“It befits my position to have an opinion about household matters.”
“Of course. And what matter is more a lady’s domain than ducks?”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Never.” The curl of a smile escaped his lips, and he wrestled his expression back under control. She would never know how lovely she looked when she scowled, all dark beauty like storm-clouds and rain on a hot summer’s day. She was lightning and thunder and everything that was fiercely lovely about nature, and he was the parched ground who so desperately needed to taste her.
A flush climbed up her throat and spread, blotchy, to her cheeks. “I thought you would want to be a part of a discussion on what changes I wish to make to your house.”
“It’s your house, too,” he said gently. “Though of course I always value your opinion.”
“Is that so?”
“I would be fascinated to hear more about these ducks.”
Finally, a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Now I know you’re laughing at me.”
“Not at all. Tell me, in great detail, if you please, your intentions for the pond. Do you have any other plans? I thought perhaps we could extend the orchard. I have a hankering for plums.”
Her nose wrinkled. He rather wished he could kiss it. “Plums?”
“Do you dislike them?”
“My mother grew them.” She spread her fingers across her skirts, smoothing the material. Percy was, confound him, reminded in rather vivid detail of what lay underneath. “We had plums with everything.”
“Then we’ll grow something else. Apples? I used to go apple-picking as a boy.”
Her smile grew, though he saw her bite the inside of her cheek to prevent it from spreading any further. “And how many years ago was that?”
“Wretch,” he said easily, not missing the way she glanced out of the window to hide her mirth. “What fruit would you prefer?”
“I like apples.”
“Then apples it will be.”
“How about an orangery?”
“This is a sudden and unprecedented interest in our garden.” He tilted his head as colour spread fiery fingers up her throat. “Any particular reason why?”
“I thought I should—make an effort to be a better wife. I know wives are supposed to oversee these things.”
“Forget whatever preconceived notions of what wives are supposed to do.” His voice had hardened, and he made an effort to soften it. “I only want you to do what you’re comfortable with.”
“Yes. About that.” Her colour only deepened, and she glanced away. No sign of Boudicca today; rather, she looked more fragile than he had ever seen her. “The masquerade.”
He inhaled. “Yes.”
“You kissed me.”
The technicality—that she had been the one to initiate—did not seem worth mentioning. “I did.”
Almost absently, her eyes fixed on a distant point, she brought her fingers to her lips, tracing them in a way that brought about a sudden and inconvenient bulge in his trousers. “I liked it.”
“You did,” he said, his voice lower, rough. “You liked it when I kissed you as Odysseus.” He shifted in his seat, and her gaze dropped, catching at his groin and the erection he’d failed to hide. If her cheeks had been red before, now they burned, rioting against the vivid shade of her hair. “The question is,” he continued, “why you won’t allow yourself to kiss me like that when you’re my wife?”
Cecily had known—of course she had—that the question was coming. It was a deserved one, and one that necessitated discussing a man she no longer wanted to think about.
“I am—” She looked at her hands, then back at him. He settled back into his chair, hands clasped around his stomach. By the looks of it, he intended to wait. For however long it took. An excellent choice, given she didn’t know how to answer.
