“At the very least some claret or sherry? Claret can be had by the half bottle, and sherry by the glass.”
At this rate, he would require all the claret on the bloody train. All the sherry as well. Andhell, whilst he was at the business of getting sotted, why stop? He could consume all the ale and stout also. But then, if he were in his cups, who would be there to protect Pippa and Charlotte? It was no use. He would have to continue subjecting himself to this misery.
“None for me, thank you,” Pippa said primly.
He drummed his fingers on his thigh, forcing himself to recall how much she had endured in the last few weeks. “How is your head feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
So polite. It set his teeth on edge.
“If you thank me a fourth time, I shall take the damnedTit-Bitsand throw it from the window,” he grumbled. “And if I do that, how shall you continue ignoring me?”
At last, her stare jerked up to his. “I am not ignoring you, Northwich. I amreading.”
“How utterly thrilling the contents of it must be, to distract you so.” He sounded petulant, even to his own ears, but he could not seem to help himself. Whilst he knew they had not married for sentimental reasons, and while he understood she remained incredibly guarded, he had very stupidly hoped that some of the tension between them might thaw, following this morning’s ceremony.
“It is indeed vastly amusing,” she commented lightly, before returning to her reading.
“How so?” he asked, determined to keep the conversation from drawing to an end.
“For instance, here is something clever. When a man attains the age of ninety years, he will be exceedingly old.”
He frowned at her. “I do not find the cleverness in such a statement. It seems a fair judgment to make.”
“The joke is only clever when one reads it, I am afraid,” she said. “Exceedingly is spelled with Roman Numerals.XC-dingly.”
Ah, yes.XCwas ninety.Thatwas what she found more intriguing than conversing with him?
Roland blinked. “Was I meant to laugh?”
Yes, he was jealous of a damned bit of journalism which could be had for the cost of one penny. A silly form of entertainment for the hoi polloi who traveled about on trains for their work each day.
She pursed her lips and slanted him a look he could not discern. “Only if you find it funny, Northwich.”
Again with his title.
“It would please me if you call me Roland now that we are wed.” He sounded like an insufferable prig.
Like his damned father.
And he had prided himself on never becoming like the last Duke of Northwich.
To prove he was not an unbearable pedant, he shrugged off his coat and laid it neatly at his side.
Her eyes were on him now, taking him in. And he felt that stare as if it were the caress of her hand over his body. She was not unaffected by his form, that much he had known since she had inadvertently come upon him when he had been exercising in nothing but his trousers and his bare chest.
“Roland,” she said, surprising him with her easy capitulation. “Must you remove your jacket?”
“Yes.” He rolled his shoulders and stretched, aware that his shirtsleeves caught on the muscles in his upper arms. “It is warm in the car with the country sun beating down upon us. Do you not find it so?”
Her stare was still traveling over him, leaving fire everywhere she looked. “I thought it quite comfortable.”
“Hmm.” He tried to suppress his grin and failed. “I find it far more so now.”
Another stretch brought his legs across the distance separating them. His shoes brushed her pale-blue hems. She shifted to the right. He followed.
“You are crowding me, and I suspect it is intentional.” She frowned at him, her eyes on his legs.
