Byrony had wondered the same thing. “When will we be at your boyhood haunt?”
“We’re almost there.”
The boyhood haunt was a very secluded, very private spot, Byrony saw. It was nothing more, actually, than a tiny clearing surrounded by thick maple and elm trees. A curtain of nearly impenetrable summer leaves blocked out the outside world.
“It’s lovely, Brent.”
“Yes, very lovely.”
“I meant this small glade, Brent.”
“That also.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“To make love to you, of course.”
When, after a very long time, he lifted himself on his elbows and studied her smiling face, he said, “You look pleased with yourself.”
“I am,” she said. “I’ve brought you to your knees, so to speak.”
“Hussy.”
She kissed his chest, hugged him tightly, savoring the moment. She wanted to tell him that she adored him, would do anything for him, but she imagined that he would use such voiced sentiments against her later. And he’d never told her he loved her. She wondered if he were capable of such an emotion, after nine years of denying its existence.
“Do you love me, Brent?”
“You are my wife,” he said, his voice fierce.
“But do you love me?”
He withdrew from her and came gracefully to his feet. She stared up at him.
“Leave it be, Byrony,” he said as he leaned down to retrieve his clothing. What did she want from him? But he knew what she wanted—ah yes, he knew.
She looked at him with bitter eyes. He was a fine lover, at least she assumed he was from the incredible pleasure he gave her. He probably gave her all the sexual feeling and pleasure he’d given for years to his mistresses. So what was a wife anyway? Someone to berate when the mood struck him, someone to blame when things didn’t go the way it suited him.
From the corner of his eye Brent watched her slowly rise and begin to pull on her clothes. So many clothes, he thought inconsequently, so many petticoats and ribbons and ties. It struck him suddenly that she wasn’t wearing a corset. He started to ask her why not, when she walked silently away from him into the cover of the trees.
“Byrony,” he called after her.
She turned slowly and took the snowy white handkerchief from his hand.
He finished dressing, then leaned against a maple tree to wait for her.
Byrony heard them arguing, but she couldn’t make out their words. Drew had left the house some half-hour earlier, and the servants had gone to bed. She frowned and walked quietly toward the closed library doors.
“Dammit, Brent, I tell you that your father hated the man.”
“Come, Laurel, you’re saying that because he probably didn’t praise your eyebrows.”
What man?
“You’re a fool, Brent,” came Laurel’s voice.
“A fool simply because I don’t necessarily believe you, my dear?” Brent said in a mocking voice. “Now, Laurel, why don’t you tell me the real reason you wanted to talk to me.”
There was a deadening silence for several minutes.