Page 32 of Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta
“I find it most curious, my Lord, that the first words you ever speak to me as wife are in regard to nuts and berries. Curious indeed.”
“I can only imagine your appearance to be the result of a failed attempt at scrounging out of doors for food. I assure you, we can provide all you need right here within these magnificent walls,” he teased.
“Ewan, dear,” his mother leaned forward to speak around his bride, “you must be careful not to overwhelm your new wife with your charm.” She added a fake smile for effect.
“I will thank you not to comment further on my appearance, my Lord Marquess,” Henrietta quipped. “You made your feelings quite clear earlier this day.”
“Yes, about that,” he began contritely. “I must speak with you about that. I behaved very badly.”
She gave no reply, so he contented himself with studying her profile, for as she kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on something across the room, that was all she would allow him. The tip of her petite nose turned up pertly. He hadn’t noticed it before, but from this angle, and with its current crazy accoutrements, it was absolutely delightful. What was she saying?
“My Lady?”
“Does your hearing fail? I said, from the ashes of humiliation a great Lady rises.” Each word was punctuated dramatically.
He drew his brows together into a question. “Phoenix?”
She finally turned her head to look at him, and the hard expression in her eyes did not fit her absurd appearance. The dirt streaks were surely a combination of dried tears and sweat from her run to who-knows-where, and the stray ribbon that hung loose by her ear only served to add to the comedy. He smiled, stifling a chuckle.
“Sir?” she said curtly.
“I believe you mean a phoenix rises. From the ashes a phoenix rises.”
“And I believe you should not presume to know what I mean or do not mean. I see it a different way. We can agree to disagree, my Lord.” He found her utterly charming.
“Can we?”
“I think it best. For us. As a general rule.”
“Some say rules are meant to be broken.”
“And under normal circumstances, I might agree with you, my Lord, but no. Rules are certainly meant to be kept. This rule especially.”
“We agree to disagree then.”
“You see how easy that was? A useful rule for us.”
“I henceforth agree to agree with you,” he offered pleasantly, hiding his wry smile by sipping his wine. “Even when we disagree.”
“Suddenly, the Marquess is all congeniality and yet,” she paused and proudly met his eyes again, “I still await this apology which is allegedly forthcoming.”
“Ewan,” the Duchess chided, making no secret of her eavesdropping. “Do please make your apologies.”
The Marquess rolled his eyes at his mother’s interference, a well-timed reminder of how one complication in his life stacked upon another. He sighed.
“Miss Oliver,” he began, quickly realizing his mistake. She was no longer Miss Oliver. She was a lady. His lady. It was not natural to think of her that way. “May I call you Henrietta?”
“You should hardly call her Miss Oliver,” the Duchess interjected.
Now it was the Marquess who chided. “Mother.”
“Very well,” the older woman said, standing to leave the table. The Marquess stood respectfully with her and she added, “I will leave you to find the Duke. He has been long missing from this most joyous affair.” The sarcasm in her voice could hardly be missed.
Though others sat at each end of the long table, the two of them were indeed left to themselves, and due to the happy noise in the room, out of earshot of everyone.
He surprised himself at how relaxed he felt with her. Well, relaxed in one sense, surely the important sense. However, some other part of him was decidedly not relaxed as he sat so near her, dirty face and all. Something stirred. Awakened, perhaps? He couldn’t say, but it felt fresh and new. And if he dared be honest with himself, he liked it very much.
“Henrietta, please accept my apology for my behavior in the chapel. It was most unseemly.”
