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He laughed. “I can see you riding roughshod over some poor devil of a husband.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said, stung. “We could simply discuss things together. And come to an agreement that didn’t involve my opinion losing ground to his simply because I was his wife.”
“That’s reasonable. But the truth of it is that you would smile at him, and crook your finger, and the man would come to you as tame as a lapdog.”
Isidore shook her head. “It’s not the sort of relationship you would understand.”
“I shall enjoy seeing you engage in it. If we annul our marriage and I can watch some other fellow experiencing it with you. Naturally I would repay your dowry with ample interest.”
So he didn’t want to come anywhere near her. Isidore was so stoked by rage that she could hardly speak. She was being rejected—rejected!— by her husband after waiting for him for years. She got up again and walked a few steps away, the better to regain control of her face.
“I think it’s important in any relationship that there be a clearly designated leader,” he was saying. “And I would rather be the leader in my own marriage.” Then he added: “If you don’t mind, Isidore, I won’t rise this time.”
Cosway would rather annul the marriage than marry her.
She waited for that news to sink in, but the only thing she could feel was the beating of her heart, anger and humiliation driving it to a rapid tattoo.
“As it happens,” she said, schooling her voice to calm indifference with every bit of strength she had, “Jemma gave me the direction of the Duke of Beaumont’s solicitor in the Inns of Court. I shall make inquiries as to how we go about an annulment.”
There was a flash of something in his eyes. What? Regret? Surely not. He sat there, looking calm and relaxed, like a king on his throne. He was throwing her away because she wasn’t a docile little seamstress, because she would make him angry.
Angry—and lustful. That was something to think about. She could unclothe herself right here, in the drawing room, and then he would have to marry her, but that would be cutting off her nose to spite her face. Why would she bind herself in marriage to a man like this? With these foolish ideas learned in the desert?
“Why don’t we make a trip there tomorrow afternoon?” he was asking now.
Isidore refused to allow his eagerness to visit the solicitor to throw her further into humiliation. He was a fool, and she’d known that since the moment she met him.
It would be better to annul the marriage.
She sat down opposite him, reasonably certain that her face showed nothing more than faint irritation. “I have an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning with a mantua-maker to discuss intimate attire.”
“Intimate what?”
“A nightdress for my wedding night,” she said crushingly.
“If we visit the solicitor first, I would be happy to accompany you to your appointment .”
Isidore narrowed her eyes, wondering about the look on her husband’s face. She was no expert, but it didn’t look like a man who was in control of his lust.
There were three things that no man was supposed to act on, weren’t there? Anger, lust…and an idea of marriage that included what?
Oh yes.
An intelligent woman within a ten-foot radius.
That must be where fear came in.
Chapter Eight
Gore House, Kensington
London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
February 26, 1784
“Your Grace.”
Jemma, Duchess of Beaumont, looked up from her chess board. She had it set out in the library, in the hopes that her husband would come home from the House of Lords earlier than expected. “Yes, Fowle?”
