And now he’d been turned into a monster terrifying young women.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to keep the gruffness from his voice.
“It’s all right, m’lord,” she said as she curtseyed.
“I’m not a lord.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He sighed and walked toward his bedroom door.
“I want to thank you,” the girl called from behind him.
He turned. “Thank me?”
“For this opportunity. Me mum’s sick and hasn’t been able to wash sheets like she used to. She was right thrilled to hear I had a position. And Lady Amelia says it’s all right for me to work here and go back to me mum at night. She’s kind.”
Kind? She was the devil incarnate. Was he the only person who could see that?
“Good night—” Damn, he couldn’t recall the girl’s name.
“Sarah, m’lord—sir, I mean.”
“Good night, Sarah. I hope this job turns out to be everything you expected.” He doubted it, though, but there was nothing he could do. His wife had trapped him. Again.
Chapter10
If this really is supposed to be your brother, we are going to need a lot more snow.” Amelia regarded the giant, half-made snowman in front of her.
“You only need to make the head,” Cassandra said, standing in front of an almost-finished snowwoman.
“Exactly.” Her bear-sized husband had an equally large ego. The snowman should reflect that.
Cassandra rolled her eyes then trotted off toward the trees to collect more sticks.
Amelia squatted to start packing her ice ball, the bottom of her skirts already sodden. She’d initially taken the role of sculpture supervisor, but it was freezing, the cold was seeping through her boots, and Cassandra seemed intent on creating their entire dysfunctional family out of ice. So after a five-minute lesson on snow-building basics, she’d gone to work on her first-ever snowman in an effort to speed the whole process up.
“Well, this is a sight I didn’t expect.” Her husband’s low voice sounded from behind her, and she jumped. “Lady Amelia Crofton playing in the snow.”
She looked up at him, suspicious. After last night’s argument, what mood would he be in? So far, he’d been more tolerant than any man she’d met—with the exception of his idiotic chore roster—but she had pushed it yesterday by hiring staff without his consent. Hopefully, a good night’s sleep had helped him see reason.
There was a boyish, sheepish look on his face, and he held his hands out in mock surrender. Perhaps they would actually get through the day without an argument.
His lips were quirked to the side, their softness a stark contrast to the hard planes of his face. The late afternoon stubble on his jawline caught in the setting sun. The long shadows only served to highlight his flint-sharp features. Whatever his faults, her husband was an attractive man.
Brutally attractive.
What would it be like to stop arguing and instead run her hands over him? It was a question that made her toss and turn at night. A question that made it unbearably hot beneath the bed covers. A question that made her eyes travel to the door that separated them more often than she’d like.
Each day of their marriage, these questions intensified. Yet he’d made no move to kiss her. Not since he’d pulled away on their wedding night. Sometimes he tensed and his throat bobbed, and his hands stiffened at his sides and she wassurehe was about to reach out.
But he didn’t. And neither did she. And the awkwardness continued.
And she still didn’t know what it would be like…
She flushed, heat creeping up her spine, and she wondered how it was that the snowman to her back wasn’t melting.
“We’re making snow families,” she said, praying that he had no idea of the thoughts running through her head.
