The door opened.
She braced herself for more of his anger, but instead, he seemed contrite. He hung his head as he joined her on the balcony.
She looked at him askance and she realized it was going to be the point during which he professed to be sorry for whatever it was he had done.
This was part of the way he behaved, after all. He had a tendency to beg forgiveness.
Once, after the first time he wished to couple with her face to face, he had pulled her into his arms in the darkness and spoken in a halting voice about things that had been done to him when he was a small boy by his father the duke, and they were awful things, and he had cried and she had cried and she had stroked his hair away from his brow and told him he was safe now and he had buried his face against her breast and clung to her and said that he didn’t mean to be a bad boy—a bad man—and he would do better, that she was lovely and he wanted to earn her love not to drive her away.
It was only that it was all wearing thin at this point.
She believed he was sincere in the moments when he apologized, but it was as if there were more than one person residing in the duke’s body, and the sincere and apologetic one barely ever had control. Usually, the part of him in control was cruel and exacting.
“Caroline,” he whispered, reaching out for her. “I’m ever so sorry.”
She evaded his touch, regarding him coolly. She was too angry to switch to forgiving him yet. She knew that was likely a bad idea also, but she also felt out of control.
“It is quite a thing, to have a wife who will dress to please you, actually,” he said. “Men would be envious of me if they knew. I’m a fool and a right blackguard. Please, I am ever so sorry.”
She said nothing.
He came closer to her, and the balcony wasn’t very big, so she had nowhere to go. He was on top of her. He touched her cheek. “I didn’t hurt you overmuch this time, did I, darling?”
She only breathed.
“Listen, you must find some way not to wind me up so,” he said.
She let out a disbelieving noise.
He stilled. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do,” she said in a low voice. “You will windyourselfup.”
He furrowed his brow. “No, it is you who provokes me, you—”
“You are too easily provoked,” she said.
“Now, see here, Caroline, I know I have a tendency to boil over, but you are meant to be my help meet, and you must find a way to keep me from my anger, you see. It is your role as my wife. I know, if you but find a way, you can keep me from ever getting so angry that I harm you, ever again.”
“I can find a way?” she said, incredulous. “It’s my fault that you get angry with me?”
“Well, you’re the one I get angry with, so… yes.”
It came over her like a red, red wave that descended over her vision. She ground her teeth together for a moment, and thenthe voice that came out of her mouth barely sounded like hers. It was far, far too sweet and pointed. “I can think of a way to stop you from getting angry, my love.”
“Can you?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said, and then she shoved him off the balcony.
She leaned over to watch him fall, the redness still clinging to her as he yelled and flailed and then hit. Hard.
She sucked in a sharp breath, then, and she regretted it.
She backed away, her heart rising to beat wildly in her chest.
But she was only out of sorts for a moment before the schemer within her rose and took control.
She dashed across her room, flung open her door, and wailed, “Help me! Oh, help! My husband has just had a dreadful accident!”
