“More than.” I sit straighter. “Please tell the cook that it was delicious.”
He gives me a sly smile and nods. “I will.”
“Any word from my husband?” I ask.
The butler sighs. Yet again, something that should be a simple answer has him stewing for far too long. “I believe he can make time, five or ten minutes, perhaps. I will start a fire in the study of your wing. You can wait for him there.”
The butler leaves quickly, carrying out the dishes. I stand, and do a lap around the dining table. I suddenly regret asking if I could see Lord Fenwood. What if he’s upset with the demand? What if he wants nothing to do with me and now I have only tempted his ire? I come to a halt and shake my head.
No, if I am to live here, and to be wed to this man, then I have a right to at least meet him once. To know his name. If we have nothing to do with each other day-to-day, that’s fine. But we should at least acknowledge the other’s presence.
Courage gathered, I leave the dining room and head right. To my surprise, the second door is open. A fire crackles in the hearth. Mostly empty bookcases line the walls. A table has been pushed off to the right-hand side, one that I imagine was once situated between the two chairs that are now back-to-back before the fire.
I cross and run my fingertips lightly over the leather. What a strange sitting arrangement… I muse. It isn’t long before I learn why the chairs are arranged in such a manner.
A voice cuts through the silence and my thoughts, resonating deep in my core. It has the same tonal quality as the low growl of a wolf and sparks a prey instinct within me. Run, my better sense urges at the sound. Run far from here, this is not a place for you.
“Do not turn,” he says.
Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder. Instinct, really. When someone speaks, I look. I wasn’t intending to disobey… Not this time, at least.
“I said don’t turn.”
My eyes snap forward again. “I only saw a bit of your shoulder. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Oren has been over the rules, has he not?”
“Yes.” The man I’m speaking to is of tall build, judging from where his shoulder came up to on the doorframe. But that’s all I can tell about him. He’s leaning against the wall to the side of the door, as if he knew I would try and look upon him despite his order.
“This is the final rule that you must know,” he says. “Under no circumstances are you to ever lay eyes on me.”
“What?” I whisper, fighting every urge to look over my shoulder once more.
“Oren informed me that you wished to meet with me. I am obliging you, as is now my duty. However, I will only do so if you swear to never look at me.”
The chairs now make sense. I wonder if he is horribly disfigured. Maybe he’s just cripplingly shy. Whatever the reason, I have no want to make him uncomfortable.
“That’s fine with me.” I take my seat in the wingback that faces the windows, my back to the door. “I’m grateful you took the time to meet with me.”
I hear his footsteps across the floor. He has a wide gait, further confirmation that he’s as tall as I suspected. His steps are light, almost silent. He walks like I do, as if he’s trying to never make a sound. I can’t imagine him being a very muscular man, given his footsteps. No…I’m imagining him as a wiry individual. Not much older than me, judging from the strength of his voice. I try and steal a glimpse of him in the watery reflection of the windows but the room is already much too dark for that. He’s little more than a blurred shadow moving behind me.
The chair behind me sighs softly under his weight. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve never been more aware of anyone’s presence. I have never been more tempted to do anything than turn and look and see if my every assessment about him is correct.
“Now, what is it that you would like to speak about?” he asks, somewhat curtly.
“I merely wanted to meet you, is all,” I say. “It seemed rather odd to be married to someone without ever—” I stop myself from saying “seeing them” and instead say “—speaking to them.”
“You married me without speaking to me, why does it matter now?”
I can’t tell if the fact wounds him or not. Did he hope that I would beg and plead to meet with him before signing the papers? Does he even realize that my fate was sealed with a stroke of a pen that I wasn’t even holding?
“We are going to spend our lives together,” I say. “I’d like to make that as pleasant as possible.”
“There is nothing pleasant here.”
My husband is very cheerful, it seems. I roll my eyes, grateful he can’t see my expression. “You have a nice enough house, wealth enough to do as you please, no one telling you what to do—”
“Don’t presume to know me,” he interjects sharply.
