want that.” Thea moved away, unable to tolerate the resignation in his gaze. “I don’t want to be a chore for you, an obligation, a matter of self-discipline and soldiering on with your burdensome duty.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before your ill-timed announcement, Thea.”
For which she would never cease being tormented, apparently. “You would have had me lie to you?”
“You did lie to me, or you certainly allowed me to muddle along on the basis of a misrepresentation,” he shot back. “You simply confessed the lie at the most inopportune moment.”
“Right.” Thea’s lips compressed, and she knew, knew , she should keep her mouth shut. “And we will not speak of my past unless you’re bringing it up to toss at me like a dead cat when you’re feeling uncertain of your way in this marriage. I will take to wearing a scarlet sign around my neck: I am sorry. I am sorry, I am sorry , but apologizing is all I can do, Your Grace. I can’t change my past. I can’t unsay the things I’ve said. You set before me an impossible task, because your trust has been destroyed, and I don’t know how to win it back, or why I should take on such a labor of Sisyphus.”
The silence from before had nothing on this ringing, bitter gap in their civilities now. Tension snapped and crackled around them, rife with all sorts of bad feeling and misery.
Then Anselm was beside her.
“Don’t cry.” He moved in, handkerchief at the ready. “Please, Thea…”
“I’m not crying.” But she was, and no matter how determinedly she thrust her chin in the air, her cheeks were wet, and Anselm was dabbing at them gently. “Tears n-never solved anything, Your Grace, and you will please desist.”
“I will if you will.”
The childishness of it, the slight smile he managed at the ridiculousness, had Thea smiling too.
“I don’t mean to provoke you,” she said, letting him finish with the handkerchief. “But you pick on me.”
“Pick at you.” Anselm dabbed at the end of her nose, the idiot. “You’re a problem I don’t know how to solve.”
“A problem.” Thea leaned into the hand he’d cupped along her jaw. “And a disaster, but not, thank ye gods, a tragedy.”
“I would not have us be a farce, either,” Anselm said, expression serious.
“What is the problem that has you so vexed?” she asked. “I need a description more specific than my very name.”
The duke folded up his handkerchief, which had borne his initials and his beguiling scent.
“I’m not sure how to put the problem, but you’re right that it has to do with trust.”
Thea regarded her husband for a long, solemn moment as they stood two feet and a world of wishes apart.
“I’ve trusted you, Anselm. When I opened my mouth at that inopportune moment, I was trusting you.” More fool her.
He unfolded the handkerchief and began again, this time so the monogram remained face out.
“Trusted me not to beat you?” The duke spoke as if the very words stank.
“Not to beat me, or worse.”
Anselm jammed the handkerchief in a pocket, scowling ferociously. “Cast you out?”
“That too. I am grateful that my trust was not misplaced. I think you trust me a little too.” Thea prayed he did. Getting him to admit it was another matter.
“Whatever prompted that fancy?” Anselm hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous; Thea was sure he hadn’t.
“I was behind a closed door with Mr. Erikson,” she said, “and he was figuratively laying his flowers at my feet, but you did not leap to the wrong conclusions. That is an act of trust.”
Viscountess Endmon would have turned Thea off without a character for such a breach of propriety.
His Grace resumed his place before the tea tray and drained the contents of Thea’s cup. “You were trying to look interested as Benjamin prosed on and on, even I could see that, and you were sitting a good eight feet from him. You forgot to sugar my tea.”
Thea took the place beside the
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before your ill-timed announcement, Thea.”
For which she would never cease being tormented, apparently. “You would have had me lie to you?”
“You did lie to me, or you certainly allowed me to muddle along on the basis of a misrepresentation,” he shot back. “You simply confessed the lie at the most inopportune moment.”
“Right.” Thea’s lips compressed, and she knew, knew , she should keep her mouth shut. “And we will not speak of my past unless you’re bringing it up to toss at me like a dead cat when you’re feeling uncertain of your way in this marriage. I will take to wearing a scarlet sign around my neck: I am sorry. I am sorry, I am sorry , but apologizing is all I can do, Your Grace. I can’t change my past. I can’t unsay the things I’ve said. You set before me an impossible task, because your trust has been destroyed, and I don’t know how to win it back, or why I should take on such a labor of Sisyphus.”
The silence from before had nothing on this ringing, bitter gap in their civilities now. Tension snapped and crackled around them, rife with all sorts of bad feeling and misery.
Then Anselm was beside her.
“Don’t cry.” He moved in, handkerchief at the ready. “Please, Thea…”
“I’m not crying.” But she was, and no matter how determinedly she thrust her chin in the air, her cheeks were wet, and Anselm was dabbing at them gently. “Tears n-never solved anything, Your Grace, and you will please desist.”
“I will if you will.”
The childishness of it, the slight smile he managed at the ridiculousness, had Thea smiling too.
“I don’t mean to provoke you,” she said, letting him finish with the handkerchief. “But you pick on me.”
“Pick at you.” Anselm dabbed at the end of her nose, the idiot. “You’re a problem I don’t know how to solve.”
“A problem.” Thea leaned into the hand he’d cupped along her jaw. “And a disaster, but not, thank ye gods, a tragedy.”
“I would not have us be a farce, either,” Anselm said, expression serious.
“What is the problem that has you so vexed?” she asked. “I need a description more specific than my very name.”
The duke folded up his handkerchief, which had borne his initials and his beguiling scent.
“I’m not sure how to put the problem, but you’re right that it has to do with trust.”
Thea regarded her husband for a long, solemn moment as they stood two feet and a world of wishes apart.
“I’ve trusted you, Anselm. When I opened my mouth at that inopportune moment, I was trusting you.” More fool her.
He unfolded the handkerchief and began again, this time so the monogram remained face out.
“Trusted me not to beat you?” The duke spoke as if the very words stank.
“Not to beat me, or worse.”
Anselm jammed the handkerchief in a pocket, scowling ferociously. “Cast you out?”
“That too. I am grateful that my trust was not misplaced. I think you trust me a little too.” Thea prayed he did. Getting him to admit it was another matter.
“Whatever prompted that fancy?” Anselm hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous; Thea was sure he hadn’t.
“I was behind a closed door with Mr. Erikson,” she said, “and he was figuratively laying his flowers at my feet, but you did not leap to the wrong conclusions. That is an act of trust.”
Viscountess Endmon would have turned Thea off without a character for such a breach of propriety.
His Grace resumed his place before the tea tray and drained the contents of Thea’s cup. “You were trying to look interested as Benjamin prosed on and on, even I could see that, and you were sitting a good eight feet from him. You forgot to sugar my tea.”
Thea took the place beside the
Similar Books
