Page 41

Gabriel stood, assessing first Michael’s work, then Michael himself. “How long have you been at this?”

Michael ignored his brother’s scrutiny. “A while.”

“Perhaps you might return home and enlist the aid of a bath before your wife returns from her day’s labor, lest she find yet another reason to be offended by your presence.”

Michael waved off the suggestion, stooping to retrieve the sanding block. “There’s little point in rushing home when she hasn’t shared a table with me since before we became engaged.”

“Yes, well, I might have intervened on your behalf.”

Michael paused, tipped his head in question.

“I merely observed that I have yet to take a proper meal with her, alluding to my eagerness to become better acquainted with my new sister in law.”

Michael wasn’t sure if he was irritated or grateful. An entire meal where he might make some measure of headway with his wife. Another opportunity for that dangerous thread of hope to insinuate itself.

CHAPTER 13

Michael

Despite Gabriel’s attempts to draw Michael and Gwen into conversation over dinner, Gwen did not direct a single word toward Michael. That Gabriel had found her equally impossible to maneuver brought Michael little satisfaction. If anything, her demeanor was less approachable than ever, as though being forced into Michael’s presence tonight had tainted the very air she breathed. He could have borne her anger, even welcomed it, but the quiet unhappiness that had settled over her was another matter entirely.

He needed to end this. Gwen clearly did not wish to be here, and pressing her into unwanted conversation held as little appeal as forcing her into his bed.

With the next, slightly less subtle attempt, this time from Violet, Gwen bit her lower lip and looked away.

To hell with this. Let her be angry with him. Let her rail and bellow over broken promises and unwanted intrusions. He was going to behave as a husband should. Michael pushed to his feet, leveling Gwen with an uncompromising glare.

“Delightful as this dinner has been, I believe my wife and I could both do with an early evening.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair, a mulish expression settling onto that deceptively sweet face. Were she a child, she likely would have wrapped her feet around the legs of the chair in silent, seething protest.

As if in competition for the title of most infantile behaviour, Julian dumped the entire contents of his plate onto his brother’s—but missed his target, showering bits of meat and vegetables into his twin’s lap instead. Before either parent could respond, their nanny swept in with a singsong reproach that sounded nothing at all like chastisement and whisked the pair of them away.

The moment the children had vacated the room, Gwen speared Michael with a glare. “You’re mistaken, husband,” she spat out the word as if it were a mouthful of mud. “I’m not at all tired, only distracted by a letter I received just before departing the yard.” Her eyes narrowed on Michael before shifting to include Violet and Gabriel. “It seems Michael has taken it upon himself to open negotiations between Llanelli and the East India Company over the construction of a fleet of ships.”

Violet’s pained grimace contrasted Gabriel's stoically upheld neutrality almost comically.

“That must be welcome news,” Gabriel offered mildly. “It’s entirely understandable, then, that you might require privacy to discuss the finer details with my brother.”

“On the contrary,” replied Gwen, “I don’t require privacy to tell your brother he is a presumptuous, conniving weasel. Surely you’ve leveled the very same accusation his way on countless occasions. I cannot imagine anyone who had spent a lifetime dealing with Michael arriving at any other conclusion.”

Her words might have hurt, had Michael not long since come to feel a kind of resigned inevitability toward that particular insult. Surely that curdling inside him was nothing more than exhaustion at yet another setback. He could have kicked his own arse for not telling Gwen about the letter he’d sent to Blackwood before the auction, but with everything that had happened, it had simply slipped his mind. Now, it would become one more mark against him—one more reason for Gwen to believe she could not trust him. Michael had promised to stay out of her business affairs. How could she view this as anything but a breach of that promise?

Gabriel took a deep swallow of wine, then looked up at his brother, head tilted as though assessing him through the residue of Gwen’s resentment. “Michael can try one’s patience, to be sure.” Despite the accusation, his voice hummed with bemused affection. “Notwithstanding what I assume was unwanted interference on my brother’s part, does a contract with the East India Company not offer considerable advantage?”

Gwen rose to her feet, gripping the table edge as if she were considering hurling the oak monstrosity at all those present, bread pudding and all. “Aye, it offers that—and the burden of his company along with it, both in negotiations and on a daily basis, should we secure a contract. It seems their confidence in my ships rests entirely upon his reputation.”

Michael took a measured step towards Gwen, then halted at her venomous glare. He leaned back on his heels, lowered his head and blew out a breath, one hand rising to massage his forehead.

Naturally, she would assume he had arranged things with Lionel after their marriage as a means of forcing her into a room with him. Hell, it sounded exactly like something he would have done if he hadn’t been trying so blasted hard to play by her rules. Clearly, she had not realised the impossibility of his correspondence reaching Lionel, being considered, and receiving a reply in the eleven days since they were wed.

For once, her wounded pride was on his side, sparing him an immediate and thoroughly terrifying confrontation between his head and his heart. He could not wholly explain why he’d written the damn thing in the first place, when he was meant to be sabotaging the yard, let alone find words to explain it to her. A very real—and admittedly cowardly—part of him was relieved she’d not pieced together that particular timeline, but the alternative, her belief that he had intentionally ignored her wishes, was scarcely better.

Michael cleared his throat. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Gabriel, Violet… Could you...”

They were already moving towards the stairs.

This time, Gwen didn’t protest, only watched Michael warily, as though she’d run out of ready synonyms for detestable, loathsome snake, and decided he was no longer worth the effort of finding another.