This time it was Simon who jerked his head toward Aubrey before stalking after Caroline. “Don’t leave just yet” His voice was mild, but his fingers were biting into her flesh as he lifted her off her feet “Let’s discuss our differences,” he murmured, his deferential tone as spurious as his bland smile. He set her down directly before him, her back pressed hard against his body, his arm around her waist, vise-tight. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he whispered in her ear. “Wait for us outside, Aubrey,” he said in a conversational tone to the man hesitating at the door. “This shouldn’t take long. We’ll be ready to leave soon.”
The bishop paused a moment more, but the duke had paid him enough to buy a modest race stable-in advance.
The duke had been generous for a reason and he waited now for his paid retainer to make the right decision.
A moment later, the door shut on the bishop.
Once they were alone, Simon released his hold, although he took the precaution of stepping between Caroline and the door.
“We will not be ready to leave soon,” she hissed, standing rigid before him. “You’re not going to order me about like one of your underlings. How much did you pay him,” she spat, “to look the other way?”
“Enough,” he said, grimly, his temper barely leashed.
Glancing at the door, she smiled tightly. “Apparently. But I’m not for sale, Simon and you’re not going to be able to come up here with your accoutrements of marriage and buy me like some fucking cow! Good God, Simon, do you think you can command me to marry you like you command everyone within your earthly realm?”
“I asked you to marry me,” he said, clipped and terse. “Something I don’t make a practice of doing,” he growled. “Something I was planning to avoid for another decade at least”
“Good. Then we’re both in agreement. I’ll wish you good journey.”
He put his hands up and the muscle over his cheekbone began twitching. “Just a damned minute. As I recall, in our last conversation, you berated me for asking you to join me in an arrangement you perceived as irregular. I thought you wanted me to propose marriage. Fucking make up your mind.”
She glared at him. “I should be gratified, I suppose, that a fine lord like you deigns to marry me. I should be kissing your toes, shouldn’t I, for having made such a great and mighty sacrifice when you could have say-Daphne-or are you still fucking Arabella who dances better than she reads? Or maybe Chloe is still available; I’ve been out of touch. So marry one of them; don’t do me any bloody favors. I don’t need you!”
“I’m not deigning to do anything,” he said, grimly. “I’m not making any sacrifices, other than wasting my time arguing with you. Do you know how many days I’ve been on the road to get to this outland? And it’s colder than hell this time of year.”
“As cold as your proposal?” she sneered. “I was under the impression a marriage proposal might actually mention the word love.”
His gaze didn’t quite meet hers for a moment and then he said in a tautly constrained voice, “Would it help if I used the word love?”
“Help?” Her voice rose to a breathy shriek. “What would help, is if you even knew what the hell the word meant!”
“I know what it means,” he replied as calmly as his volatile emotions would allow.
Tell me,“ she said, very, very softly.
The bishop must have been listening at the door, because the sound of his breathing was suddenly audible in the absolute silence of the room.
“Exactly.” And for a moment she hated him and his flagrant indifference. “Now why would I want to be married to a man who doesn’t know what love is? Or what marriage involves. In case you weren’t aware, it’s not all about fucking.”
“I suppose you’d know that better than I,” he charged, a sudden edge to his voice.
“Yes, I would,” she said, crisply. “Which reminds me of another reason to refuse you. Your record of infidelity is a notable deterrent even should I be willing to overlook your lack of romantic feeling. Also, you don’t like the opera and you drink too much. I doubt you’re sober now.”
Actually, he was well on his way because he’d emptied his flask about two hours back-added reason, perhaps, why she was getting on his nerves. “Are you done?”
She shrugged. “For the moment.”
“And name me a man who likes the opera,” he muttered.
“Will does.”
“I might have known. I suppose he writes poetry and tells you he loves you too,” he added, gruffly, already knowing the answer. “Are you thinking of marrying him?”
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of the truth. “I’ve thought about it,” she said instead.
“And?” He was watching her closely.
“And, nothing.” Her brows flickered. “It’s none of your concern.‘’
“What if I were to make it my concern?” His voice was a low rumble.
“It would have no bearing on my decision.” Which may not have been the truth a scant half hour ago when she was racked with loneliness and indecision. Simon’s continuing insensitivity to all but his selfish desires outraged her.
“So you’re actually thinking about marrying him?”
She gazed at him with scorn. “This is pointless. We’ve never agreed on anything.”
“Perhaps on one or two things,” he murmured, silkily.
“I hardly think sex is a basis for marriage.”
“But particularly fine sex might at least make it tempting.”
“On that predictable and might I add, disagreeable note, I’ll take my leave.” She turned to go, struck with what had become very wide discrepancies in their lives. And if anyone understood that sex wasn’t enough in a marriage, she did, she thought, moving toward the door. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Simon had appeared tonight of all nights when she’d been overcome with melancholy.
His frustrating inclination to assert his authority and his utter disregard for all but his selfish pleasures had destroyed any trace of her former sadness. She felt like causing him bodily harm.
Before she reached the door, he overtook her and scooped her up into his arms. “Did I mention the bishop will marry us at Kettleston Hall?”
Her eyes flared wide. “This is an enlightened age, you bastard. You can’t abduct me!”
“A shame I didn’t read the same page in the etiquette manual.”
“Damn you, I won’t allow this!”
“Nor will I allow you to warm darling Will’s bed,” he said, curtly.
“You’re bloody crazed! I’ll warm whomever’s bed I please!”
“We’ll discuss your amusements at a later date, but I don’t think I’ll be inclined to allow you any sexual freedoms. Once we’re married, you’ll be mine in every sense of the word, in the eyes of God and the courts.” His mouth set in a grim line. “You’ll be my property.”
She slapped him so hard she felt the jarring blow all the way down her spine, but he only grunted, not altering his stride by so much as a centimeter as he moved to the door.
“Damn you, Simon! Put me down!” She opened her mouth to scream, only to find her cry stifled as his mouth came down on hers with a forbidding harshness. He’d suffered her rancor with a rare tolerance that had finally reached breaking point. He’d offered her his name, title, wealth, and if not his heart, as near to that as he was able. Damn her perverse opposition. It was about time she recognized he was done playing games.
Reaching the door, he leaned into it, forcing her against the solid oak, the pressure of his body exacting compliance, his mouth ravaging hers, the plunging invasion of his tongue making it plain who was master and who was not and exactly what he intended to do to her. The violence left her breathless. But far worse, his brute force stirred familiar echoes of desire she didn’t wish to feel, quickened and excited her, pulsed through her senses, made her wet with longing.