He took a step back and shook his head. “That was…that was…I should not have done it. It was all for appearance’s sake, anyhow. We wished for people to believe that we were truly happily married, and now they do.”
For appearances?
It had not been for appearances. She knew this. She had felt the way his heart had thundered in his chest pressed against hers. She had heard the recognition in his breath when they broke the kiss. It had been a real kiss. She did not have much to compare it to, of course, but she knew with every fiber of her being that he had meant to kiss her.
“Why must you be so mercurial? I do not understand you.”
“It is not for you to understand me; it is for you to obey me,” he replied, and Charity's eyes flew wide open, so much so that she thought her eyebrows surely disappeared beneath her hair.
“Obey you?” she echoed, incredulous.
“It was part of the vows,” he insisted.
“Vows that would quickly be undone if anyone knew that we had faked our wedding date and bribed the magistrate.”
“That is not in anyone’s interest,” he said coolly. “And you know this. Besides, everyone believes us to be happily married now, thanks to our outing at the ball. You need not fret.”
“The only thing I fret about, Eammon, is my husband and his ever-changing nature.”
“Why can you not simply do as I ask?” he demanded, his exasperation mounting.
“We have already established why,” she replied coolly. “I am not a prisoner, and you are not my jailer. I shall not be ordered about. I am your wife. Now, tell me what has happened to cause you to be in such high dudgeon?”
“Nothing has happened,” he said, too quickly. “Nothing at all. We have succeeded in convincing society that we are the picture of marital felicity, which was our aim. I suppose if we attend one or two more gatherings, all will believe it, and we shall be rid of Markham for good.”
There was more—she knew it. But what?
“Please,” she said softly. “Why will you not be honest with me? I do not understand why one moment you are warm and kind and the next you are like this.”
“I do not know what you wish me to say,” he declared, throwing up his hands in a theatrical gesture. “There is nothing to tell. We have accomplished what we set out to do.”
“And what is it you wanted?” she pressed. “You have never told me. I thought all of this was to put one more generation between yourself and the shameful scandal?—”
“My childhood was not shameful!” he thundered.
She stepped back—not out of fear, but from sheer astonishment at the vehemence in his voice.
“I do not understand,” she murmured. “I do not understand you in the least. And do not shout at me in such a manner. It is—” she hesitated, “—undignified.”
“Undignified,” he repeated, voice taut with disdain. “Not fitting for a duke, is that it? Perhaps it is my rotten, shameful childhood that made me so.”
He leaned toward her, and she saw it then—her choice of words had hurt him. But she had not meant to cast judgment on his upbringing. She had only acknowledged the hardship of it—being left in Ireland for years before his father deigned to bring him home, then more years still before he truly acknowledged him. And all of it the consequence of an accident of birth.
“I had a wonderful childhood,” he said fiercely. “My parents were good people. I adored them, and I will not have them spoken ill of—least of all by my own wife. I will not have it, do you hear me?”
The longer he spoke, the more she heard something beneath the anger—something raw, something uncertain.
“Eammon,” she said, carefully. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. I only meant that I had understood your desire to distance yourself from the rumors and the stories.”
“I did,” he admitted. “And I have. It is done. Let us simply carry on.” He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“But how?” she asked. “How shall we move forward? After the ball…after the—” she hesitated, “—kiss?”
He lifted a hand. “I have no wish to speak of that foolishness again. It is of no consequence. You are free to conduct yourself as you please. As for your precious books, fetch them from your mother if you must. Everything else—the land, the investments, the accounts, the artwork and the content of your father’s study—I shall see to it. Do not trouble yourself.”
“You mean to protect me,” she said, folding her arms. “You need not remind me of your role again—I am no fool.”
His lips pressed into a hard line. “Charity, there is much you do not understand. And much I do not wish to explain. It would do you no good.”
