“Ask,” he said. “Be prepared not to like the answer.”
Any answer had to be better than endless silence.
“Are you returning to Virginia?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know? When will you know? When you do, will you bother to tell me?” The man was maddening.
He shook his head. “That was one question, Veronica, and I answered it. A button, please.”
“That’s hardly fair, Montgomery. That was part of the whole question.”
He leaned closer. “Then you’ll have to be more careful of your questions in the future, won’t you?” Surprisingly, he continued. “This isn’t my home,” he said. “Scotland might have been the home of my forebearers, but I’m a Virginian.”
“I’m a Scot.”
He didn’t have a response, only pointed to her button. Slowly, she unfastened it.
“Would I like America?”
“Another button, please.”
She grudgingly unfastened one more button.
He considered the question for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “Virginia is certainly warmer.”
“I don’t want to go to America,” she said, her attention focused on her hands rather than at him. “I belong here, Montgomery. I know that sounds selfish,” she added. “Aunt Lilly says a woman has no right to question her husband.”
“Is this the same woman who gave you advice about your wedding night? Must you pay any attention to her words at all?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Why do you walk at night?”
“Another button.”
This was not going well. Soon, she’d be naked.
He smiled at her. Montgomery was so handsome, her throat closed when she looked at him. She wanted to banish the game entirely, reach up and kiss him and begin another sport.
Instead, she unfastened the button, wondering if she dared to ask the questions that most troubled her. Would he leave her if she did?
The placket extended to the middle of her breasts, and she had four more buttons. Four more questions if he allowed her to ask that many.
“Why do I walk? I like the solitude.”
She knew he was lying, and from his look, he was aware she knew it as well. Rather than press him for more of an explanation, she moved her fingers back to the placket.
His attention was fixed on the actions of her fingers, his gaze warming her blood.
“What is your middle name?”
He looked startled at that question, then smiled at her again, the expression deepening the dimples on either side of his mouth.
“Alexander. And yours?”
“Moira,” she said. “Did you own slaves?”
