And Amelia stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over her chest, wondering why it should surprise her in the slightest that when confronted with a frightened mare and frightened wife, Spencer would choose to calm the horse.

He turned to her and said with cool, even disdain, “Who let you in here?”

“No one.”

“Damn it, tell me—” At his harsh tone, the horse started. Spencer paused a moment to calm her again, then made a visible effort to temper his voice before speaking again. “Tell me who let you in here,” he said calmly. “Whoever he is, he’s just lost his post.”

“I’m telling you, no one let me in. I came on my own. I entered through the tack room.” The anger in his eyes as he stared at her, juxtaposed with the tender way he still caressed the mare’s ear … it was just too much. Too insulting, too disheartening.

“God, Amelia.” He shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I heard you ride up to the house. I thought you’d be in directly, but then you weren’t. I was tired of waiting and tired in general, and I’ve been wanting to speak with you so I thought …” She clapped a hand over a sudden burst of laughter. If only he knew what she’d come out here to say.

He frowned at her, and she giggled again. Suddenly, the situation was unbearably funny. Her absurd envy for a horse. His unfailing knack for saying the wrong thing on every occasion. The whole dratted marriage.

“I was thinking of you, you insufferable man.” She laughed into her palm, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “All day long, I’ve been thinking of you.”

Spencer stared at her, his jaw working as he debated what to say. If he told her he’d been thinking of her all day, too, would it sound trite and insincere? Would it even do the truth justice? To say he’d been merely “thinking” of her seemed inadequate. What was the word for it, when over the course of an endless, wearying, ultimately fruitless day, one’s every act, thought, intent, and breath were directed toward a single purpose—a single person? He supposed he could tell her he’d been “thinking” of her so fiercely all day long that when he’d seen her standing there in the shadows, gripping the door of Juno’s stall, for a moment he’d wondered if his extreme fatigue and longing had conspired to create a hallucination. And that when she’d startled and he’d caught her, and there’d been no further doubt that the soft, trembling flesh beneath his fingers was absolutely real—he hadn’t been sure how to keep touching her without completely losing control.

But whatever he wished to say, before he could get a word of it out, she turned on her heel and fled.

Just bloody perfect.

After wiping his hands and tossing a word or two to the groom at the entry, he hurried after her. She was halfway up the green by the time he caught up. Head down, arms tucked securely around her middle, she made purposeful strides through the grass. The hem of her frock was damp and translucent, tangling about her ankles. The sight made him thirsty.

“Listen to me,” he said, matching her stride for stride. “You’re welcome to visit the stables any time you wish, but don’t ever sneak in alone like that. The mare you startled—she can be dangerous when provoked. Not only does she kick, she bites. She’s taken a few fingers in her day.”

“Ah. So that’s the key to earning your affection, is it? Perhaps I should try snapping at you, and then I’d merit better treatment.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You’ve been snapping at me since the night we met.”

“Well, then. That hasn’t worked.”

“What do you mean? I’ve married you, haven’t I?”

Her stride hitched. Then she resumed her pace. Then she stopped again.

“You’ve married me, yes. And when you proposed, you told me you wanted a duchess, not a broodmare. Silly me, to assume the former ranked above the latter in your taxonomy.”

He bit off his response, because it would only have angered her further. It would doubtless be a very grave error to tell her he found her pronunciation of “taxonomy” indescribably arousing.

Huffing at his silence, she turned and forged on. And now Spencer was beginning to find the entire conversation gratifying.

She was jealous. Envy was the farthest thing from fear. It implied she wanted more from him, not less. She’d come out to the stables looking for him. By her own admission, she’d been thinking of him all day.

“For two people married a total of four days,” he observed, catching up to her again, “we seem to argue a great deal.”

“Are you expecting me to apologize?”

“No. I rather enjoy it.” And he did. He loved the give-and-take of it, their even match of wits, the responses she provoked from him. She drew him out of his own head and forced him to interact, in a way few people could do. And then there was the lovely pink of her cheeks and the way a defiant posture emphasized her bosom. He enjoyed those things, too. “But I think we’re just using it as a substitute.”

“A substitute? For what?”

“For what we’re not doing.” He lifted one eyebrow and slid his gaze down her body.

“Is that all you ever think about? Getting me in a bed?”

“Lately? Yes. Just about.”

She shot him a glare that didn’t quite disguise her satisfied blush. He allowed himself to fall behind a few steps, that he might enjoy the brisk sway of her hips as she walked. Perhaps this day hadn’t been so fruitless after all.

He followed her to the back of the service wing, where she approached the nearest entrance, a small door at the rear. She pulled a key from her chatelaine and fit it in the lock. How did she know the house so well, so quickly? Damn, Spencer had lived at Braxton Hall for almost fifteen years, and he’d never even used this door.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they navigated a dim, narrow corridor.

She turned and stared at him. “The kitchen, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.” Shaking his head, Spencer followed her into the kitchen and watched as Amelia went to a cupboard and pulled out two covered dishes. She set them on the butcher-block counter in the center of the room, then snagged a plate and flatware from a shelf.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, watching her arrange a single place setting, then pour a large glass of wine.

“No, you are.”

She whipped the cover from a platter of cold meats. Spencer counted ham, roasted beef, chicken legs, tongue …

“No lamb,” she said. “And there’s bread.”

He stared at the growing buffet before him. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

“Beg pardon?” Using the side of her wrist, she brushed back a stray lock of hair.

“Out in the stables. You said you’d waited up to speak with me.”

“It will keep until morning. Here’s pickle.”

“No,” he said, bracing his hands on the wood surface. “No, I don’t think it will keep. It was important enough to keep you up late, drive you out of the house in search of me. What was it?”

Ignoring his question, she plunked a small crock down on the table. “Butter.”

“For God’s sake, I’m not interested in butter!”

“Very well.” She took the crock away.

He thrust a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Amelia. What’s going on?”

“Why won’t you eat?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you treat me like you treat your horses?”

He could only stare at her.

Looking a bit embarrassed, she crossed her arms and regarded the ceiling.

“Why don’t I treat you …” He shook his head to clear it. “Here’s a thought. Perhaps because you’re not a horse?”

“No, I’m not. In your view, it would seem I am some lesser creature by far. At least the horses are turned out now and then.”

She grabbed the butter crock again and thunked it down on the table, reaching for a knife. With her other hand, she split open a roll. “No one eats in this house,” she muttered. She dipped her knife in butter and coated the bread with short, tense strokes. “I may not be a woman of any exceptional accomplishment. Nor do I possess a great deal of beauty or grace. But I’m good at this.” She leveled the knife at him. “Planning menus, managing a household, entertaining guests. Taking care of people. And you would deny me the chance to do any of it.”

“I haven’t denied you anything.” Good Lord. If anyone was being denied in this marriage, it was him.

“You’ve denied me everything! I’ve been removed to the country, away from all my family and friends. My meals are spurned, as are my overtures of friendship. I’m not permitted to host guests. You wouldn’t even allow me to make a silly little seat cushion.” She threw the knife down, and it landed with a loud clatter. “What does it signify to you, anyway?”

“Amelia …”

“And that’s another thing. The horses are ‘my dear,’ ‘my sweet,’ ‘my pet.’ I’m just Amelia.” She pronounced the name in an exaggerated drawl, mimicking his deep voice.

Spencer’s chin jerked. She’d overheard him in the stables? How long had she been standing there? The thought of her eavesdropping on him inflamed his irritation.

“Just Amelia,” he repeated. “Very well, I confess to the egregious offense of addressing you by your Christian name. But with God as my witness, I have never referred to you, in speech or in thought, as ‘just’ anything.”

She set her jaw.

“Do you wish me to address you in endearments, then? Do you truly want to be known as ‘my dear,’ ‘my darling,’ ‘my pet’? I cannot yet truthfully call you my wife.”

“No,” she said. “You are right. Insincerely uttered endearments are much worse than none at all. Please forget I ever voiced the complaint.” She took an angry sip of wine. And then another. “I’m tired of arguing.”

“So am I.” Rounding the table, he came to stand directly in front of her. Heat built between their bodies. He took the wineglass from her hand, brushing her hand with his fingertips. Just that simple touch electrified him. God, he was more than taken with her. He was damn near consumed.

Never breaking eye contact, he drained the remaining wine. As she watched him, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Spencer casually set aside the wineglass, and tension all but audibly crackled between them. He thought it might have been the last dregs of his patience, evaporating into the air.

“Well?” he said darkly.

She didn’t miss the alteration in his tone. Anxiety overtook her expression. She blinked furiously, looking everywhere but at him. Reaching for the butter crock, she said, “I should clean up here.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Leave it.”

She gasped, and the breathy sound stoked his desire. He wanted to make her gasp again. And again. Moan, whimper, call out his name.

Eyes widening with apprehension, she tugged against his grip. “Then I’ll just go to bed.”

Lifting her into his arms was the work of an instant. Oh, and the gasp she gave that time—it made his blood sizzle.

“Not without me, you won’t.”

Chapter Thirteen

“You can’t do this,” Amelia protested, even as Spencer carried her swiftly up the stairs, proving he could, quite easily, do this.

At the top of the staircase, he turned in the direction of her suite.

“You gave me your word,” she said breathlessly. “If you break it now, I’ll never be able to trust you.”

“Damn it,” he growled, shouldering open the door to her parlor, “stop pretending you don’t want this, too. You’re so wet for me beneath those skirts, I can taste it from here.”