He pushed his foot into the second boot and stood. “I have to leave.”
She looked adorably puzzled. Jamie needed to leave before temptation kept him there all morning. He leaned two hands on the bed and gave her a swift, husbandly kiss. When she reached up to pull him to her, he stood.
“You don’t have to be to Palazzo Savoia until eleven,” she pointed out.
“I have business,” he said.
“What do you have to do that’s so urgent?” She held his eyes.
If he told her he had to see Wentworth, she would want to know why. He could tell her nothing that wouldn’t lead to more questions.By the way, everything you know about me is a lie.He said nothing.
“You’re keeping something from me,” she said.No fool, my Nora. When he remained silent, she said bitterly, “Secrets don’t belong in marriage.”
He groaned inwardly.No secrets? If only she knew.He didn’t answer her.
“It isn’t a wife’s place to order you,” she mumbled. He watched her wilt, dropping her head to study her knees. The tone of her words sounded like echoes of her marriage to Edmund.
“You aren’t ordering me. I’m ordering myself,” he said.
“You’re my husband!” she grumbled, head jerking up. “You should let me share your burdens.”That’s more like it, Nora.
“It isn’t my place to tell you what to do about Isabella,” he pointed out.
“Your place is to help me!” she insisted.
Her tone of voice made something inside Jamie snap.My place! What the hell does she mean by “place”?
“Are you ordering me to know my place in your household, Nora? What is that place? Employee? Lover? Lackey? Our relationship was not supposed to change.”
“But it has!”
“Because we share a bed, now I have no right to my own time, my own thoughts? Is that what you want?” They glared across the expanse of the carpet. He could hear himself pant.
“I have an appointment to keep,” he said at last. He strode out, slammed the door behind him, and immediately regretted it. He regretted many things. None of them could be fixed now.
An hour later, sitting in Wentworth’s office, bile rose in Jamie’s throat. He ought to wipe the desk with the muckworm’s smug face. The fussy little man in his stuffy little office with dog-eared files in finely carved drawers made Jamie’s skin itch. Wentworth would never be satisfied. The bastard dismissed most of Jamie’s dinner conversation report.
“General Rambaudi is too much of a nationalist snob to be of any interest,” the old windbag said with a snort. “He commanded a battalion for the Austrians at Waterloo. A battalion!” he said derisively. “And he thinks he is Wellington himself.”
General Rambaudi-Scar Face, a soldier’s soldier.Jamie ought to have paid closer attention to names. No wonder he perked up when Jamie praised the Piedmontese.
“You should have recognized the man,” Wentworth said slyly. “You did say you were at Waterloo, didn’t you?”
Did I?Jamie thought furiously. He realized now that he ought to have taken notes after he had met with the man, right after he washed his hands. “Of course I was. I didn’t make the connection.”
Wentworth dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “The man poses no threat. Tell me more about the young ones.”
Wentworth’s interest in The Boys made Jamie uneasy. They were young. Some were foolish, others idealistic. None deserved Wentworth’s scrutiny. At least Jamie didn’t like to think so.
“Tell me more about this Eduardo Mora.”
Jamie recognized the command. Wentworth had dispensed with any pretense of asking.
“Arrogant, sensitive, and chronically unhappy,” Jamie said.Eduardo acted like spoiled young men everywhere. Jamie wondered how that made him a threat to England or, God forbid, to Isabella.
“His brother is rising in Victor Emmanuel’s court,” Wentworth said flipping through a file on his desk. “He may be envious. Is he assigned to the London trade mission?”
“He claims not.”
