Though I am surprised when my lady hurls the urn in my direction, it does not prevent me from neatly sidestepping the object before it falls and shatters. The small bouquet of flowers wilt on the stone floor, floating in a small river of water.
“Your Grace, please forgive my daughter. I have no idea what has overcome her. Freya, please recall your mannersthis instant.”
It is as harsh as I have ever heard from his lordship, and indeed, almost certainly the sharpest rebuke he has ever given his daughter.
The high-born lady has already retrieved a book from the table and whirls on me, her mouth twisted with fury before she hurls it in my direction. I dodge it and turn my head in time to see the book slap against the wall before sliding down near the water.
“Freya.Dorestrain yourself.”
Much like his former rebuke, his command does little good. She either does not hear him, or she is beyond hearing. She has turned to the table once more, and is eyeing the remaining items, clearly intent upon doing me serious bodily harm.
’Tis true I did not expect her to rejoice at the prospect of marrying me and to merely do as she was instructed like a meek little lamb… actually, I suppose thatiswhat I expected. Despite Lord Denham’s mottled horror, I find his daughter all the more intriguing for the fact that she did not.
I have had enough, however, and I swiftly close the distance between us. She has just turned, holding a crystal candelabra, when she finds me in front of her.
Her eyes flash at me, and she lifts the candelabra, but I seize the cool crystal and pull it from her grasp.
I turn, unsure where to place it, and find the silent butler reaching for the candelabra. I hand it over and turn to face the furious Lady Freya in time to see her raise her empty hand. Nothing remains to be thrown because she has quite cleared the table.
Glaring, she strikes my shoulder with all her might.
“Freya.” Her name is a harsh reprimand on her lord father’s lips. “What has gotten into you? Forgive her, Your Grace. I fear her good sense has quite deserted her.”
“I do not wish for his forgiveness,” she says, regarding me as though she wished she could set me alight with her fiery gaze.
“Please do me the honor of calling me by my given name,” I remind him, though I do not take my eyes from the seething lady. It might be to my own injury if I do so.
“Very well, Gregor. I do thank you.”
It is quite an odd thing indeed for him to thank me while his daughter—and my intended wife—stands before me, breathing hard, her tiny fists clenched, clearly wishing to do me harm. Yet, I do not remark upon it. Though this encounter has not gone quite how I imagined, I am more captivated than ever by the Lady Freya.
“My Lord, might I make a request that may sound strange to you?”
“You are free to inquire, Your Grace.”
“I feel words of correction are availing little,” I remark as I gaze down at Freya, whose chest heaves hard with frustration.
“Indeed, you observe rightly.”
“Then perhaps a firmer reprimand might be more appropriate.” I do not take my eyes from my lady whose cheeks are flushed. Her breathing seems to have quickened.
“I am open to your suggestion, Your Grace.”
I allow my gaze to assess her face. Her jaw is clenched, her lips pressed together so tightly they have lost all color. My heart yearns to comfort her, for me to gather her into my arms and reassure her of the life I intend to give her. And yet, I can do neither of those things while she is still immovable in her resentment.
“I am well aware that such measures are not normally taken with genteel ladies, but I feel in this case…”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
At long last, certain there is little harm she can do me, or herself, I meet his eyes. “I think Lady Freya would benefit greatly from a sound smacking.”
Her horrified gasp sounds as shocked as it is frightened.
Yet, I maintain his lordship’s gaze, waiting for his judgement. While I intend to run my marriage as I wish, we are not yet wed.
He scrutinizes me with the interest befitting a future son-in-law. Then, when I am nearly certain he will refuse me, he inclines his head. “As you see fit, Your Grace.”
Every muscle tightens at this most unexpected display of faith. When I hear the moan Lady Freya tries to stifle, I examine her expression once more. Her pulse is beating rapidly beneath the creamy skin of her neck. She can’t hide it from my gaze if she tried—indeed, I feel quite certain she is unaware.
