She did not want his tenderness or his tray of food or the pretense he cared about her when she knew otherwise, and to devastating effect. The scent of roasted chicken reached her, and her stomach growled anew. Drat the traitor.
“I was forced to suffer through dinner alone,” he said. “The scamp dined in the nursery, leaving me to hurl insults at Johnston in Spanish for entertainment. Did you know he understood them all?”
She was not surprised. “I have no wish to dine with a churl.”
Uninvited, he seated himself on the edge of her bed as if he belonged there, lowering the tray between them. “A peace offering,querida. I am sorry for being curt with you earlier.”
“I accept your apology, but you can take the food and go,” she insisted stubbornly, for she knew she must not soften toward him.
He had taken his anger out on her without cause, to say nothing of his brusque dismissal of her in the wake of their passionate encounter at breakfast. Her heart was battered, and she must protect it now at all costs.
“Catriona,” he said softly. “You must eat. If you are with child, the babe needs nourishment.”
“Of course that is all you care about,” she snapped bitterly. “How could I forget I am nothing more than a broodmare to you?”
“I have always been honest with you.” He covered her hand with his.
She resented his touch, the effect it had upon her. The way it made her want him. “Yes, you have. But I am tired now, and I wish to be alone. Please go.”
His jaw clenched. “He stole my mother’s portrait.”
“I am sorry.” And she was. “I know how much you loved her.”
“Sí.She was a good woman. A good person. Far better than I am.” Idly, he stroked her inner wrist with his thumb.
She would be lying if she said it did not affect her. Lying, too, if she said the anguish in her husband’s expression did not bring a fresh rush of tears to her eyes.
“Even if you are not able to find Bramwell and bring him to justice, and even if you do not find the portrait, he cannot steal your memories from you,” she said softly. “Your mother will always be in your heart.”
“You are a good woman too,querida,” he said, his dark gaze intent upon her. “My mother, she would have liked you. Maria would have, too.”
His words shocked her, sending an incipient rush of hope through her.
She quashed it. “Thank you for the dinner. Perhaps I will eat some after all.Alone.”
He nodded, removing his hand from hers before standing. “I will go, as you wish. I asked for some of the plum tartlets you like.”
He had noticed she liked plum tartlets?
No, heart, she reminded herself firmly.This man cannot be trusted.
She swallowed. “That was most thoughtful of you, my lord.”
He gave her a grim, lingering look before bowing. “Sleep well, querida. Tomorrow is another day.”
Another day, she thought to herself as she watched him walk away from her for the second time. Another day of loving him, another day of knowing he would never love her back. She glanced down at the tray he had left her and snagged a tartlet.
It was bittersweet on her tongue.
*
From the mullionedwindows of his father’s study, Alessandro had a perfect view of the overgrown gardens.
And his wife.
She was dressed to perfection, as always, in a sprigged muslin day dress that showed off her lush curves. The day was bright and brilliant with sun, glowing in the curls peeping from beneath her bonnet. She bent to cut a rose, and the sight of her luscious derriere made his breeches go tight.
He wanted her more with each passing day.
