Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(65)

“I don’t want a chaperone. That’s never any fun.”

“Yes, Beatrix, that’s the purpose of a chaperone.”

“Well, in our family, anyone who chaperoned me would probably need a chaperone more than I do.”

Leo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

Rare was the occasion when her brother was unable to argue a point.

Repressing a grin, Beatrix strode toward the house.

Christopher had forgiven Beatrix before he had even reached Phelan House. He was well aware that Beatrix was accustomed to nearly unqualified freedom, and she had no wish to be reined in any more than that devil of a horse had. It would take time for her to adjust to restrictions. He had already known that.

But he had been too rattled to think clearly. She meant too much to him—she was his life. The thought of her being hurt was more than his soul could bear. The shock of seeing Beatrix nearly killed, the overwhelming mixture of terror and fury, had exploded through him and left him in chaos. No, not chaos, something far worse. Gloom. A gray, heavy fog had enclosed him, suffocating all sound and feeling. He felt as if his soul were barely anchored in his body.

This same numb detachment had happened from time to time during the war, and in the hospital. There was no cure for it, except to wait it out.

Telling the housekeeper that he didn’t want to be disturbed, Christopher headed to the dark, quiet sanctuary of the library. After searching through the sideboard, he found a bottle of Armagnac, and poured a glass.

The liquor was harsh and peppery, searing the inside of his throat. Exactly what he wanted. Hoping it would burn through the chill in his soul, he tossed it back and poured a second.

Hearing a scratch at the door, he went to open it. Albert crossed the threshold, wagging and snorting happily. “Useless mongrel,” Christopher said, bending to pet him. “You smell like the floor of an East End tavern.” The dog pushed back against his palm demandingly. Christopher lowered to his haunches and regarded him ruefully. “What would you say if you could talk?” he asked. “I suppose it’s better that you don’t. That’s the point of having a dog. No conversation. Just admiring gazes and endless panting.”

Someone spoke from the threshold behind him, startling him. “I hope that’s not what you’ll expect . . .”

Reacting with explosive instinct, Christopher turned and fastened his hand around a soft throat.

“. . . from a wife,” Beatrix finished unsteadily.

Christopher froze. Trying to think above the frenzy, he took a shivering breath, and blinked hard.

What in God’s name was he doing?

He had shoved Beatrix against the doorjamb, pinning her by the throat, his other hand drawn back in a lethal fist. He was a hairsbreadth away from delivering a blow that would shatter delicate bones in her face.

It terrified him, how much effort it took to unclench his fist and relax his arm. With the hand that was still at her throat, he felt the fragile throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, and the delicate ripple of a swallow.

Staring into her rich blue eyes, he felt the welter of violence washed away in a flood of despair.

With a muffled curse, he snatched his hand from her and went to get his drink.

“Mrs. Clocker said you’d asked not to be disturbed,” Beatrix said. “And of course the first thing I did was disturb you.”

“Don’t come up behind me,” Christopher said roughly. “Ever.”

“I of all people should have known that. I won’t do it again.”

Christopher took a fiery swallow of the liquor. “What do you mean, you of all people?”

“I’m used to wild creatures who don’t like to be approached from behind.”

He shot her a baleful glance. “How fortunate that your experience with animals has turned out to be such good preparation for marriage to me.”

“I didn’t mean . . . well, my point was that I should have been more considerate of your nerves.”

“I don’t have nerves,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry. We’ll call them something else.” Her voice was so soothing and gentle that it would have caused an assortment of cobras, tigers, wolverines, and badgers to all snuggle together and take a group nap.

Christopher gritted his teeth and maintained a stony silence.

Pulling what looked like a biscuit from the pocket of her dress, Beatrix offered it to Albert, who bounded over to her and took the treat eagerly. Leading the dog to the door, she gestured for him to cross the threshold. “Go on to the kitchen,” she said in an encouraging tone. “Mrs. Clocker is going to feed you.” Albert was gone in a flash.

Closing and locking the door, Beatrix approached Christopher. She looked fresh and feminine in a lavender dress, her hair neatly swept up with combs. One could not fathom a different picture from the outlandish girl in breeches.

“I could have killed you,” he said savagely.

“You didn’t.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“You didn’t do that, either.”

“God, Beatrix.” Christopher went to sit heavily at a hearthside chair, glass in hand.

She followed him in a rustle of lavender silk. “I’m not Beatrix, actually. I’m her much nicer twin. She said you could have me from now on.” Her gaze flickered to the Armagnac. “You promised not to drink spirits.”