Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(15)

Thrusting his head out into the hall, he looked left and right before snatching her by the arm and dragging her into the room.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

Tugging her arm free, she surveyed him from head to foot, murmuring coolly, “And good evening to you, too. You look well. A little older, but I suppose that is what time does. What the years will bring.” Her gaze lingered on his prominent paunch. “You look…hearty.” For some reason that fact provoked her ire. “I cannot convey my relief to know you haven’t suffered hunger like I have these many years, husband.” She stressed the final word, letting it hang in the air.

His face reddened and a muscle near his eye twitched. He ran a finger over the flesh there, rubbing it fiercely. “Have a care what you say. The walls are thin.”

“Indeed.”

She moved farther into the room, undoubtedly the most lavish accommodations in the establishment if the four-post bed with its brocade counterpane and wood-carved fireplace were any indication. She wouldn’t have guessed such a room existed in the provincial town.

Her gaze flicked back to Bertram, eyeing his green silk dressing robe. “It appears you’ve done well for yourself.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze skeptical. “And you haven’t, I presume?” His tone rang out with a petulance she remembered—had heard him assume when his grandmother rebuked him for his lack of responsibility. Astrid had forgotten how very much like a child he could be. Moody and difficult, given to tantrums and pouts when life failed to meet his expectations. Scarcely a man, she realized. Certainly not a husband to mourn.

“You left me with nothing,” she reminded him, drawing air through her nostrils, fighting to maintain her composure when she wished for nothing more than to bring her palm violently against his face. For all he had done. For all he failed to regret doing. “Nothing bar scandal of course.”

His eyes assessed her with bitter appreciation. “You mean to say you found no protector during my absence? No one to feed and outfit you in proper fashion?”

“No,” she spit the word out, marveling that he knew her so little he thought she would sell herself so that she might wear pretty gowns. She supposed if it came down to outright starvation, she would have done what she must. Heavens knew women before her had resorted to such measures, and she hardly considered herself stronger or in possession of more dignity than they.

“Then you’re far stupider than I thought.” He stared at her for a long moment before tossing back his head with harsh laughter. “Still such a prig, I see. Time hasn’t altered that.” He angled his head as if summoning a distant memory. “As I recall, diddling you was rather a chore. You never could figure out what to do.”

She fought to suppress the stinging heat his words triggered…and the memory. He had made it clear she was a disappointment from their first night together. She blinked long and hard, recalling him moving over her, his actions rough and without rhythm, heedless of the pain involved in that first coupling. She could still smell the moist rush of brandy-soaked breath on her cheek. Hear the harsh grunt of his voice. Can you not do anything besides lie there like a corpse?

Her eyes blinked open, fighting back the memory of that long-ago wedding night—her introduction to sex and precisely what sort of husband her father had chosen for her. Thoughtless, selfish, more child than man.

Heat licked her cheeks. Emotion rose high in her chest. She fought it back, stuffing it back down where she stored other futile feelings.

“Ironic,” she muttered, “I always felt it was something of a chore, too.”

“Pity,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You could have been so much more…exciting.” His eyes raked her with a sad sort of admiration. “Only you never relaxed, never let yourself accept pleasure.”

“Yes, if I had been more like you, I might have exchanged honor in pursuit of pleasure and self-fulfillment, too.”

“Always such a righteous one, weren’t you? Never a misstep.” Clearly, he did not miss the reference to his crime of forgery.

Astrid flushed, thinking of the many mistakes she had made in her life. “I don’t claim to be a saint, but come now, Bertram.” She tsked her tongue. “Stealing another’s identity? Bigamy? I didn’t think even you capable.”

He plopped down in a plush wing chair and threw his arm along the back, unmoved to learn that she knew of his matrimonial plans.

“I’m a realist, m’dear. The monies brought from selling off your jewelry could not be expected to last forever. When opportunities fall in my lap…well, it was fate. Only a fool would pass up such a chance.” His eyes narrowed on her. “It could be quite a profitable venture for you, too.”

“How is that?”

Bertram waved about him. “My fiancée is the daughter of the heir to a prosperous and powerful clan in these parts. Why, when I became engaged to Petra, her father saw that I was moved into this room. Out of respect.”

“What are you saying?”

“My good fortune can be yours,” he explained, his hands fluttering with energy. “Once married to Petra, I can supply you with funds.” At her silence, he continued, “And freedom.” Squeezing a gold band from his finger, he tossed it to her.

She fumbled to catch it in her hand. Studying the familiar ducal crest, she murmured, “Your signet ring.”