“I promise not to remove any more clothing.”
“Fine.” She turned the taps, and more steaming water poured into the bath. He was grateful for the hot water system his engineering partner had designed. No footmen could possibly have kept up with Amelia’s desire for bathing.
Benedict couldn’t tell if the red creeping up her neck was due to him or the steam that dampened the curls by her face, plastering them to her temples.
“You were upset when you walked in,” she said.
“You noticed?” He spread the lather of shaving soap over his cheeks and jaw.
“I am well acquainted with the stronger sex’s ever-so-fragile moods. They match their fragile egos.”
“A damning assessment.” He flipped open the razor and dipped it into the basin of water.
“Why were you angry? Other than missing your turn in the tub?”
The firm and his current troubles were not a subject he wanted to discuss. Particularly not with the cause of said troubles. “Business. Nothing more.”
She sat up straighter, her shoulders squared in the confidence he was used to. The movement caused the crest of her bosoms to sit above the waterline. He swallowed. Hard.
“I can talk business,” she said. “I’m not feather-brained.”
“I’m sure you can. There’s just nothing to talk about.”
It was a lie, and he could tell she knew it. Her lips pursed, and she cocked her head, no doubt deciding whether or not to call him on it. Keen to divert the conversation away, he interrupted. “Explain to me how you’ve never had a snow fight before.”
“I’ve never had someone to snow fight with.” It was simply said, with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, yet it was the nonchalance that rocked him.
“You never played with other children?” He couldn’t imagine a childhood so lonely. He’d spent most of his days running amok with Wilde.
Clearly assuming that his turned back gave her privacy she didn’t have, she picked up the soap from the table beside the bath and rubbed it over her arm.
“‘The future Duchess of Wildeforde does not “play.”’” She mimicked what he assumed was her father’s voice.
“You’re joking.” His hand froze halfway to his chin.
“Nor does she wear bright colors or”—she fake-gasped—“read novels.”
“It’s a good thing you’re no longer the future Duchess of Wildeforde.” He wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them, but instead of the expected cutting retort, she smiled to herself.
“Princess Lionberry and the dancing teacups are infinitely better than embroidery and almost worth the title. Don’t tell Edward.”
She looked up at the mirror, and he didn’t avert his gaze quickly enough. He was prepared for her to screech and chastise him for his boldness. Instead she held his stare, and he was compelled to ask, “Did you love Wildeforde?”
He dreaded the answer. But he had to know. Today, for the first time since their wedding, he’d had an inkling that their marriage might not be the disaster he thought. Today he saw playful outrage and cheeky determination. Instead of her perfect porcelain mask, there had been creases at the corners of her eyes, dimples in her cheeks.
If one afternoon of his normal life could compromise her façade, what would be the effect if he really tried to woo her into his life?
But that was a dangerous thought. If his childhood had proved anything, it was that a woman of her ilk would never be satisfied with this life, nor with him.
And if she loved her ex-betrothed? Well, he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to live with that.
She snorted. “I liked him well enough, I suppose. He was respectful—he didn’t drink or gamble or flirt with other women.” She screwed up her nose. “He turned out to be a bit of a coward, though.”
Relief washed through him. He carried on shaving with more confidence. “So you didn’t love him?”
She gave him an odd look. “Marriage isn’t about love, though, is it?”
There was no good reason for his heart to sink at those words, but it did. “What’s it about, if not love?”
