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Michael’s gaze flicked between the office and Lionel. His friend abruptly altered course, leading them toward the small stretch of shore where Michael and Gwen had walked.

“Gwen,” Michael said once they were far enough from the yard that their conversation could remain private. “Her name is Gwen and she’s the owner of the shipyard.”

And with that single detail, the entire story spilled out.

Lionel listened, largely without comment, though the sighs and incredulous expressions he interjected were more than enough for Michael to fill in the gaps.

Michael savored every moment of silence that followed the conclusion of his story, knowing that once Lionel’s questions began, they would not cease until his friend had torn every thought and emotion from his head like a cook stripping bits of meat from a chicken bone.

“Let me see if I have this right,” said Lionel. “You have spent the last fortnight toiling in the yard from sunrise to sunset each day, looking for little ways to ease the way for your wife, whom you insist you do not love.”

“It’s not as if I’m suggesting my feelings are tepid.”

“No, of course not. It’s clear you think very highly of her… that you greatly esteem her…”

“Continue quoting Jane Austen, and we are finished here.”

“You…” Lionel fluttered his lashes. “Like her.”

“Your attempts at vexing me aside, I don’t disagree with the basis of Elinor’s argument. Genuine affection, respect, and admiration are far more important in a relationship than some romantic attachment to a word or the sentimental notions people insist upon attaching to it.”

“But you do have genuine affection for this woman.”

“I do.” Michael felt his muscles tighten in readiness for the inevitable why, but it did not come.

“When you find yourself at your wits’ end with Gwen—the moment when you want to lunge across the settee and shake logic into her lovely little head—what has she said or done to bring you to that moment of madness?”

Wrongfooted at the unexpected question, Michael answered without thought.

“She’s damnably stubborn… and proud. And before you leap into literary comparisons again, I do not mean the charming Elizabeth Bennet variety, the kind of pride that conveniently leads to a romantic tale and a happily ever after. I mean the sort that sparks friction with every blessed decision she makes.”

Lionel made a thoughtful sound. “And still you married her, despite considerable effort to secure her hand. By your own admission, you have no regrets, even after enduring what I imagine was a rather painful blow to your own formidable pride when you discovered you could not win her over simply by existing in her vicinity.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “And still you do not attribute that extra something that makes her many flaws not only tolerable but intrinsically tied to what you find most appealing—to love?”

“No, damn it all, because there is no mysterious extra something. The language we assign to a woman’s character is largely dictated by whether those qualities serve or inconvenience the men around her. Is Gwen stubborn or resilient? The determination required to rebuild a failing company and the obstinance that has her arguing with me over every blasted detail of how it ought to be done—they are one and the same. And I would not see that stubbornness diminished in the slightest merely for the convenience of no longer having to contend with her damnably unyielding will.”

Michael gazed out over the open sea and shook his head. “You want me to call it love, but love is not an explanation. It is the word people use in place of one. It encourages them to stop thinking. To stop exploring the countless ways another person can matter. It is the full stop at the end of a sentence that ought never be finished, when a man’s feelings for his wife should be forever evolving.”

When it came, Lionel’s reply was so soft that the ocean breeze nearly carried it away. “You don’t deny the feeling, only object to the word. It’s the imprecision that needles you.”

For the first time since the conversation had begun—indeed, for the first time in all the years of having this same debate—Michael felt understood. The tension seeped from his shoulders.

He turned, reaching for Lionel’s gaze. “Respect. Admiration. Desire. Loyalty. Trust. Contentment. Protectiveness. The pleasure of another’s company. The pain of their absence.” Michael’s fingers curled into fists. “Love is merely the convenient basket into which people toss their feelings so they needn’t trouble themselves distinguishing one from another.”

Lionel smiled, just the slightest curve of his lips. “Bread isn’t bread, in other words. Each recipe may contain the same basic flour, water, yeast, and salt, yet the differences between a sourdough and a brioche are profound.”

“Exactly so.”

Having run out of open shore before them, the pair turned back toward the yard. “I would keep that little bread analogy in mind when the time comes to explain your rather unconventional views to your wife. It may save you a night on the settee after stubbornly insisting that you do not love her.”

Michael fluffed his pillow rather more aggressively than was strictly necessary, then flopped back and pressed his palms into his eye sockets, willing away the unease that had been roiling in his belly since that blasted dinner with Lionel.

He should be celebrating. Everything had gone splendidly. Lionel had, of course, been as impressed as he had been enchanted by Gwen, but the subdued woman who answered questions between dainty bites of steak and kidney pie—allowing… no, almost requiring Michael to field his share—had most definitely not been his wife. And he wasn’t sure how he would stop himself from demanding what the devil had gotten into her if she arrived before he managed to do something about his mood.

Just the thought of his Gwen—her smile tempered, her attention turned toward him rather than blazing ahead with her usual breakneck, frenetic confidence—was enough to make his insides recoil. His chest ached, as though the space had constricted and could no longer hold the swell of emotion pressing against it. Michael kicked off the blankets, then yanked them up again, his restlessness resolving into anger… unreasonable and wholly without any cause he could identify. He needed to know what the hell was wrong with Gwen. Needed to do whatever was necessary to make things right for her, but felt utterly incapable of rational conversation in his present state.

When the door opened a quarter hour later, he considered feigning sleep, but she wasn’t exactly quiet about it, so he abandoned the notion and instead focused on maintaining an even expression.

She’d actually dressed for dinner and, to his disgrace, Michael could not remember if he’d complimented her gown. The soft, dark green wool followed her shape more closely than was her usual habit; tiny stitched blossoms marched in a neat line down her bodice. When she’d first arrived, he hadn’t been able to keep his gaze from returning to the winding path of those flowers… right up until he’d noticed she’d changed her personality right along with her attire.