“You know, you don’t have to do that,” he pointed out. “The staff will prepare it for you. They’ll even bring it to your room if you’d like.”
“I’m not too good to make my own tea,” she replied. “I did it all the time when I was living with my father. I can do it here.”
Indeed, she could—he saw that the tea was already prepared. She poured two cups and placed one on the table in front of him. He nodded his thanks and took a sip. It was hot and soothing, and it really did feel like exactly what he had needed tonight.
“Listen,” he said, “I owe you an apology.”
She didn’t deny it. She turned to face him, and he was nearly undone by the sight of her eyes on him. Why did it have to be so late at night every time they met like this? Why did it always feel as though the walls between them had fallen down? It would have been so much easier to talk during the day when he felt capable of holding her at arm’s length. But then, he realized, he had spoken to her during the day—that was what had led to their fight in the first place. And it wasn’t exactly something he was feeling good about.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “The way I spoke to you in the carriage—I shouldn’t have done that. You were completely right. You were well within the bounds of reasonable conduct at the ball—of course, you wanted to dance with gentlemen and enjoy yourself. I should have expected it. Ididexpect it.”
“Then why did it upset you so much if you knew that it was going to happen?”
“I don’t know if I can explain that.”
“Try,” she said.
He blinked.
“You’re the one apologizing to me here,” she pointed out. “You’re the one who wants forgiveness and for the two of us to move on. If that’s what you want, I need more than for you to sayI’m sorry.”
“What do you need?” he asked. He couldn’t help feeling slightly mesmerized by her—by how powerful she was, by how strongly she was speaking up for what she wanted. He had known this about her, but even so, it always impressed him to see it. It was unlike any lady he had ever known, the way she understood herself so well.
Her father must have hated it, he thought. But as for Arthur himself, he found it admirable.
“I want to know where you go every day,” she said. “I want to know what all the secrecy is for.”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “I respect your willingness to ask, but a gentlemen needs his own secrets.”
She scoffed. “Of course, he does.”
“Isabella,” he said quietly, “I’m not having an affair.”
“That’s just what you would say if youwere.”
“Perhaps. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never done such a thing. I never would. I wish I knew why you had that idea.”
“You don’t know why?” She laughed.
“All right,” he conceded. “Perhaps I do.”
“Arthur, you were jealous because I danced with another man in plain view of you and made no secret at all of it. Don’t stand here and act as if jealousy is a feeling you can’t understand—as if it’s beneath you somehow. I know better.”
“All right,” Arthur agreed. “But be that as it may, what I’m telling you now is the truth. I’m not seeing anybody else. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You don’t care about me.”
“I respect you,” he countered. “Do you really doubt that?”
She hesitated. “I suppose it’s easier to believe in that than it is to believe that you actually care.”
“I do respect you,” he told her firmly. “You are my wife. That means something to me.”
“I’ve never been able to figure out what it means to you, though.”
“A gentleman ought to honor his wife,” Arthur said firmly. “I would never go behind your back in the manner you’re suggesting. I simply couldn’t do it.”
Isabella nodded slowly, and he saw her face relax slightly, as if she believed him. “Then what is it?” she asked. “If you’re not meeting a mistress, where do you go every day, and why am I forbidden to ask you any questions about it?”
