Read The One in My Heart Online
Authors: Sherry Thomas
The One in My Heart (37 page)
Vaguely, she nodded at Goodman. “You may return to your duties.”
Goodman hesitated. Did he fear for her? She entered the library and let the heavy oak door close behind her, shutting out curious eyes and ears, shutting out the rest of the world.
The windows of her library faced west, for a view of the park. The still-intense sunlight cascaded through clear glass panes at an oblique angle and landed in perfect rectangles of warm clarity on her Samarkand carpet, with its poppies and pomegranates on a field of rose and ivory.
Tremaine stood just beyond the direct light, his hands braced against the mahogany desk behind him, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He should be a figure in relative obscurity, not particularly visible. Yet she saw him all too clearly, as if Michelangelo’s Adam had leapt off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, robbed a Savile Row bespoke tailor, and come to make trouble.
She caught herself. She was staring, as if she was still that nineteen-year-old girl, devoid of depth but full of herself.
“Hullo, Camden.”
“Hullo, Gigi.”
She had allowed no man to call her by that childhood pet name since his departure.
Forcing herself away from the door, she crossed the length of the library, the carpet beneath her feet too soft, a quagmire. She marched right up to him, to show that she did not fear him. But she did. He held powers over her, powers far beyond those conferred by mere laws.
Even though she was a tall woman, she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like malachite from the Urals. She inhaled his subtle scent of sandalwood and citrus, the aroma she had once equated with happiness.
“Are you here to grant me the divorce or to be a nuisance?” She got to the point right away. Trouble that was not confronted head-on always circled around to bite one in the bum.
He shrugged. He had taken off his day coat and his necktie. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. His shirt of fine cambric draped over him lovingly, caressing his wide shoulders and long arms.
“I’m here to set conditions.”
“What do you mean, conditions?”
“An heir. You produce an heir and I will allow the divorce to proceed. Otherwise I will name parties to your adultery. You do know that you cannot divorce me on grounds of adultery if you happen to have committed the same sin, don’t you?”
Her ears rang. “Surely you jest. You want an
heir
from me?
Now
?”
“I couldn’t stand the thought of bedding you before now.”
“Really?” She laughed, though she’d have preferred to smash an inkwell against his temple. “You liked it well enough last time.”
“The performance of a lifetime,” he said easily. “And I was a good thespian to begin with.”
Pain erupted inside her, corrosive, debilitating pain she’d thought she’d never feel again. She groped for mastery and shoved the subject away from where she was most vulnerable. “Empty threats. I have not been intimate with Lord Frederick.”
“How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams.”
She sucked in a breath. How did he know? She’d been ever so careful, ever so discreet.
“Your mother wrote me.” He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. “Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I’m sure you will forgive her.”
If there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she’d set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland’s prized greenhouse. Then she’d corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots.
“You have a choice,” he said amicably. “We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers.”
She blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record?
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. “I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus.”
“And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea.”
“I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!”
“I’m worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn’t a sou, that’s not quite enough for me to stand before Her Majesty’s magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that our marriage was consummated—repeatedly.”
She flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night—no, she would not think about it. She had already forgotten it. “This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn’t it? You are still trying to punish me.”
He gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. “Now, why would you think that?”
And what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. “Fine,” she said, as indifferently as she could. “I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten.”
He laughed. “As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I’m weary from my travels. And now that I’ve seen you, I’ll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less—and not a minute more, no matter how you plead.”
Her jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. “That is the most rid—”
He suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. “I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words.”
She jerked her head away, her lips burning. “I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I’d had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight.”
“What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress.” He pushed away from the desk. “I’ve had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn’t mind my exercises in conjugal rights.”
He left without a backward glance.
And not for the first time.
She watched the door close behind him and rued the day she first learned of his existence.
For your copy of
Private Arrangements
, click
here
. Readers who live outside North America, please click
here
.
More Books by Sherry Thomas
***
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