She settled her hand on his arm. “Hating me will not make our marriage any less a reality, Huntingdon.”
“As I said, I do not hate you, my dear.” His response was smooth as he led her from the library with long-limbed strides. “I trust you are already familiar with the library?”
He spoke nonchalantly, as if they discussed something of no greater import than the clouds in the sky rather than his enmity for her.
“Not as familiar as you are,” she returned sweetly, unable to resist the verbal jab.
If he wanted for them to be at odds, she could play this game every bit as well as he could. Indeed, she would have to, for what other choice did she have? She needed to harden her heart.
“Do not all husbands spend their wedding night on the library chaise longue?” he asked, leading her up the staircase they had traversed together the night before.
“I regret to inform you that is not my understanding of the manner in which a husband ought to proceed with the night of his marriage,” she said, cursing herself for her breathlessness.
She could only hope he would ascribe it to their ascent of the stairs. This afternoon, it was much easier to travel at his side since he was not leaning on her so heavily. She had to admit, she rather missed his face buried in her neck.
Bad Helena. Do not lower your guard yet. He may be your husband, but he still intends to desert you forthwith.
The thoughts crowded her mind, the worries, the doubts, the fears. Unpleasant and unkind. All the feelings she had been able to thrust aside yesterday in the madness of their wedding day buffeted her now, like the winds of a storm.
He never wanted to marry you.
He may be in love with Lady Beatrice.
Tender emotions for his former betrothed, coupled with Helena’s actions, could certainly be responsible for his coldness.
“And how do you have any understanding of what should have transpired, hmm, hellion?” he asked as they reached the next floor.
She opened her mouth to answer him, but he was quicker than she.
“Never mind,” he growled. “I should not have asked. I am certain Lady Northampton would have informed you. If you have been indulging in the middling literary talents of Shelbourne’s bawdy books once more, I do not wish to know.”
“How do you know they are middling?” she asked flippantly, wondering if it was possible that a paragon such as the Earl of Huntingdon could have flipped through the same pages.
He most certainly kisses like he has, trilled a wicked voice she promptly expelled from her mind.
That voice could not be trusted, and it most certainly had no place in her cautious dealings with her new husband today. He was not being terribly hateful at the moment, and nor was he inebriated. But that hardly meant she could fall back into his arms. Her battered heart could not endure much more rejection.
“All lewd treatises are.” He guided her into a long, large room that overlooked the street. “If their authors possessed an inkling of talent or creativity, they would not write such twaddle. Behold, the crimson drawing room.”
“One wonders why it is so named,” she commented, taking in the scarlet damask walls, covered with familial portraits, and the matching settees and chairs. “And truly, Huntingdon, has it never occurred to you that what you deem twaddle, others enjoy reading?”
“Who could?” A suspicious tinge of color appeared on his sharp cheekbones.
“Icould,” she ventured, suspecting she was not the sole person in the crimson drawing room who had relished every wicked word and scenario upon the page. “And I dare say you could as well if you would only cease being such a prig.”
“You go too far, madam.”
She slanted an unrepentant glance in his direction. “I could go further, I think. And so could you. Indeed, you have. Need I remind you?”
His color deepened, and he looked away from her, working his jaw. “I would prefer to forget my folly.”
She was not certain if he was referring to the occasions upon which he had kissed her, the books he may have chanced to read, or their wedding. Mayhap all three.
Helena decided not to ask. She turned her attention instead to the chamber, releasing his arm to take a turn about. The fireplace was fashioned of black marble, the mantel lined with the requisite clock. A massive gilt chandelier hung from the decorated plasterwork of the ceiling. A polished grand piano crafted of rosewood occupied one wall.
“Do you play?” she asked him.
“I am afraid not,” he clipped, sounding so stiff. So aloof.
