“Why did you marry me?” he pressed, delving deep into her bewitching eyes in search of the answer.
“I told you why.”
“And I remain unconvinced.”
“I’m baffled, I assure you.”
His gaze flicked to the flames. “I can draw up another set.”
“And I shall burn that set as well.” Her lashes drifted shut, inhaling a deep breath before they lifted to him. “I do not wish to change you, never that. I want to understand you; I want you to understand me. And your rules make me feel less than a person and more like a . . . jailbird.”
“Jailbird?” He almost laughed.
“Yes, a person who has been imprisoned.”
“I know what a jailbird is,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. “It’s the vision of you, with a beak and wings, behind bars, I find intriguing.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “Was that another attempt at humor?”
He shrugged. “If you wish for me to understand you, perhaps you can start by telling me the reason you married me.”
Her hands settled on her hips. “Why do you insist on believing there is more to me wedding you than saving my family?”
“Your sister was brave enough to jilt me, uncaring of the consequence. You are no different. You married me because you wanted something in return.”
“You make me sound conniving, selfish.”
“I prefer the term artful.”
“I’m sure you do, but that does not mean I had an ulterior motive.” She turned away from him and tossed two dresses in her suitcase.
Cursing, Ambrose snatched up the dresses and tossed them to the floor. “You are not leaving.”
She bent to pick up the dresses. “Why not be a touch more charming and permit me to go for ices and I won’t.”
Ambrose choked back a curse. He wanted to pull her into his arms. He wanted to hurl the suitcase across the room. He wanted to kiss her senseless. What the hell was she doing to him?
He just wanted to protect her. Rules meant protection—for them both. Why couldn’t she understand that?
“Stay,” he murmured. When she shot him a glare he lowered his voice another octave. “Please.”
A faint crease appeared upon her brow. “Only if we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”
“Fine,” he bit off, as exasperation threatened to take hold of his windpipe. He shouldn’t care so much about her letting him go. That would be the detachment he’d been hoping for, wouldn’t it? Why then did the idea bother him? “Go have ices with your sister. But a footman shall accompany you.”
“A spy, you mean.”
“An escort,” he snapped.
“Gunter’s is hardly the stuff of horrors.”
“It will be when you catch a cold,” he muttered, his tone gruff. “Why can your sister not join you for tea, here?”
“I wish to go for ices.”
“What nutritional value do they have in any case?”
“They areenjoyable, and there is value in that.”
