“Can we acquire a puppy?”
Aideen’s eyes were wide with artlessness as he shook his noggin to clear it. What?
“I want a puppy. Please, husband of mine. Uncle Seamus has forever kept dogs and I miss them. Their wiggly tails and cute snuffle wuffs and–”
“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered. He never spluttered. Spluttering was for callow youths and men without teeth. But then it wasn’t every day yourlittle fireof a wife, who ought to be spitting venom, requested a puppy and waffled on about…snuffle wuffs?
“I’d like one. I thought you may have friends with some pups.” She smiled, face open, and he felt instantly on guard. What was she up to?
“I do not have any friends.” He didn’t mean that. Well, he did but he didn’t mean to say it.
“I see you talking to people at balls.”
“They are acquaintances. Aideen–”
“Well, can you ask them?” she pleaded. “I think a puppy would enliven this echoing place a little. Have you tried the mint sauce, by the way? It’s divine, so fresh. And I know you like cherry tarts, so–”
“Aideen. I apologise.”
Hellfire. In the past year, he’d made more apologies than in his entire life, even filched one from his wife’s favourite book last spring. Considering the circumstances, he could hardly use that Mr Darcy’s again – he’d be cast out for plagiarism.
She stared, eyes wide, a morsel of lamb held to her lips.
Gritting his teeth, he continued, “I’d had an awful night, but it was no excuse to…” He tried to think of a word but none were suitable in delicate company.
“Ravish me?” she supplied. Thankfully she’d dispensed with the servants whilst they ate. “Make passionate love?” she suggested, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, this lamb is divine. You can almost taste the sweet spring grass, and the potatoes are so flavoursome. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”
He didn’t know what Aideen schemed, but she was tangling him in knots.
Was this her revenge? Talk him to death with superficial chit-chat about food and puppies. Had she been taking advice from Winterbourne? That was his tactic.
“I was not gentle,” he continued, “and–”
“Alex,” she interrupted firmly.
Peering up from his flavoursome potato, he paused, anticipating the worst. He wished she’d just cosh him over the head with her goblet or curse him to the seven dirges of Hades or press her fingers into the knife wound on his arm. Then he’d feel better.
Aideen licked her lips. “Have some more carrots, they’ve a luscious honey glaze.”
Chapter Nineteen
God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.
Rakecombe speculated if his brain was decaying.
Last night, after dinner, Aideen had personally seen to the pouring of his brandy in the study, plumped his cushions and heaved off his boots. He felt as if a doctor had called and confided that her husband only had days to breathe before cocking his toes – except no one had thought to inform the incipient dead one.
There was no other reason why Aideen should still be treating him with such… He hesitated to say sweetness as that had connotations of charm and he had a horrible feeling it was anything but.
Currently, she was smothering a thick raspberry jam on his breakfast toast. Admittedly, it was excellent jam and divine bread but that was beside the point. He narrowed his eyes and scowled.
His wife was up to something.
A pale-pink day dress adorned her this morning and although it was utterly fetching, he didn’t think Aideen was a particularly pink person. Rose ribbons twisted within her hair and she chatted gaily about nothing in particular, ringlets bobbing.
Normally, he avoided breakfast – for the food and his wife – but after last night, he’d been intrigued as to whether the chef could repeat his success and if Aideen would continue to be so…sweet.
Yes, to both.
