“But she—”
“I’ve personally heard you say horrible things to Meg. If I hear anything like it again, I’ll take back every pound.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’ll call in all the debts he owes me.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
The baroness scrunched up her nose in a sneer. “Youpeople with money make me ill. You think you can buy anything.”
Hart pulled his hat from a nearby table. “If my money buys your decency to my wife, then I don’t give a bloody damn if it makes you ill in the process.” He placed his hat on his head and walked out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hart spent the next two days drinking at the club, boxing at the club, playing cards at the club, and doing whatever the hell else he could to keep his mind off his new wife.
When Meg came to his room three nights ago, it had been a bloody act of heroism to send her away. She’d been wearing a wisp of a gown, the lines of her seductive body clearly visible underneath… and her décolletage. By God, her décolletage. The sight of it had nearly sent him to his knees.
He’d had to shake his head instead of saying anything to her when he pulled that blasted door closed between them because he hadn’t been convinced his voice wouldn’t shake if he’d actually spoken. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, to pull the door shut, but he was a grown man, not an untried lad, and he wasn’t about to forgive the woman her treachery over some décolletage and a misguided attempt to seduce him.
Hadn’t he just told her the night before that he wasn’t going to touch her? She clearly thought she could control him with her body. He refused to allow that to happen. If he gave in to her, he’d never have the upper hand again, and he did not intend to relinquish it. No, even if he had to stay away from his house and hide from the confounded woman, he would not touch her.
Tonight he’d gone out and boxed until his knuckles were bloody and worn. Anything to tire himself out, to make it so that he could fall into sweet oblivion in bed, not thinking about his wife in the next room the way he had been tortured each night since their wedding.
He almost didn’t hear the tentative knock when it came. Bloody hell. She was going to try again. By God, did the woman have no shame? He closed his eyes briefly, trying to steel himself against the sight of her. She clearly wasn’t going to make refusing her easy for him. She hadn’t made any of this easy for him. Why should she begin now?
“Come in,” he said in as domineering and cold a voice as he could muster.
The door swung open slowly and in walked Meg wearing a cream-colored dressing gown tied tightly around her slim waist. At least she was more clothed tonight. Perhaps she merely wanted to talk. He had to admit he was curious as to what she might say.
“Yes,” he intoned, not looking at her as he went about his evening ablutions.
“Did you… have a good evening?” Her voice was slight, hesitant.
So, she wanted to begin with small talk. He could do small talk. “As good as can be expected.”
“Were you… at the club?”
“Among other places.” He’d let her think about that. The truth was he’d gone to a gaming hell after the club and gambled away a small fortune because he couldn’t keep his mind on the play. He’d been tortured by images of Meg in her diaphanous dressing gown.
He’d bloody well been offered woman after woman at the hell. It was the sort of place one could find a willing partner ready to go upstairs and have a tumble. He’d considered it, of course he had, but in the end he found he couldn’t do it. He’d be thinking of Meg the entire time and that was distasteful to him. He’d never had a problem like this before. Being-married was a damned nuisance.
“My parents came for a visit today,” Meg said. “They have decided not to leave London after all.”
“And that is of interest to me because…” He let his voice trail off, keeping his face blank.
“I suppose it’s of no interest to you,” she replied. He could tell she was angry. Fine. They both knew who had the right to be angry here, but if she wanted to play that little game, she was free to.
“Are you finished?” he asked. “I’m exhausted. I’ve had a long night.” He’d let her think about that, too.
“I suppose being a rogue is exhausting,” she replied in a sharp tone, one slender hand resting on her hip.
“No doubt every bit as exhausting as being a schemer is,” he countered.
“One can only imagine how much energy it takes to be such an ass to one’s wife.” She gave him a tight smile.
