“But we are married.”
“Yes.”
Still, he did not move.
“Where shall you go?”
“Northwich has rooms aplenty, and until I find lodging located more conveniently near to Haddon House, I will remain there.”
Tilly could not have been more shocked had he announced he intended next to journey to the sun. “You cannot marry me and live with the Duke of Northwich.”
“Of course I can. He is my friend. I trust him.”
“I am your wife,” she countered, the word feeling strange on her lips and tongue, odd to her ears when combined with this man so newly returned to her.
“I will visit Robby regularly, of course. Spending time with him is of utmost importance to me.”
Outrage supplanted the surprise of his odd decree. “Absolutely not.”
She hauled herself back into the carriage and settled on the squabs opposite him, feeling quite mulish. And angry. And…oh, she did not know. All she did know was that she had not agreed to marry him so that he might hide from her.
Adrian eyed her, his irritating sangfroid once more at full vengeance. “What are you doing, madam?”
“Sitting here.”
“As I can see. My question was referring to thewhyrather than thewhatof your current actions.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then you ought to have asked thewhyinstead of querying thewhat.”
If he wanted to play games, she was more than willing to do so as well. She was dressed in her wedding finery. She had submitted herself to the dreaded wedding breakfast. She had agreed to be the wife of a man who had previously deceived her and then had returned with ultimatums and blackmail.
And now, that same man had casually announced he was leaving her at the doorstep of Haddon House alone as if she were a bushel of apples to be delivered to the service entrance, never to be thought of again.
“Madam.” His voice, like his expression, had turned grim. His jaw was tight, a slashing angle of handsome masculine disapproval. “You understand quite well what I am asking you. Why have you gotten back into the bloody carriage?”
“Because you have not gottenoutof the bloody carriage, Mr. Hastings,” she countered.
“You know the reason why. I’ll not be living in the same home as you.”
“You still do not trust me.” The accusation, as it left her, filled her heart with sadness.
She knew it was true. The answer was written plainly upon his face, in his actions. He believed she was responsible for his being sent to prison. He believed she was heartless enough to allow the father of her son, the man she loved, to suffer in a prison for more than a year.
“You have not given me reason to do so,” he said, his tone even. Rational and practical. As if they discussed nothing of greater import than the price of wheat.
“I have married you,” she bit out.
“Because I gave you no other option.”
They stared at each other, having reached a stalemate. He was determined to distrust her, and she was equally determined not to allow him to continue with this distance between them. The physical distance was symbolic of the emotional distance he had erected. She would allow him his secrets, and she would grant him the time he needed to learn to trust her. But she would not countenance him living in another household.
“I married you because you are Robby’s father, you…you…muttonhead.”
She had called him a name. It was unconscionable. She had never issued an unkind word to anyone in her life. Not even to Longleigh, deserved though it would have been.
Her new husband stared at her, his expression inscrutable.
And then, for the first time since his return to her life, he tipped back his head, and the most miraculous sound emerged. Low and deep and mellifluous.
