“Me?” Bradford’s smile turned mocking. “Whatever could you mean? I’m simply requesting the pleasure of the Duchess’s company for one innocent dance.”
“Nothing about you is innocent, Bradford. And my wife doesn’t dance with men who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
The public rebuke made Bradford flush. “I say, that’s rather harsh. Perhaps if you paid more attention to your wife’s needs, other men wouldn’t feel compelled to offer their company.”
The words hung in the air like a lit fuse. Iris saw the exact moment Owen’s control snapped because his eyes turned cold and deadly.
For a heartbeat, she thought he might strike Bradford in the middle of the ballroom.
Instead, he stepped closer to the man and dropped his voice to a hiss. “Touch my wife, speak to her inappropriately, or imply that she lacks for anything, and I will destroy you. Socially, financially, personally. Do I make myself clear?”
Bradford’s bravado crumbled under the quiet threat. “No offense meant, of course. Simply making conversation.”
“Make it elsewhere.”
After Bradford retreated, Owen stood rigid beside her. It was evident he was making a conscious effort to carefully control his breathing.
The possessive display should have annoyed her. Instead, it sent heat through her veins. For all his distance and careful avoidance, he clearly didn’t want anyone else to touch her.
“That was unnecessary,” she muttered, though her pulse raced from more than indignation.
“Was it? He was all but propositioning you in public.”
“And that bothers you?”
“You’re my wife.”
“When it’s convenient.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “When other men are watching, you remember I exist. The rest of the time, I might as well be invisible.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? When did we last have a real conversation? When did you last spend an evening at home, instead of rushing off to whatever keeps you occupied until dawn?”
Owen’s hand moved to her elbow. He guided her toward a quieter corner. “Lower your voice.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid someone might overhear things that would be better kept private.”
“Everything’s private with you. Your thoughts, your feelings, your whereabouts.” She pulled free from his grip. “I’m tired of living with a stranger, Owen. Tired of pretending that this hollow arrangement satisfies me.”
“What do you want from me?”
The question was raw and almost desperate. For a moment, the careful mask slipped enough to show the man beneath.
“I want to know where you go, what you do, and why you can barely stand to be in the same room as me unless we’re performing for others.”
“You want the truth? I skip meals because sitting across from you makes me remember the way you tasted that night in Morrison’s library. I work late because going to bed means lying there, wide awake, imagining you just down the hall… and what it would be like to touch you again. To have more than just a stolen moment.”
The words knocked the wind out of her. Her face flushed as she was torn between the echo of that long-buried desire and the wall of uncertainty still between them.
“Then why?—”
“Because wanting you and being good for you are entirely different things.” His eyes had darkened to a stormy gray. “Because I’ve seen what passion becomes when it’s the only thing holding a marriage together.”
“Owen—”
“Your Graces! There you are.”
