Page 82 of Notorious

His handsome features shifted into hard, haughty lines. “Then you would have to learn to overcome it. My son will live in my house.”

Drusilla held his stare, so furious at his high-handed ways and insulting assumptions she felt she might go up in flames. Who was he to believe her so cruel and unfeeling? She released the fork, folded her napkin, and set it beside her plate. “Was that all you wished to say to me?”

His jaw flexed. “No, that is not all. I saw you sent a letter to Mr. Rowland last night.”

Drusilla’s jaw sagged. Was that the only thing he’d seen? Oh God, please don’t let him have seen Theo.

He nodded, as though she’d said something. “I thought I had made my desires on the subject of Mr. Rowland clear.” His words were clipped, his tone as sharp as a blade.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, even though she’d heard him perfectly well.

He put his napkin beside his plate, the action mirroring hers. “I am going upstairs to change, bathe, and then get dressed. And when I come down again, I will pay a visit on Mr. Rowland.” She sucked in a breath and he smiled. “His direction was on the envelope, you see.”

“Wh-what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell him what I hoped you would have told him—that I don’t want him talking to my wife. I am going to tell him this will be the last time we speak of the matter. The next time, we will let pistols do the talking.”

“But . . . but this is outrageous. He is not my l-lover.” She paused to catch her breath, her face scalding at the word. “He is part of a group I formed to provide assistance to the poor and needy.”

His expression was implacable. “Either he leaves the group, or you do.”

“This is a group to administer money to charity,” she repeated.

“If you wish to manage charity endeavors with Mr. Rowland, you may do so through the proper intermediary, your man of business.” He hesitated, a harsh expression on his face. “Unless he, too, is a man you hold hands with in public?”

The reality of what was happening had finally begun to seep in, like rainwater into hard-packed soil: he was forbidding her to see somebody—a man.

She shook her head slowly from side to side. “No. You cannot do this.”

His mouth shifted into an unpleasant smile, and he sat back in his chair, resting his hands loosely over his flat midriff.

“I assure you, I can. And I will.”

She sputtered. “He is not my lover.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

“This is draconian! You think you can control whom I see and whom I befriend?”

“Yes.” The hard glint in his eye sent a shiver of fear up her spine.

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Do I get a say about whom you see?”

He chuckled, appearing genuinely amused.

“Why are you laughing? That was a serious question.”

He leaned toward her, his face as hard and pitiless as the falcon he so resembled. “Then here is a serious answer: no.”

“So you may keep as many lovers as you want and I can do—”

“Nothing.” The glint in his eyes was mean—hurtful. “And you had better accustom yourself to that fact.”

Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them tightly together. “Why are you acting like this?” she said, disgusted by the pleading in her voice. “I have done nothing wrong. Why are you behaving this way? I thought you said you wished to—”