“What do you mean,what?”
“Nothing. I only wondered what had amused you. Never mind.”
“Oh,” she said, and to his relief, the side of her mouth lifted again. “I only—well, I was trying to picture it. You, pottering about balls and operas. I had a picture forming in my mind. I was thinking it would be titled,In Which the Marquess Despises Society.”
He frowned at her. “I do not despise the company of others.”
Now the other corner kicked up to match the first. “The Marquess Looms Unhappily.”
“I do notloom.”
“You could be the definitive example of the word, my lord.”
“Christian,” he said. And then he regretted the word as soon as it left his lips, because her face went pleased. Somehow even sweeter.
“Christian,” she repeated, and, for God’s sake, he had to adjust his jacket again as he watched the shape her mouth made around his name, the tiny way her lips parted.
“The Marquess Glares Across the Carriage,” she murmured under her breath.
Well, it could be worse.The Marquess Has an Inappropriate Erectionhad a certain ring to it—andwhyinhellwas he playing along? He was a man possessed. Matilda Halifax had done something to his brain.
“As long as the wordprofessordoes not appear,” he said, “I suppose I cannot complain.”
He did not know why he had reminded her of her damned ridiculous pamphlet. And then—oh. He did. She went pink to her hairline.
He loved it.
“Do you know,” she said, “I begin to suspect that you are having fun.”
He rearranged his expression, which he feared had gone quite foolish, back into a scowl. “Is that what I am having? I did not recognize it.”
And oh hell, that gave her some sort of tender feeling. He could practically see her melt. “You have been too long without fun, I suppose, if that is the case.”
The trouble was, he could not deny it.
He was still trying to think of something to say when she winked. “I shall make it my personal mission to paint you in an aspect in which you are visibly enjoying yourself. Do not trouble yourself. I shall think of something to amuse you.”
She was the most unsettling creature he had ever encountered, and he had to adjust his jacket and look out the window for several minutes to stop thinking about how he mightvisibly enjoy himselfin her presence.
At the inn that night, he did not give her the chance to think about anyone enjoying anything. He put his arm about her waist as though he had the right, asked for adjoining rooms for himself and his wife, and tried not to think too hard about why he had done so.
When she murmured, “Good night, Christian,” and slipped into her own chamber, he felt quite certain that he was not going to hell after all. He was already in hell.
Why had he told her to call him Christian? His own wife had not called him that. Grace had called him “my lord,” which at first he’d found charming and then later terrible. He had called her “Marchioness.” She had liked that. It had been, perhaps, the only thing about their marriage that she had liked.
But he found he could not think of Grace. His mind fled from the old hurt, like fingers from a flame, and when he closed his eyes, there was nothing waiting for him in the warm darkness but Matilda’s smile.
Chapter 9
By the time they reached Darley Dale, a coaching town in northern Derbyshire, Matilda found herself going slightly mad. She could not tell if Christian was watching her when she was not looking. She thought she might feel his gaze upon her, but when she looked up from her sketchbook or the novel she’d brought with her, he was always looking down at his boots or out the window.
The fact that she could not tell the difference between her fantasies and reality was a trifle troubling.
She decided it was the fault of being too long in close confines and wheedled Christian into taking a walk with her.
“Come,” she said as they broke their fast, “I’ve asked the tavern keeper, and she says there is a waterfall nearby. Let us put off our departure for a little while—a few hours perhaps.”
“No,” he said and glowered at her.
