“From me?” Beatrix asked, frowning after him.

The coolness between them persisted for the rest of the day. Christopher was monosyllabic at dinner, which made Beatrix miserable and resentful. In the Hathaway family, whenever there was conflict, there was always someone else in the house to talk to. When one was married and childless, however, quarreling with one’s husband meant one was, for all purposes, friendless. Should she apologize to him? No, something in her balked at the idea. She had done nothing wrong, she had only asked a question.

Just before bedtime, Beatrix recalled something Amelia had advised: never go to bed angry with your husband. Dressed in nightgown and robe, she went through the house until she found him in the library, sitting by the hearth.

“This isn’t fair,” she said, standing at the threshold.

Christopher looked at her. Firelight slid over his face in washes of yellow and red, gleaming in the amber layers of his hair. His hands were joined together neatly, like a folding knife. Albert was stretched on the floor beside the chair, resting his chin between his paws.

“What have I done?” Beatrix continued. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her husband’s face was expressionless. “I have been talking to you.”

“Yes, as a stranger would. Completely without affection.”

“Beatrix,” he said, looking weary, “I’m sorry. Go to bed. Everything will be back to rights tomorrow, after I go to see Fenwick.”

“But what have I—”

“It’s nothing you’ve done. Let me deal with this on my own.”

“Why must I be shut out? Why can’t you trust me?”

Christopher’s expression altered, softening. He regarded her with a hint of something like compassion. Standing, he came to her slowly, his form large and dark against the glow of the hearth. Beatrix set her spine against the doorjamb, her heartbeat quickening as he reached her.

“It was a selfish act to marry you,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t find it easy to settle for what I could give you, and not push for more. But I did warn you.” His opaque gaze slid over her. Bracing one hand on the jamb above her head, he brought the other to the front of her robe, where a hint of her white lace nightgown spilled over the neckline. He toyed with the bit of lace, and bent his head over hers. “Shall I make love to you?” he asked softly. “Would that suffice?”

Beatrix knew when she was being placated. She was being offered sexual pleasure in lieu of real communication. As far as palliatives went, it was a very good substitute. But even as her body responded to his nearness, kindling at the warm scent of him and the sensual promise of his touch, her mind objected. She did not want him to make love to her merely as ploy to distract her. She wanted to be a wife, not an object to toy with.

“Would you share my bed afterward?” she asked stubbornly. “And stay with me until morning?”

His fingers stilled. “No.”

Beatrix scowled and stepped away from him. “Then I’ll go to bed alone.” Giving in to momentary frustration, she added as she strode away from him, “As I do every night.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“I am cross with Christopher,” Beatrix told Amelia in the afternoon, as they strolled arm in arm along the graveled paths behind Ramsay House. “And before I tell you about it, I want to make it clear that there is only one reasonable side of the issue. Mine.”

“Oh, bother,” Amelia said sympathetically. “Husbands do make one cross at times. Tell me your side, and I will agree completely.”

Beatrix began by explaining about the calling card left by the Colonel Fenwick, and Christopher’s subsequent behavior.

Amelia sent Beatrix a wry sideways smile. “I believe these are the problems that Christopher took pains to warn you about.”

“That’s true,” Beatrix admitted. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to contend with. I love him madly. But I see how he struggles against certain thoughts that jump into his head, or reflexes that he tries to suppress. And he won’t discuss any of it with me. I’ve won his heart, but it’s like owning a house in which most of the doors are permanently locked. He wants to shield me from all unpleasantness. And it’s not really marriage—not like the marriage you have with Cam—until he’s willing to share the worst of himself as well as the best of himself.”

“Men don’t like to put themselves at risk in that way,” Amelia said. “One has to be patient.” Her tone became gently arid, her smile rueful. “But I can assure you, dear . . . no one is ever able to share only the best of himself.”

Beatrix gave her a brooding glance. “No doubt I’ll provoke him into some desperate act before long. I push and pry, and he resists, and I’m afraid that will be the pattern of our marriage for the rest of my life.”

Amelia smiled at her fondly. “No marriage stays in the same pattern forever. It is both the best feature of marriage and the worst, that it inevitably changes. Wait for your chance, dear. I promise it will come.”

After Beatrix had left to visit her sister, Christopher reluctantly contemplated the prospect of visiting Lieutenant Colonel William Fenwick. He hadn’t seen the bastard since Fenwick had been sent back to England to recover from the wounds he’d received at Inkerman. To say the least, they hadn’t parted on good terms.

Fenwick had made no secret of his resentment toward Christopher, for having gained all the attention and homage that he felt he had deserved. As universally loathed as Fenwick had been, one thing had been acknowledged by all: he had been destined for military glory. He was an unequaled horseman, unquestionably brave, and aggressive in combat. His ambition had been to distinguish himself on the battlefield, and gain a place in Britain’s pantheon of legendary war heroes.