Max’s laughter ebbed, though mirth still gleamed in his eyes. “I am sorry, Caroline. You surprised me, that is all.”
“You did not sound surprised; you sounded… disrespectful,” she retorted. “You sounded as if I had made the most hilarious jest you had ever heard. You seem to forget, Your Grace, that I have spent much of my womanhood around the most courageous, intelligent, remarkable women, who do not tolerate gentlemen laughing at their capability.”
He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I meant nothing by it. I was not insulting your intelligence or your capability. It was just not what I was expecting, when you have not shown any desire to assist me, much less be in the same room as me.” He paused. “And please, cease referring to me as ‘Your Grace.’ It is too formal.”
“Formality is necessary, it seems,” Caroline replied, her pride wounded. “As for being in the same room as you—it is difficult to know if I can tolerate it when you seem so intent on avoiding me.”
“I have been busy.”
“I am aware, which is why I was asking if I might help!” she shot back, frustrated by the circling of their conversation.
Max sighed, sitting back in his chair. He had undone his collar and wore no cravat, the two sides falling further apart to reveal a triangle of sun-browned skin. Hypocritical in its informality, and so annoyingly distracting. How had he gained such a bronzed color if he spent so much time cooped up in his study?
“I apologize,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
He shrugged. “For upsetting you, for laughing—whatever might make this quarrel end. I do not want to keep arguing with you.” He set his hand on the top of the stack of correspondence. “That being said, it would take me longer to explain everything to you, which would rather undo the purpose of your assistance. Another time, perhaps.”
“I think not,” Caroline replied, scraping back her chair. “But fear not,Your Grace, I shall find something to occupy myself.”
Marching out of the study, resisting the urge to slam the door, she smiled to herself.
And when I do, you will beg me to sit quietly at this desk, wishing you had accepted my help in the first place.
CHAPTER TEN
Aknock sounded at the door, and Max straightened up, rigid with a feeling that was not quite fear but leaned into dread.
“Husband,” Caroline said, poking her head around, “what do you think of an archway between the drawing room and the music room? The music room is too large, and the drawing room is not large enough for when we have guests. Passable for an intimate house party, but nothing greater. I have drawn a few designs for your perusal.”
She strode in and slapped a considerable stack of drawings onto his desk.
“I was thinking we might begin by the end of our honeymoon, so if you could let me know your thoughts before… say, five o’clock, I would appreciate it,” she added and left again before he could think of any reply.
It had been almost three days since he had laughed at her proposal to help him, and he had spent at least two of those regretting his actions. He had regretted it immediately, in truth, for he had not been laughing at the idea, but at the notion thatshewas asking to helphim. But she had made certain that hereallyfelt punished in the aftermath.
At least once an hour, she knocked and entered with some suggestion, trivial request, or basic question. And she seemed to knowjustwhen he was getting engrossed in his work, shattering his concentration with expert precision. What was worse, he was nowanticipatingthe knocks and the disruptions, making it twice as difficult to concentrate on difficult accounts and letters that required delicate thought.
Groaning, he picked up the first drawing, astonishment almost making the interruption worthwhile.She has a gift for artistry.
The designs were intricately detailed and annotated, as well formed as any architect he had ever had to deal with. Indeed, it seemed rather a waste that she was clearly using her talents to annoy him. The only silver lining was that he was learning more about her, quite by accident.
Putting the drawing back, he took a breath and tried to find where he had been up to with the ledger of rents he had been working through. All the while, his ears were pricked for the sound of footsteps in the hallway and another interrupting knock on the door.
Twenty minutes later, a jarring sound pierced through the wall and ricocheted through his skull. The scream of a bow grating on violin strings was discordant and unbearably loud.
“You cannot be serious,” he grumbled, his eye twitching as another intolerable note screeched out, jolting jaggedly into the most horrendous attempt at a song he had ever heard.
He was up and out of his chair in seconds, marching out into the hallway, only to halt outside the room that bordered his study. He did not bother to knock, pushing the door open with frustration boiling in his blood. The moment the door swung open, however, the awful violin music transformed into the sweetest, most rousing tune. A ballad he knew well, played to perfection. The sort of music that would help him concentrate, not annihilate any focus he had.
“What are you doing—thinking of running away to join an orchestra?” he growled, narrowing his eyes at Caroline.
It did not help matters that she looked utterly beautiful in a day dress of the palest lavender, her face a blushing picture of innocence as the golden afternoon sunlight cast a hazy halo around her. She drew the violin out from under her chin and set the bow on the music stand in front of her.
“The maids are cleaning the music room,” she explained quietly. “Mrs. Whitlock said this room was not occupied and was once used for musical endeavors because of the excellent acoustics, so I thought I would practice for an hour or two.”
He drew in a steadying breath. “Why were you playing badly if you play well?”
