“I’ll be darned.”
“Don’t pretend you’re surprised. I think you’ve always known about your father’s matchmaking. But me? I didn’t believe Fiona.”
“Maybe you did. A bit. But maybe it was more difficult to believe that Thaddeus would try his hand in it.”
She laughed a little jerkily. “True. I held your father in higher esteem.”
“The mighty have fallen. Is that it?”
“Mm. I think so.”
“That will hurt him some—he values your good opinion—but probably not as much as failure.”
“I can see that. He likes to do everything well.”
Remington slipped a finger under Phoebe’s chin andraised it so she was looking at him again. “You are not making this easy.”
“Is it supposed to be? You’re the one with experience. You’ve proposed before. I’ve never heard one.”
“Alexandra said ‘yes’ before I finished.”
“That’s because she’d already chosen her dress. Silk, I imagine. Muttonchop-shaped sleeves. Perhaps a pouter pigeon bosom. Yards and yards of material for the train and veil. Oh, and a stiff lace collar around her throat to show off her swan-like neck.”
Remington stared at her.
Phoebe smiled. “Would you like to know about the cake you didn’t get to eat?”
“That’s it, Phoebe. You’re going to marry me.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you’re asking.”
“I’m not. There are some words a man can’t risk saying if he has to punctuate them with a question mark.”
Her smile widened. “You make a compelling argument for telling a woman what to do, but you’re still wrong if you think it works on me. I’m going to marry you, Remington Frost, but only because I want to.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Fiona did not speak, did not look up, when Thaddeus entered their bedroom. She continued to read, although mostly it was a pretense. She had not turned a page in quite some time, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t know that. She thought he would say something, cajole her into conversation, but he went straight to their small dressing room and closed the door. It was not long before she heard water splashing in the basin and the sound of him rooting in the cupboard to find his shaving things.
Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably and she pressed a hand to her abdomen to quell the hunger pangs or at least silence them. She had stubbornly refused to leave the bedroom for lunch or dinner and suspected that because she was absent from the dining room, Thaddeus ate in the kitchen with Ellie and Ben. Thaddeus had carried a tray in at lunch, but Fiona had denied she had an appetite. Ben brought a dinner tray. When she refused it, he left it on the small round table just inside the door. She hadn’t touched it. The temptation to eat something, no matter how cold or stale, kept drawing her eyes to the table, but the thought that Thaddeus would surprise her stuffing a honey-soaked biscuit in her mouth kept her seated firmly in the rocker.
Fiona rearranged her dressing gown so it spilled attractively around her curled legs. She went back and forth as to whether she should show a bare knee, trying it both ways before she settled on revealing a slim slice of a knee and calf. She purposely did not tighten the sash so the gown could remain casually open from her breasts to her throat.One slippery sleeve drooped over her shoulder. The narrow strap and lace-edged neckline of her sleeping shift were thus displayed.
The oil lamp on the table beside her had provided sufficient light for her to read. Now she moved it closer so the pool of light fell more on her than the book. If she had learned anything from her years in the theater, it was the importance of staging.
She waited.
And waited.
She could hear him moving around, imagined him removing his clothes, but what was taking so long when his habit was to leave things where they lay was a mystery. It was worse when she couldn’t hear him at all. There was a stool in the dressing room. Sometimes he sat on it and watched her while she dressed or undressed as though it were both fascinating and formative. He would sit there, leaning back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him and mostly in her way, and follow her movements from under a heavy-lidded gaze. He would talk to her, too. Because he was almost always up and working hours before she got out of bed, he would tell her what he’d been doing and what he planned to do. At the end of the day, he’d talk quietly about the calf that needed to be rescued from a thicket or describe how a stallion everyone called Beelzebub had thrown two ranch hands to the ground and almost trampled a third.
Fiona didn’t particularly care what he talked about. She loved his voice, loved the rumble in the back of his throat when he laughed. When he spoke, she was put in mind of whiskey washing over sand, his voice at once smooth and gritty. She did not know how that was even possible, but it was a fact that it had the power to make her shiver.
Still.
Fiona wished he would say something now. Call to her, perhaps, if he needed help, or rail at her if she had finally put him into a temper. His continued silence disturbed her. That’s why, after all her careful staging, she was risingawkwardly from the rocker when Thaddeus stepped out of the dressing room. She caught the book as it was sliding off her lap but knocked the table with her elbow when she made the grab. The oil lamp wobbled dangerously until the table settled and the pool of light that was supposed to highlight her best features flickered unflatteringly across her startled countenance.
Thaddeus took the book from her hands as she dropped back in her seat and he used the toes of one bare foot to steady the rocker. He closed the book with his forefinger marking her place and regarded her from the advantage of his greater height. Several moments passed before she raised her face and met his eyes.
