“A man is measured by his ability to control himself,” he said, not allowing the scorn in her eyes to shake him. “I wish to be the sort of man who never falls prey to his baser emotions.”
She looked a little confused.
“Anger,” he told her. “Fear. Lust.”
“You want to avoid anger? How will you do that?”
He grinned. “Oh, I feel anger. The key is not to act on it, not to let it affect me or become an intrinsic part of my life.”
“But what has this to do with me?”
They’d reached the stickler. “I was taught,” he said carefully, “that a man comes to his life with many choices. Only a fool believes that fate gives him his hand of cards. We make decisions every day.”
“And?”
“Marriage is one of the most important. If you and I were to marry—really marry—I would want to undergo the marriage ceremony with you because it marks that important decision. It was something I should never have left to a proxy. Those are my vows to make and to keep.”
“Or not to make at all,” she said flatly. “The fact is, Cosway, that your decision after meeting me is not to make those vows. Am I right?”
“I—”
“You were initially happy to go through with a wedding ceremony,” she said. “Yet now you talk of annulment.”
She was playing with her glove again, pulling the fingers straight. A flare of fire went up from his belly. That small hand was—his. His to unglove, his to kiss, his to…His.
He glanced down at his coat to make sure it was thoroughly buttoned. “You are not what I expected,” he said bluntly. “My mother sent me a miniature once we were married. That’s how I recognized you at Strange’s house.”
“I remember. I sat for it while I was still living with your mother.”
“You looked sweet and docile. Fragile, really.”
Isidore’s eyes narrowed.
She had suddenly realized precisely why her so-called husband had initiated talk of annulments. He didn’t think she was sweet or docile. And he was right.
“My parents had both died several months before the portrait was painted,” she pointed out. “Likely I was fragile. Am I to apologize that I have now recovered from that event?”
“Of course not. I was merely explaining my mistaken impression.”
Isidore just stopped herself from tossing her head like an offended barmaid. “During my brief time in your mother’s house, she continually expressed her doubt that I would develop the qualities of a good wife. I gather you agree.”
“I’m afraid that she turned her wish into reality.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s written to me regularly over the years, far more so than you have, I might add.”
Her mouth did drop open and she leapt to her feet. “You dare to criticize me for not writing you!”
“I didn’t mean to criticize—” Simeon said, rising as well.
Isidore took a step toward him. “You? You who never wrote me even a line? You who sent the letters I did write you straight to your solicitors, since I received answers from them? You dare suggest I should have written you more frequently?”
There was a moment of silence. “I didn’t think of it in that fashion.”
“You didn’t think of it. You didn’t think of writing to your wife?”
“You’re not really my wife.”
With that, Isidore completely lost her temper. “I bloody well am your wife! I am the only wife you have, and let me tell you, annulment will not be an easy business. What kind of fool are you? When you agreed to that proxy marriage, you agreed to having a wife. I was there, even if you weren’t. The ceremony was binding!”
“I didn’t mean that.”
It only made her more furious that he showed no signs of getting angry himself. She took a deep breath. “Then what precisely did you mean?”
“I suppose I have a queer idea of marriage.”
“That goes without saying,” Isidore snapped.
“I’ve seen a great deal of marriage. And I’ve spent a great deal of time assessing which marriages are the most successful. It seems absurdly obtuse, but for some reason I thought I had one of those marriages.”
“You just said,” Isidore noted with exaggerated patience, “that we weren’t married at all. With whom did you have this perfect marriage?”
“Well, with you. Except it wasn’t really with you; I see that now. The combination of that miniature and my mother’s descriptions—”
“Just what did your mother say about me?” Isidore demanded.