even now, just thinking of it. She knew the warmth of the man behind that cool façade and knew that the slender body under those heavy coverlets was all supple well-knit, smooth, hard muscle. She knew how clever those long sensitive hands could be on a woman’s body, and knew very well the sighs he could win from her with them.
But she also wished she could see that strong handsome body of his better; she often wished she weren’t still so shy with him. She wished she could bring herself to ask him to leave the lamp on sometimes. He was a wonderful lover. At least, since she’d had no other, she believed him to be so, because he drove her mad with desire and pleased her very much. But she sometimes wondered if he could please her a little more. She dearly wished she could ask him, sometimes, to do that more, or this a bit less, and could she do that to him . . .?
The truth was that she was still reticent with him about their lovemaking, as well as other things, and unsure of herself with him and his world. She’d thought that in time . . .
But now this! Her anger flared again.
“I will go to bed,” she said stonily. “But not with you, thank you very much.”
His eyebrow rose in his signature expression of surprise. She wished she could say something to make both of them fly up. “Indeed?” he asked, and now his nostrils flared.
Too sad, she thought angrily, that his nose was his most expressive feature tonight.
“Indeed!” she said, and hesitated.
Because she didn’t know where she could sleep if she didn’t go to bed with him.
They shared a bedchamber, rare for a couple of their noble standing. She’d loved the closeness of sleeping beside him through the night and waking with him in the morning. Because of that, she couldn’t leave the room tonight. That would be an irrevocable declaration of war to the world. She was of good birth, but didn’t come from a high-nosed, care-for-nothing family with centuries of aristocratic training; she cared about what servants thought. If she now left this room to go to any one of the dozen other bedrooms in this great house of his, all his servants would know it.
She didn’t think she could bear the speculation in everyone’s eyes tomorrow morning. And that would be literally everyone in the immediate vicinity, because she knew how servants loved to gossip about their masters. Even at home, let Papa and Mama have a shouting match and the whole neighborhood knew about it the next day.
So where could she go now?
He realized her problem, of course. She thought she saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. That decided her.
There was the dressing room. It was small, but there was enough space for a person to sleep. Unfortunately, she remembered, there was no cot or couch to sleep on. She glanced at him. The smile looked larger. It looked a great deal like a dawning gloat. She’d rather sleep on the floor than near him tonight.
She walked toward the bed. The smile on his face grew warm and welcoming.
She grabbed the bottom of the silken coverlet in both hands and pulled, dragging it from the bed. It slid off into her hands before he could snatch it back. His eyes widened, and she wondered if he would try—but realized he probably believed fighting for his covers was beneath his dignity. That might have turned into a tug-of-war, which could have turned into . . . anything. No matter, she had it all. She gathered up the coverlet, turned, and marched toward the dressing room, trailing it behind her. Then, with the swirl of red silk half enveloping her, she turned around and faced him again. She held her head high.