“What do you wish to know?” he asked.
Her ears went hot. Surely, he did not mean concerning the consummation of their marriage. Breathing became suddenly difficult. Her heart wanted to leap from her chest.
“About me,” he added, his lips quirking. “In the carriage earlier, you said I am a stranger to you. Ask me a question, and I shall do my best to answer.”
There were so many things she longed to ask. She took another slow sip of her brandy, considering which she ought to pose first. And startled, too, by his show of concern for her, so at odds with the dispassionate man who intended to abandon her after he achieved what he wanted.
“How old are you?” she asked first. A safe question, she reasoned. A place to begin.
“Five-and-thirty.” He, too, took another slow and steady pull of brandy. “My turn. We shall trade a question for a question. What do you say?”
He was older than she was, but younger than his somberness had seemed to indicate.
She swallowed. “That seems fair enough. What would you like to know about me?”
“Why do you truly wish to postpone our honeymoon?”
Had she thought him fair? She instantly suspected his game of questions had been a ruse all along. “I already told you, my lord.”
“Nomy lord,” he said. “Alessandro, if you please. And what you told me was not the truth. At least, not the full truth. I wish to know now.”
“I…” She paused, uncertain of how to answer. Not wishing to reveal too much of herself to this enigmatic man, who had shared so little of himself with her.
“Come, Catriona,” he prodded. “I answered your question without hesitation.”
“The answer was not nearly as complicated as mine,” she argued.
His regard intensified. “Why?”
“I fear being alone with you in Wiltshire,” she admitted.
He stiffened. “I will not hurt you.”
“That is not my fear,” she admitted, her cheeks going hot now. “At least, not in the way you mean. I…”
How to say she feared she may grow to like him too much?
How to say a part of her already liked him?
“Say it,” he bit out.
“I am afraid of liking you.” There. She had made her confession even though she now felt as if she were drowning in mortification.
She raised the snifter to her lips and took a healthy sip.
It singed a path to her belly.
“Liking me,” he repeated in his velvet-smooth baritone.
More brandy seemed just the thing. She took another swallow, then decided to change the subject.
“It is my turn for a question.” Only, she could not think of what else to ask him. She thought for a moment before finding a suitable topic. “If you do not plan to live in England, why do you want to have an heir? Is it truly because of our cousin?”
“Sí.” He was still staring at her in a way that seemed to suck all the air from the chamber. “My cousin is a despicable, empty-headed wastrel who insulted my mother. I would sooner see the title bestowed upon a chicken than upon his worthless hide.”
Well, that rather answered the question, did it not?
“Indeed,” she said, thinking of nothing better to offer. Whatcouldshe say to such a response, really?
