“I won’t force you. I’ve told you that. I would be pleased if you would bring yourself to believe me. No, what I’m saying is that since you’re my wife, you will sleep beside me until we both cock up our toes and pass to the hereafter.”
She was quiet a moment, staring down at her slippers. Then her head whipped up and she nearly yelled at him, “You’re being nice to draw me in! You want me to let down my guard. When I’m asleep you will do whatever you want and I won’t be able to stop you.”
He realized he was pulsing with anger at her, proper raging anger, for the very first time. He wanted to shake her until she begged his forgiveness, but he didn’t. He remained standing where he was, his hands relaxed at his sides. Then he merely shrugged, turned on his heel, and went back into his own bedchamber. He said calmly over his shoulder, not looking at her, “I will expect you in ten minutes, no longer.”
He waited exactly ten minutes. There was no sign of Susannah. Truth be told, he had expected her to come to him. He was surprised. He had expected that level of obedience from her, because she was a woman of her word. But she hadn’t given her word, had she? Well, no. However, she had promised to obey him. Maybe she hadn’t heard Mr. Byam dictate that in the ceremony.
Yes, he’d believed she would slither through the adjoining door at exactly the ten-minute mark, her head down, afraid of him, her breath shallow, so wary that she would jump if he even snapped his fingers.
But she hadn’t come.
She’d surprised him. He had to grin at that. No woman had surprised him in a very long time. The question was: Now what was he to do?
There wasn’t really a choice. He walked through her door and saw that the room was plunged into darkness.
“Susannah?”
No answer.
He walked to the bed. It was empty.
He was flummoxed. It was his wedding night. He had decided not to try to make love to his wife. He’d been more than reasonable about the whole thing. He’d taken her a bit of the way, and he knew that she’d been surprised at some of the things he’d done. Surprised and pleased. But then he’d moaned—made the sound of a man deeply in the throes of lust, a man who just might be on the edge of being crazed and out of control. Didn’t she know he never lost control? Who the hell cared about a moan? He had given her her way. He had left her. Surely she hadn’t expected him to attack her when she came to him, had she? Evidently so. Perhaps he hadn’t been clear with her. But it didn’t matter—she should have understood, should have trusted him.
Curse it. It had been that moan of his that had sent her scurrying for safety.
He’d given her ten minutes to compose herself. And she’d had the absolute gall to disappear.
He was furious.
This would have been unacceptable in a wife. In a bride of only one day it was a stunning rejection.
“Susannah? Where are you? Perhaps you are behind the wainscoting, and you’ve painted yourself as brown as the boards?”
No answer. Curse her. Strangling her was becoming a pleasant expectation.
He was not going to search through Mountvale House to find his bride. A man had to have some dignity. He had to nurture and maintain his pride. Pride was an excellent friend in situations like this. Surely that was true, since there was not much else.
He went back to his own bedchamber, slamming the adjoining door behind him. That felt good. He rather hoped she would take a chill wherever she was hiding. He didn’t care. He shrugged off his dressing gown and climbed into bed.
The sheets were cold, but not for long. His anger warmed them up very quickly. She was a dolt. He would decide in the morning how he would deal with her.
He turned on his side and began to count cats. Ozzy Harker had taught him to count cats when he’d been only a young boy. Ozzy had claimed that sheep were the very devil to count, they were all so fluffy, all the same color, thus all fading into each other, all of them baaing in exactly the same tone. Could he imagine sheep racing? No, certainly not. Silly bleaters would just stand around looking stupid.
Now, cats, that was quite different. There were tabbies and brindles and calico cats. So many sorts of cats. Some of the dear little buggers were blacker than a sinner’s pleasures—no reference to Rohan’s father, naturally—nor was Rohan to forget the glorious long-haired white cats that wouldn’t race even if the Regent offered to take his clothes off for them. On the other hand, who would move a single toe for such a treat as that? And then . . .
Rohan counted five more cats—tabbies all—then fell asleep, but his dreams weren’t pleasant.
Susannah was on her knees, her bottom in the air, that bottom facing him, playing with her new racing kitten. Ozzy Harker was sitting on the floor opposite her, telling her, “Ye may name the littil bite, milady.”
The kitten in question didn’t look like an enthusiastic racer. He or she was lying in Susannah’s cupped hands, sound asleep. Slowly, careful not to disturb the kitten, Susannah rose, turned—and nearly dropped the animal.
“Rohan,” she said, her voice blanker than a schoolboy’s tablet. “Oh, goodness, it’s you, isn’t it?”
“I believe that is true. Good morning, Susannah, Ozzy. This is our new future champion?”
“Aye, milord. Ain’t he a beaut? Come on, ye littil divil, wake up, and show ’is lordship wot yer made of.” A big rough finger scratched beneath the kitten’s chin. The kitten opened its eyes and stretched, sending its arms and legs flopping off Susannah’s palms.
She laughed and raised the kitten to her face. “You’re a darling.” She kissed the kitten, rubbing her cheek against his soft black fur.