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Lady Isabel nodded. “You must think me a completely incompetent mistress.”

Vane frowned. Where did that come from?

“But it’s not my fault. At least not in the sense you think.” She heaved a sigh and started pacing again. “I try to befriend a six-year-old and get my ankle twisted. I try to give you heirs, and you banish me until I can provide evidence that I am not with child!”

“Banish isn’t exactly—”

She continued speaking, not paying him any heed. “And our servants think me incapable of luring my husband into my bed, which, let’s be honest, is true.” She let out a nervous laugh. “And they must have plotted to trick you into sleeping in my chamber!”

“What?” Rhys barked and took a step forward.

She was out of her mind. She had to be. Why would their servants meddle like this?

Lady Isabel nodded. “Anthea, my lady’s maid, told me they were discussing the lack of nights we spend together. I am completely mortified.” She covered her face with her palms.

“Were they the ones who tricked you into that poor excuse of a nightgown, too?”

“What? No!” Lady Isabel uncovered her blushing face. “No, this was a gift from a… friend.”

“Which friend?” Rhys’s suspicions rose to the forefront of his mind again.

Lady Isabel groaned. “I need to change now.”

Rhys still didn’t know why she was wearing the overly salacious attire. He couldn’t imagine it being comfortable to sleep in every night. Women wore things like this for one reason only: to easily shed after exchanging a few kisses with their lovers.

The nightgown had the desired effect on Vane, too. He doubted that’s what she wanted, though. Vane wasn’t looking forward to spending the night with the half-clad vixen either. But he somehow enjoyed making her uncomfortable. So he said, “Why? Didn’t you just don it in preparation for bed?”

She cleared her throat. “I did. But I thought I’d be alone.”

“Allow me to be candid. That attire is wasted without anyone being able to see it.”

Lady Isabel pulled her arms tighter around herself. “I shall go change,” she said testily.

Rhys let out a sigh. “Does that mean I am allowed to spend the night in your room?” he called after her as she walked toward her dressing room.

Lady Isabel nodded. “I suppose you can.”

“I should probably dismiss the lot if what you say about our servants is true.”

Lady Isabel shook her head. “They have good intentions. And it is your fault they acted this way.”

He frowned. “Because I wouldn’t bed you?”

“Because you are too familiar with them. But yes, that too,” she said sadly and entered her dressing room.

Left alone in her room, Rhys looked around once more. It was completely different from how it had been before.

The formerly dark green and golden hues had been changed to warmer colors, the walls were welcoming, and the curtains calmly fell in waves to the ground. Even the scent in the room was tender and sweet. He suddenly realized that he would rather enjoy spending his nights in this chamber. He only hoped his own room would be just as charming.

He looked at the bed and was reminded of the unpleasant fact that he, too, needed to change his clothing. It was unpleasant because his nightshirt was back in his room. And he did not look forward to returning to the freezing chamber, especially since he had just warmed up.

With a sigh of resignation, he stepped back into his room and quickly changed into his nightshirt. As the cold sank its teeth into his flesh, Rhys’s loins shrunk back to their original size, and his mind cleared from the lusty haze.

Now Rhys could finally contemplate the horrific realization that he wanted his wife. Previously, when he had acted rash and kissed her in the park, he had rationalized to himself that he’d been angry, and kissing her served as an outlet of his rage. He wouldn’t hit a woman no matter what, but the kiss was punishment enough.

He wasn’t naive or foolish, but these thoughts were easy to entertain when he’d had no more contact with her than coming across her in the hall and dining with her twice a day.

Now that he’d seen her in dishabille, he could say for certain that the picture of her, half-clad, with hair down to her waist, was forever engraved in his mind. And as long as he remembered her that way, he could never say confidently that he did not want her.