The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

When Mrs. Crayton had removed her garrulous self from the room, Kate yanked off the expensive bonnet and flung it on a chair. The blue-velvet cloak that Julien had bought for her she tossed in a heap on top of the bonnet. She sank down into the soft cushions of the settee that faced the fireplace and idly looked about her for an object to fling at Julien, were he to present himself. She looked fondly at a small gilded mirror that hung over the mantel but thought pessimistically that he would handily duck it were it to be hurled at his head. She found the mental image evoked by such a confrontation so comical that she couldn’t long maintain her anger at him and his officious confidence. She even found herself thinking somewhat philosophically that it would have been most unlike Julien to forget so important an item as accommodations for their wedding trip. She wondered, indeed, if he ever forgot any detail. He had even attended to acquiring the perfectly fitted satin undergarments that felt so delightfully luxurious against her skin, so very different from the stout cotton she’d worn until just days ago.

She sighed and said to the crackling fire, “Well, my girl, there is no way of getting around the fact that you’re married. I guess once married, one stays married and makes the best of it.”

The fire crackled and popped. She instantly took exception to her own conclusions, for they reeked of capitulation, of nauseating submission. Nothing had changed between them. She wouldn’t allow him to bend her to his will. As this resolve brought with it an unsettling sense of dissatisfaction, she closed her eyes and concentrated on thinking about absolutely nothing.

When she appeared in the cozy dining room, closer to two hours than one after they had parted, she saw Julien standing in front of the long windows, his back to her, gazing out into the darkness, his hand holding back the dark-blue drapery, an elegant hand with long fingers, a man’s hand with strength and power. He turned as her rustling skirts announced her presence, and she was momentarily taken aback by the very serious expression on his face. But in an instant the expression was gone, and he strolled, as indolent as a lizard lazing about beneath a bright sun, to where she stood, took her hand in his, and kissed her fingers.

“How very beautiful you are tonight, my dear. Do you find your bedchamber to your liking?”

“I fear, Julien, that you compliment the gown you chose rather than its wearer. I’m just me, the same me you met in breeches and that old hat.”

“I know it well. Know too that I very thoroughly appraised the wearer long before I purchased the gown. Do tell me, do you find your bedchamber adequate?”

“If you had ever seen my bedchamber at Brandon Hall, you wouldn’t ask such a question. It’s charming, more than charming. It’s quite the nicest bedchamber I’ve ever seen in my life, and doubtless you know that.”

“I trust you’ll also find the sherry delightful,” he said, handing her a glass. “It’s really quite excellent. The Conte Bellini’s cellar rivals that of St. Clair.”

“Who is this Conte Bellini person?”

“A friend of mine. We’ve done business together and, of course, gamed and caroused together in Milan.”

No surprise there, but she knew he was baiting her. She managed not to swallow the bait, saying instead, “Ah, something else. Mrs. Crayton informed me that not only are she and Mr. Crayton in your household staff in London but they’ve been here for nearly a week. You told them, my lord, you actually told them while you were still in London that you were getting married in Paris. That passes all bounds, Julien. Your conceit and arrogance make you a candidate for the gallows, my gallows.”

A sleek brow shot up in seeming surprise. “What bounds? Me, arrogant? Gallows? I don’t begin to understand you, wife. Surely you would wish to have all in readiness for you when we arrived here.”

“That isn’t at all the point, as you very well know. You told them in London, damn you.”