"It’s true." I’ve never shied away from admitting the truth.
She stares. "You seem to revel in it too."
"You wouldn’t be wrong."
Her frown deepens. Damn, now she’s really pissed with me for telling the truth. Perhaps, there’s a way to word it, so I don’t upset her?
"I’m sorry," I try again. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."
She purses her lips. There’s still an unhappy expression on her features. But at least, some of the hurt in her eyes recedes.
"You’re married to me. Part of our arrangement is that you pose as my wife. Which means you need to dress the part. It was logical that I spend my money to help you with that."
The wrinkles between her forehead appears again.
"And I have money. I barely noticed the bill from the personal shopper."
Her lips thin.
"I shouldn’t have said that, eh?"
She shakes her head.
Damn, this is a minefield. What do I say to calm her down? And why is it so important that I do so? Why do I feel this compulsion to keep her happy?
"You’re my wife. I wanted to buy you the dresses. Can you give me the pleasure of doing that?"
She pauses, then nods slowly. "Okay."
I blow out the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.
"Okay." Then, because I can’t stop myself, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s worn her hair loose. And while I love seeing the glorious locks framing her face, her messy bun with the hair tie is something I find far more endearing. I stop myself. Next, I’ll be saying I find her adorable.
I do find her adorable. I want to protect her. To take care of her. I want to…make love to her.
I have wanted to do so since I first saw her.
I must squeeze her hand a little too hard, for she winces.
I loosen my hold on her. "Shall we?"
43
Harper
"This place is something." I take in the glass walls of Margot’s roserie—which is a fancy way to say it’s a glasshouse with a rose garden.
Outside, the relentless, cold London rain smears against the glass. Inside, it’s warm and scented with the thick smell of roses, crushed velvet, and damp earth.
Climbing roses crawl up the wrought-iron skeleton framing the glass walls of the conservatory.
There are candles lit at intervals, providing a stunning contrast to the green leaves. Tables and chairs have been set in various locations. Many are already occupied.
The conservatory is attached to a three-story Victorian house, which itself is on one end of Primrose Hill.
The heritage property is a masterpiece of red brick and white stone, soaring above us like a sentinel. Its rows of sash windows are lit from within, casting long, amber rectangles of light across the rain-slicked glass ceiling.
It’s intimidating to step into someone else’s highly-curated space.
