She took his free hand, pressing her palm to his, and laced their fingers together, holding tight. She was persistent. He did not think he could tug his hand free without the risk of stumbling and ending up falling on his arse. His ankle was weak. His body tired.
And curse her, the way their hands meshed, their fingers tangling, the touch of her soft skin upon his, which was even rougher and more callused than it had been when last they had held hands thus, did things to him. Unfair things. Things he would far prefer never to think about, feel, or acknowledge.
“You shall come with me,” she said. “I insist upon you having something to eat, even if it is only some bread and water. Your stomach tells me everything you will not.”
His stomach did not tell her everything. But he supposed some sustenance would not be out of order.
“Are you to be this overbearing as a wife? Had I known, I may have reconsidered.”
The words left him, lighthearted.My God.Was he teasing her? He had not tried to make anyone laugh since…
Her.
Tilly had been the last time he had laughed before Dunsworth, and she had been the first person to make him truly laugh after he had achieved his freedom. He did not know what to make of that particular revelation.
Did not know what to make of her.
Or their marriage.
Or the pent-up feelings roaring to life deep inside him.
This was unexpected. He never should have allowed her to persuade him to stay here at Haddon House. It was not his home. It would never be his home. And being near to her…
It was deuced difficult. Impossible, almost, to separate the past from the present.
But as he wrestled with his feelings, it was clear that Tilly had misunderstood his attempt at levity. Her frown had deepened, her grip on his hand loosening. And fool that he was, he held tighter. Not wanting her to release him.
“I will eat something,” he blurted. “If you will accompany me.”
The frown lessened. She did not withdraw.
“Of course I will,” she said softly.
Together, they made a path to the library, where Tilly rang for a servant. They managed to secure a loaf of bread, some cold ham, cheese, and a pear tartlet, along with tea and wine. The lot arrived on a massive tray delivered by a footman, which he deposited on a sideboard.
They had settled comfortably—he upon a chair and she upon a chaise longue as they waited. But when Adrian made to rise after the servant’s departure, his new wife stayed him.
“Remain seated, if you please. I will fetch you a plate.”
Her words both warmed and irritated him.
“As you noted earlier, I am no invalid. If you refuse to allow me an invalid’s meal, then you cannot treat me as one.”
“I am treating you as my husband,” she countered. “Your ankle is paining you. It is plain to see. Allow me to do this for you.”
He did not like the idea of sitting about while she waited upon him as if she were a servant. It was not what he expected of her. “I shall be fine. I have made it this far.”
She was on her feet, flitting toward him, and placed a hand upon his where it rested on the hilt of his cane. “You no longer have to be on your own, Adrian.”
But she was wrong about that. He did have to be on his own, because he did not dare trust her. “My mother trusted the man who sired me, and he betrayed her. Got a bastard on her and had her sent away to a lunatic asylum when her demands upon him became more than he would accept. I trusted that same man not to betray me, and he had me arrested for stealing from him.”
“I am not the Duke of Longleigh,” she said.
“But you are his duchess, are you not?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I am Mrs. Adrian Hastings now. Your wife. Robby’s mother. The woman who is going to fetch you something to eat before you swoon.”
The last was meant to be teasing, but she was not far off in her assertion. He was feeling a bit dizzied and…off. Much as he had on the day when he had fallen from the treadwheel. And look at how that occasion had turned out. He would never again be able to walk without the assistance of a cane.
