The Devil Wears Tartan by Karen Ranney

ignored him and went to sit at his right side. There was already enough distance between them; she would not add to it by sitting at the end of the table.
    By the time he reached her, she’d already sat, arranging her skirts around her. She was being rude, but she didn’t suppose it mattered much, one way or another. Marshall had already dictated the tone of their marriage.
    “I realize that you’ve run a bachelor household for some time,” she said with equanimity. “But I am your wife. Would it not be natural for me to be present at meals?”
    He raised one eyebrow but otherwise had no reaction to her question.
    Within a matter of moments, a footman had placed a napkin and silverware in front of her. A moment later a second footman had provided two goblets, an array of plates, and a small covered basket filled with warm bread.
    “Cook prepared quail,” Marshall said. “I recommend it.”
    “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said.
    He smiled. “I haven’t much of an appetite,” he said. “I’m content enough with soup.”
    “Then the quail will serve nicely,” she said.
    All Marshall had to do was nod at one of the footmen, and the young man disappeared to relay her order.
    “I understand that you’ve been busy,” he said.
    She glanced at him. “You do not object, surely?”
    “You’re the Countess of Lorne. You can do as you wish.”
    “I would not presume upon my title, one that I’ve owned for only a day. Ambrose is your home.”
    “And yours,” he reminded her. “I have no objections.”
    “Do you store furniture? Things that are unused, or not in fashion? Is there an attic where I can look around?”
    “You have my permission to do anything you would like to do, Davina, that would make you feel as if Ambrose is your home as well. Cost is not a factor, and there are numerous craftsmen employed at Ambrose who are at your beck and call.”
    “I have already discovered that,” she said. “A young carpenter who will suit very well.”
    “You’re an organized little soul, aren’t you?” he said, glancing at her and then away.
    “My father used to say the same thing,” Davina said, “but he did so without derision in his voice.”
    “Was I derisive? Forgive me.”
    “I do like to arrange my life in organized little bundles—chores that need to be done immediately, tasks that should be seen to before the day has passed, and projects that are ongoing and take more than a day or so to complete. Each day should count for something. Each moment one is alive should be measured, explored, and lived to the fullest.”
    “Have you always been this way?”
    She considered his question for a moment. “I don’tthink so, no. I think my father’s death brought home to me the fact that life was a fleeting thing, not at all certain. We think we’re guaranteed tomorrow, but it may not come.”
    “Very admirable,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of a smile on his face.
    “I’m not an example for anyone to follow. I’m impatient, and there are often times when I forget to be thankful. Mostly I try to live my life.”
    “And expound that philosophy to anyone who will listen?” he asked.
    “In all honesty, I’ve never spoken of how I feel to anyone else. Another first, Your Lordship.”
    Even if Marshall did not find this relationship disconcerting, she did. How was she expected to be intimate with a man at night when he was a stranger during the day? The same man who’d announced a rule for their marriage.
    That little smile around his lips had the most annoying effect on her.
    “I wish you well in your tasks,” he said.
    Could he be any more dispassionate? He might be addressing a chair. She’d heard the same types of comments in Edinburgh.
    Fine afternoon, isn’t it, Garner? Think it will rain?
    The primroses are lovely, Miss Agatha. The colors are spectacular this year.
    Have you seen the new pencil? Quite an invention with the eraser mounted at the end.
    Dear heavens,