can’t help but think about the poor coachman,” she said to fill the silence. “Will he be all right, do you think?”
“If the surgeon in Market Harborough knows his business, he should be.” When she made no reply, John said, “I’m sorry about Barnes. I should never have allowed that to happen.”
“
Allowed
it to happen?” she said in surprise. If she hadn’t promised not to look, she would’ve turned his way so he could see her earnest expression. Instead she stared fixedly into the fire. “None of today was your doing, not the storm or the accident or the coachman’s injury.”
“We shouldn’t have been on the road, not with the sky so threatening.” His voice was missing its usual undercurrent of resentment. He sounded different—somber, even, as if he genuinely blamed himself for the day’s sudden and unpredictable events.
“I saw the same sky you did this morning, and I had no notion an actual storm was brewing. I thought we might be in for a spot of rain, but nothing more serious than that.”
“Thank you for saying that.” After a pause, he ventured, “Caroline, I’m sorry I asked you today about our wedding night. It was an insulting question and I beg your pardon. I’m afraid jealousy got the better of my good judgment.”
He was begging her pardon? Where was the pitiless autocrat she’d come to expect? And—
jealousy
? Jealousy implied some degree of love or at least yearning, and she’d long since abandoned hope that John was capable of either. When he’d dragged her from that inn on the morning after their wedding, anger evident in every rigid line of his body, she’d felt nothing from him except injured pride and a merciless determination to injure her in return.
Jealousy would have been easier to bear. That, at least, would have flared hot and burned itself out quickly, and she would’ve had the consolation of knowing she’d inspired real passion in him. Instead he’d remained coldly unforgiving, meting out punishment in an endless succession of chilliness and acid remarks.
No, John rarely showed any strong emotion at all, let alone an emotion as human as jealousy. Last night, for instance—discovering her with that horrible man outside the inn, he’d merely inquired coldly after her well-being and then proceeded to insult her. It was what she’d come to expect from him, so why had his disregard the night before left her so downcast? For that matter, why had she dawdled as she’d changed out of her clothes tonight, and even cherished a secret hope that John would turn around to look at her?
As the rain pattered on the windowpanes, she slid her bare feet closer to the fire, letting her toes peep out from beneath the blanket. “You can call me Caro, you know. Ronnie does. And I’m not angry with you for asking about that, not really. I suppose I gave you reason enough to doubt me, after everything that happened on our wedding night.”
“You should let me apologize,” he said on a wry note. “It’s not something I do very often.”
She laughed. “I often wonder at your choosing diplomacy as a career, especially when you say something like that.”
“The first rule of diplomacy is to avoid situations that might end in a need to apologize.” It was a simple enough remark, neither personal nor romantic, but his voice had a confiding pitch that made her feel as if he was letting her in on a closely guarded secret. “You might call me John now and then, when you’re so inclined.”
She was beginning to thaw, the blood returning to her stiff fingers and cold toes. The flames from the hearth cast an orange glow, warming her, making the events of the past few hours recede to an unwelcome memory. She was snug and dry now, with a roof over her head and a feather bed to sleep in. So why did she feel so skittish? Was it because she was alone with her husband? She’d been alone with him the night before. Then again, the night before she hadn’t literally clung
“If the surgeon in Market Harborough knows his business, he should be.” When she made no reply, John said, “I’m sorry about Barnes. I should never have allowed that to happen.”
“
Allowed
it to happen?” she said in surprise. If she hadn’t promised not to look, she would’ve turned his way so he could see her earnest expression. Instead she stared fixedly into the fire. “None of today was your doing, not the storm or the accident or the coachman’s injury.”
“We shouldn’t have been on the road, not with the sky so threatening.” His voice was missing its usual undercurrent of resentment. He sounded different—somber, even, as if he genuinely blamed himself for the day’s sudden and unpredictable events.
“I saw the same sky you did this morning, and I had no notion an actual storm was brewing. I thought we might be in for a spot of rain, but nothing more serious than that.”
“Thank you for saying that.” After a pause, he ventured, “Caroline, I’m sorry I asked you today about our wedding night. It was an insulting question and I beg your pardon. I’m afraid jealousy got the better of my good judgment.”
He was begging her pardon? Where was the pitiless autocrat she’d come to expect? And—
jealousy
? Jealousy implied some degree of love or at least yearning, and she’d long since abandoned hope that John was capable of either. When he’d dragged her from that inn on the morning after their wedding, anger evident in every rigid line of his body, she’d felt nothing from him except injured pride and a merciless determination to injure her in return.
Jealousy would have been easier to bear. That, at least, would have flared hot and burned itself out quickly, and she would’ve had the consolation of knowing she’d inspired real passion in him. Instead he’d remained coldly unforgiving, meting out punishment in an endless succession of chilliness and acid remarks.
No, John rarely showed any strong emotion at all, let alone an emotion as human as jealousy. Last night, for instance—discovering her with that horrible man outside the inn, he’d merely inquired coldly after her well-being and then proceeded to insult her. It was what she’d come to expect from him, so why had his disregard the night before left her so downcast? For that matter, why had she dawdled as she’d changed out of her clothes tonight, and even cherished a secret hope that John would turn around to look at her?
As the rain pattered on the windowpanes, she slid her bare feet closer to the fire, letting her toes peep out from beneath the blanket. “You can call me Caro, you know. Ronnie does. And I’m not angry with you for asking about that, not really. I suppose I gave you reason enough to doubt me, after everything that happened on our wedding night.”
“You should let me apologize,” he said on a wry note. “It’s not something I do very often.”
She laughed. “I often wonder at your choosing diplomacy as a career, especially when you say something like that.”
“The first rule of diplomacy is to avoid situations that might end in a need to apologize.” It was a simple enough remark, neither personal nor romantic, but his voice had a confiding pitch that made her feel as if he was letting her in on a closely guarded secret. “You might call me John now and then, when you’re so inclined.”
She was beginning to thaw, the blood returning to her stiff fingers and cold toes. The flames from the hearth cast an orange glow, warming her, making the events of the past few hours recede to an unwelcome memory. She was snug and dry now, with a roof over her head and a feather bed to sleep in. So why did she feel so skittish? Was it because she was alone with her husband? She’d been alone with him the night before. Then again, the night before she hadn’t literally clung
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