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“Madness. Neither of us can afford to be distracted from our purposes.”

He strode a circle about the room, extinguishing every candle but one on the wall right by the door that led to his bedroom. Then he drifted to her side like a ship into harbor. She stood to meet him, her face pale in the candlelight, anger buzzing through her. She tapped her toe beneath her skirts. No longer a fairy but a banshee, ready to wail him to his death.

“Outside of helping one another achieve our goals, we are nothing to one another.” Her mouth twisted to the side. Preparing to produce a wail? Or because the words she said felt bitter on her tongue?

“You're wrong. When you are not here, I can think of little but you. I wonder where you are and who you are with and what you are wearing and when you will return. I wonder how I can navigate you as soon as you do to the Barlows’ side, so I have the right to touch you, to call you Mrs. Trent. Crewe is not your name. Don’t object. I’m not a fool. And I do not mind you keeping your real name secret. I havereplaced it with one that feels… right. Isabella Crewe is a maid who likes to disappear. Mrs. Isabella Trent is the woman who creeps along my veins. The woman I would cut out my heart for.”

“Rowan—”

“You are not Mrs. Trent, but youare. And according tomy mind,I have a husband's right over you. In every way.” He wouldn’t touch her, though. She must come to him.Rightwas a bold word, a show of confidence, an argument even. But he had nothing if she did not give it to him. “When Poppins told me he found you kissing another man, I thought I might be capable of murder. No. IknewI would be capable of murder. And any number of other horrible things. I intended to put a bullet in the other man's heart, to lock you up tight.”

“It’spretend.”

“Is it?”

Something shattered in the soft lines of her face. Hopefully, her resolve. “It must be. You know nothing of me. Not truly. And you do not need to know anything more of me than you already do. To pretend.”

“I do need. Because you’re needling into my damn heart, Isabella. Tell me something that will make it stop, that will make you less dear to me than you currently are. Because you are driving me mad. I wrote my aunt and told her to stop searching for a wife for me because…” He lifted his arms out to the side, let them drop. “I’d already found her.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her chest stopped rising, and she managed to sputter, “I-I’ll not pretend for her.”

“I’m not pretending. Not anymore. So, tell me something to make me see truth. Tell me anything to make this stop.”

She searched the room for answers, her chin cutting a circle that sliced him in half. “I’m horrid when I’m sick. Grouchy and snotty and—”

“Bloody hell, Isabella, that makes you even more adorable. Try again.”

“I have seven sisters. The one brother. But also three brothers-in-law. All of whom can be as grouchy as me but because the wrong man has looked the wrong way at me.”

“Good. You’re well protected.”

“Seven sisters are seven female minds to pester you.”

He waved the concern away. “You’re not trying very hard.”

“I read books.”

“Really? You think I’ll run from a bluestocking?”

“Naughty books.”

That gave him pause. Mainly because speaking was rather difficult while his cock jumped to attention. He shrugged. “My aunt reads them, and she’s a paragon. I’m not supposed to know she reads them, but I have found several lying about. She’s horrid at hiding them. Try again.” Though nothing she could say would change this. That was clear now, a truth ringing across his body.

“My brother is—”

“A murderer?”

“No!”

“Cruel to you and your sisters?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you murderous or cruel?”

“No.”

“Then there is nothing you can say.” God, it was inconvenient. But only if he let it be. “I’ve never fit anywhere, not since my father’s death. But I fit with you, and you with me. Tell me I’m wrong.”