“I’m hardly the one to complain,” Simeon said, “given as I do not conform to all the customs of an English gentleman.”
“Obviously.”
“My mother tells me that I greatly underestimated your complaint regarding Nerot’s Hotel and that, in fact, ladies stay in such establishments only while traveling outside London. I had no idea from your protest that the experience was prohibited for women.”
“Is it my fault, then? I should have been more vehement?”
Simeon opened his mouth. Paused. “I should have listened to you?” he suggested.
There was a hint of a smile on her lips. “You must have worn a cravat at Eton.”
“Of course I did. But that feels like a lifetime ago. I am who I am because of the places I have been. And Eton is just a tiny kernel of my past. I’m fond of English seasons. There were times in the midst of the desert when I almost cried to remember how beautiful our rain can be. But the core of me was shaped by the deserts of Abyssinia, by the sands of India.”
She sighed.
“I know,” he said, nodding. “That’s why I thought it was better to bring up the question of annulment rather than let it fester silently between us.”
“Why don’t you wish to marry me?” she asked bluntly, looking up at him.
He opened his mouth but she raised her hand. “Please don’t tell me once again that you are offering me an annulment for my sake. I know precisely the weight you put on my opinion; it was eloquently expressed by your absence in the past years.”
He deserved that. And she deserved the truth.
“I am beautiful,” she added with a pugnacious kind of honesty that suggested it was second nature to her. “I am a virgin. And we are married. So why would you wish to annul that ceremony?”
“The desert changed me.”
She waited, and he had the feeling that it was only by a masterful effort of self-control that she didn’t curl her lip. Well, it did sound insane. Put that together with his virginity…“I met a great teacher named Valamksepa, when I first traveled to India. He taught me a great deal about what it means to be a man.”
“Ah,” she said. “A man is obviously not defined by his wig or his legs. So do tell me, what is the measure of a man?”
Her voice was calm, but underneath were banked fires. He was right to annul the marriage.
“A man is measured by his ability to control himself,” he said, not allowing the scorn in her eyes to shake him. “I wish to be the sort of man who never falls prey to his baser emotions.”
She looked a little confused.
“Anger,” he told her. “Fear. Lust.”
“You want to avoid anger? How will you do that?”
He grinned. “Oh, I feel anger. The key is not to act on it, not to let it affect me or become an intrinsic part of my life.”
“But what has this to do with me?”
They’d reached the stickler. “I was taught,” he said carefully, “that a man comes to his life with many choices. Only a fool believes that fate gives him his hand of cards. We make decisions every day.”
“And?”
“Marriage is one of the most important. If you and I were to marry—really marry—I would want to undergo the marriage ceremony with you because it marks that important decision. It was something I should never have left to a proxy. Those are my vows to make and to keep.”
“Or not to make at all,” she said flatly. “The fact is, Cosway, that your decision after meeting me is not to make those vows. Am I right?”
“I—”
“You were initially happy to go through with a wedding ceremony,” she said. “Yet now you talk of annulment.”
She was playing with her glove again, pulling the fingers straight. A flare of fire went up from his belly. That small hand was—his. His to unglove, his to kiss, his to…His.
He glanced down at his coat to make sure it was thoroughly buttoned. “You are not what I expected,” he said bluntly. “My mother sent me a miniature once we were married. That’s how I recognized you at Strange’s house.”
“I remember. I sat for it while I was still living with your mother.”
“You looked sweet and docile. Fragile, really.”
Isidore’s eyes narrowed.
She had suddenly realized precisely why her so-called husband had initiated talk of annulments. He didn’t think she was sweet or docile. And he was right.
“My parents had both died several months before the portrait was painted,” she pointed out. “Likely I was fragile. Am I to apologize that I have now recovered from that event?”
“Of course not. I was merely explaining my mistaken impression.”
Isidore just stopped herself from tossing her head like an offended barmaid. “During my brief time in your mother’s house, she continually expressed her doubt that I would develop the qualities of a good wife. I gather you agree.”
“I’m afraid that she turned her wish into reality.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s written to me regularly over the years, far more so than you have, I might add.”
Her mouth did drop open and she leapt to her feet. “You dare to criticize me for not writing you!”
“I didn’t mean to criticize—” Simeon said, rising as well.
Isidore took a step toward him. “You? You who never wrote me even a line? You who sent the letters I did write you straight to your solicitors, since I received answers from them? You dare suggest I should have written you more frequently?”
There was a moment of silence. “I didn’t think of it in that fashion.”
“You didn’t think of it. You didn’t think of writing to your wife?”
“You’re not really my wife.”
With that, Isidore completely lost her temper. “I bloody well am your wife! I am the only wife you have, and let me tell you, annulment will not be an easy business. What kind of fool are you? When you agreed to that proxy marriage, you agreed to having a wife. I was there, even if you weren’t. The ceremony was binding!”
“I didn’t mean that.”
It only made her more furious that he showed no signs of getting angry himself. She took a deep breath. “Then what precisely did you mean?”
“I suppose I have a queer idea of marriage.”
“That goes without saying,” Isidore snapped.
“I’ve seen a great deal of marriage. And I’ve spent a great deal of time assessing which marriages are the most successful. It seems absurdly obtuse, but for some reason I thought I had one of those marriages.”
“You just said,” Isidore noted with exaggerated patience, “that we weren’t married at all. With whom did you have this perfect marriage?”
“Well, with you. Except it wasn’t really with you; I see that now. The combination of that miniature and my mother’s descriptions—”
“Just what did your mother say about me?” Isidore demanded.
He looked at her.
“You might as well tell me the worst.”
“She never said a bad thing about you.”
“Now I am surprised.”
