How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (31 page)

He couldn’t. Besides, she had a habit of writing things down that she shouldn’t. He turned over to stare at the notebook that lay on the table by the window. What had she written? Another scathing commentary on his life?

He glanced back to where Minerva still slept, then slipped from the bed. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just to make sure what she’d written. So he’d know how to act.

Stealthily he walked over to the table and opened the notebook. It took him a moment to decipher her appalling handwriting before he read, “Dear Reader, there are times in a woman’s life when—”

“What are you doing?” snapped Minerva from the bed.

Damn, she was a light sleeper. He looked up to find her glaring at him. “I was just curious about—”

“Give me that!” She practically leaped from the bed and dashed to his side to snatch up her notebook, cradling it to her
chest like a small child. “You have no right!”

“Why?” he growled. “What are you writing now?”

“Nothing to do with you, don’t worry.” She glared at him through red-rimmed eyes, and guilt stabbed him. “If you can keep secrets, so can I.”

The words struck him like a blow to the chest. She was just giving tit for tat. That was to be expected. But it shocked him that it hurt so much. That the thought of her keeping secrets from
him
blasted a hole in his gut.

Well, he’d be damned if he let
her
know that. He schooled his expression to nonchalance. “I didn’t mean to upset you. If you don’t want me to read what you write, I won’t.”

His words came out more affronted than he would have liked, but she just sniffed and turned her back on him.

Her silence fell like a weight on his chest, and when she went behind the privacy screen to perform her ablutions and dress, he gritted his teeth. How long would she punish him? How long would he have to suffer her coolness?

It had better not be too bloody long. This wasn’t how he’d expected their marriage to work. He jerked his clothes on, now fully in a temper, though he wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—her or himself.

She came out from behind the screen wearing her shift, drawers, stockings, and untied corset. Pride made her chin stiffen as she stared at him. “Would you please help me with my corset? I think I can manage the gown myself.”

With a terse nod he did as she asked, though being so near when they were at odds was torture. He wanted to kiss her neck, to bury his face in her hair, to run his hands over the body he’d begun to know very well. He wanted to make love to her, even though he suspected that wasn’t the way to handle this.

That was the trouble. For the first time in years, he didn’t know
how
to behave. Should he try to jolly her out of her mood? Seduce her?

Given how she darted away from him when he was done with her corset, seduction wasn’t going to work just now. He would bide his time and wait for her mood to change. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever.

No? The last time you angered her, she kept you at arm’s length for nine years.

He scowled. That was different. They hadn’t shared a bed. She would get over this eventually. She had to.

They finished dressing in silence, both aware that they had to be on the steam packet in a short while. He itched to get back to London and find out what Ravenswood had to say about Newmarsh.

At least in London he wouldn’t have to sneak around. He’d always incorporated his meetings with Ravenswood into his workday. He would send a note to Ravenswood tonight and meet the man early tomorrow.

Their ride on the steam packet seemed endless. He tried to take solace from the ebb and flow of the water, but he could only think of the woman beside him, so lovely and mute.

After hours of that, he could bear it no longer. As they neared the Thames estuary, he asked, “Are you never going to speak to me again?”

She cast him a long, shuttered glance. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t want to be at odds with you.”

“Then don’t.”

Could it really be that easy? They’d just go on as if nothing had happened?

They were passing the Isle of Sheppey, so he tested his theory by telling her a story about him and his father taking a rowboat
down the Thames to the isle to see an eccentric aunt of his who lived there. They’d found her digging for fossils in a marsh, wearing men’s trousers and a large hat.

As he described his old aunt for Minerva in outrageous terms, he coaxed a smile from her, then a laugh.

Relief coursed through him. He’d been right. Minerva couldn’t stay mad at him.

They got through the rest of the trip more easily, and by the time they reached home, she seemed more her usual self. So he decided to press his luck and take her to bed. To his immense satisfaction, she complied.

His satisfaction didn’t last long, however. It wasn’t that she didn’t participate in the lovemaking. She wasn’t cold to him or angry. And clearly she found her release at the end.

But something was missing. There was none of the exuberance she’d shown on their first two nights together, none of the closeness. And when it was over, she turned her back to him and fell asleep, as if she’d just finished with a duty and now was done with him.

He told himself that, too, would end eventually. In the days to come, she would get over her annoyance with him, and everything would go back to the way it was.

It had to. Because he didn’t know how he’d bear it if it didn’t.

In the next few days, however, things did
not
go back to the way they were, and it was driving Giles mad.

Ravenswood had been called to his estate to deal with an emergency there, so Giles couldn’t reach him without leaving town, which his trials wouldn’t allow. And he couldn’t write to the man—Ravenswood had always been adamant about not communicating by the mails. So he had no choice but to wait until the viscount returned, chafing at having the matter left up in the air.

Nor did it help his mood that Minerva still kept him at a polite distance even when they were making love. Oh, she was cordial enough. She told him of her day and listened as he told her about his. She began to decorate the town house, turning it from a sterile building that smelled of linseed oil and sawdust into a home that smelled of flowers and lemons. In every way, she behaved like a wife.

Or rather, like the average man’s image of a wife—one who would see to his needs and not bother him with anything of herself. If Giles asked about her book, she closed up, saying only that it was going well. She never told him how she felt—she was never playful
or
angry at him. She was just . . . there, like a doll he’d conjured up to share his bed.

It was making him insane. Every night he tried to crack her armor, to bring back the old Minerva, but though she shared his bed willingly and cried out her pleasure in his arms, she still kept him at a distance afterward.

He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter if she didn’t blather on about feelings and such. He’d never wanted that. Things were as they should be. With her accepting her role as his wife, he had nothing to worry about.

Yet he worried all the same. The thought of continuing on in this formal sort of marriage made an odd panic seize his chest. Worse yet, though he tried not to let his rabid desire for her make him behave like an idiot, every time she was cool to him, it got more difficult to restrain himself. But he wasn’t going to beg.

So by the time Ravenswood returned to town and arranged a meeting with him, he was in a foul humor.

The morning after he’d received the note from Ravenswood, Giles left the house before Minerva was awake. She wasn’t always an early riser, given her habit of writing at odd hours.

Ravenswood was waiting for him at the boathouse in Hyde Park. Briefly Giles explained the situation with Newmarsh.

The viscount took notes, frowning here and there. “Had he guessed the other work you did for us?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was very focused on his own troubles.”

“Thank God for that.” He sighed. “Still, he’s put us in a devilish position.”

“I realize that. And I regret that my rash actions nine years ago are the cause of it.”

“If not for those rash actions, we would never have caught Sully. You may regret them, but I don’t.” Ravenswood searched his face. “You realize that the British government’s policy is not to—”

“Give in to blackmail. Yes, I know.”

“You wouldn’t want us to, anyway, would you, after what he did?”

“I’d rather see the man rot than allow him back into England.
If anyone deserves to die alone in France, it’s Newmarsh.” Giles glanced away. “Unfortunately,
not
giving in to his blackmail means the end of my future. Which is why . . .” He dragged in a hard breath. “I’m willing to return to working for you, if that’s what it takes to get your superiors to comply with his blackmail.”

He could feel Ravenswood’s surprised gaze on him. “You’re serious.”

Giles nodded. “I don’t see that I have much choice, if the government will not give in to his demand otherwise.”

“That’s not true. You have one other choice. You can call the bastard’s bluff. Even if he does as he’s threatened, I don’t think the consequences will be as dire as he predicts. You were acting on your own. You were young and foolish. And you were on the side of right, whereas he was a villain. The public never sides with the villain.”

“Perhaps. But I won’t risk putting my family—and my wife—through another scandal. Besides, my career would be over—I’d certainly never be made King’s Counsel.”

“Ah, but you have friends in high places now,” Ravenswood said. “We can do a great deal behind the scenes to bury the story and make sure Newmarsh doesn’t get very far with it in the press.”

“Even if you could manage that, you can’t keep me from being disbarred.”

“You’d be surprised what we can do.” When Giles said nothing to that, Ravenswood eyed him closely. “Don’t you trust me? Surely you don’t think we’d leave you to fend for yourself after all you’ve done for your country.”

Giles met his friend’s gaze. “I know how the game of politics is played.”

“That may be true, but no one will abandon you, I swear.”

“I’d rather not stake my future and my career on that.”

“And I’d rather not have an operative whose heart is no longer in it,” Ravenswood retorted. “That does me no good.”

“Damn it, Ravenswood, you owe me this!”

“No—as your friend, I owe you better than this. I’m not going to watch you go back to a way of life that no longer suits you, just because you think you can’t trust anyone but yourself.” Ravenswood shook his head. “You’ve been doing this work so long that you’ve forgotten how to trust your friends. Be careful with that. If you never put your life in someone else’s hands, then you can’t really expect them to put theirs in yours. In the long run, never trusting anyone is a hard way to live.”

The statement took Giles by surprise. Had he really stopped trusting people? Was Ravenswood right?

He thought of Minerva, how she’d been so distant, so reserved. Was that how he appeared to
her
? Was that why she continued to be so vexed with him?

“I tell you what,” Ravenswood went on. “I’ll ask my superiors if they’d be willing to meet Newmarsh’s demand. If they refuse, as I suspect they will, then we’ll talk again, and you can tell me then what you want to do. That’ll give you some time to think about it.”

“Thank you,” Giles said, though he’d made up his mind already. “I’d appreciate that.”

He turned to go, but Ravenswood wasn’t finished with him. “By the way, I found out some information concerning that map of Plumtree’s.”

Giles blinked. He’d forgotten all about the bastard. Perhaps this was something he could sink his teeth into while waiting for Ravenswood to give him an answer. It would certainly help him with Minerva. She would surely come around if he presented her with decent information about Plumtree’s role in
her parents’ deaths.

“What did you learn?” he asked.

“It’s a bit odd, actually. The map is a copy of one that’s in the British Museum.”

“What exactly is it supposed to show?”

“That’s the interesting part.” A gleam shone in Ravenswood’s eyes. “You are
not
going to believe this . . .”

M
INERVA SAT AT
the desk in her study and tried to write, but it was no use. She’d been out of sorts since before dawn, when she’d felt Giles leave the bed. She’d considered asking him where he was going. He went early to work some days, but never that early.

But she hadn’t asked. It was easier not to ask than to deal with his lying to her. Though she didn’t think he’d done so since France, she no longer knew what to expect from him. And that was killing her.

She’d just decided to go for a walk to clear her head, when Mr. Finch appeared at the door.

“You have several visitors, madam—” he began, but before he could even introduce them, practically her entire family invaded the room—Oliver and Maria, Celia, Gabe, Jarret and Annabel, Gran, and even Freddy and his wife, Jane. The only one missing was Jarret’s stepson, George, who was in Burton, visiting his other family.

She sprang up in delight. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d wanted to see them until they’d appeared. “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed as she exchanged kisses and hugs with them.

Gran glanced around the room, eyebrows raised. “Celia told me you’d sent her a note saying that you and Mr. Masters hadn’t
gone to Bath after all, so we figured we’d come call on you. We thought it was about time we saw where you were living.”

Celia grabbed her hands and leaned near to whisper, “You sounded a bit down to me, though I didn’t tell
them
that.”

Leave it to her sister to guess what she didn’t dare say. Marriage to Giles wasn’t turning out quite as she’d hoped. But she certainly didn’t want her family to know that.

“No, I’m perfectly fine.” She ignored the skeptical look Celia shot her. “Did you bring the map?”

Celia nodded and slipped it to her surreptitiously. Minerva shoved it in her apron pocket.