Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Brent was shaking his head as he doused the lamps in the sitting room and locked the door to his apartments. Maggie should mind her own business. Of course he was going to speak to Celeste. The last thing he needed now was a mistress. He opened the bedroom door quietly and entered. He was smiling now as he looked toward his bed. He whispered her name, but there was no answer. He lit the lamp beside the door; he didn’t want her to awaken too abruptly. As he straightened, he saw his wife standing in the middle of the bedroom.

In the next instant, the porcelain basin from the commode flew at his head.

NINETEEN

“You bastard.”

He ducked the porcelain basin in the nick of time. It crashed against the wall behind him, shattering at his feet.

“Byrony. What the hell—”

The small lamp from the table beside the bed struck him on the shoulder and bounced off, breaking into two big pieces.

“Byrony, stop it. No, not my brass candlestick.”

He managed to catch the candlestick at its base. In the next moment he was struck full in the chest by his leather-bound copy of The Works of Aristophanes.

He heard her panting, saw her raise his volume of Voltaire to hurl at him. “That’s enough, dammit.” He dashed toward her, ducking Voltaire. He dropped the candlestick and lunged at her. He grabbed her arms, forcing them to her sides.

“I hate you. You miserable, lying—”

He shook her until her head snapped back. “Stop it. What the devil is the matter with you?”

He was too strong for her, but still she struggled. Brent said nothing more, merely waited for her to exhaust herself. “Now,” he said finally, his voice more puzzled than angry, “you will tell me why you suddenly hate me.”

“Let—me—go.”

“No. If you don’t give a good damn about my belongings, I do.” He shook her again as he stared down at her face. Tears were in her eyes, eyes wide and dark and filled with anger and something else. He gentled his voice just a bit. “What is wrong? Why am I a miserable, lying—” He stopped dead in his tracks. Damnation, she’d overheard his foolish discussion with Maggie; he knew it. “You are my wife,” he said, holding her so tightly that she thought her ribs would crack. “You are my wife,” he repeated again.

“Why?”

The one small word was anguished, her anger gone, buried in a haze of misery. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to remember all the stupid things he’d said.

“It was all a mistake,” he began. “I didn’t mean—Maggie was preaching and I—”

“Why did you marry me? Why did you lie to me and tell me that you cared for me? You had a choice, Brent, what you said to Maggie wasn’t true. You had a choice.”

“That isn’t what I meant. You heard us talking.”

“Yes. Wasn’t it ill-bred of me to have woken up and eavesdropped? I suppose one deserves to hear the truth about things when one does that.”

Such a short time ago he’d promised her he’d never hurt her. He’d meant, of course, that he would never hurt her as her father had—but somehow, this seemed just as bad, maybe worse.

“Let me go,” she said again. “I promise I will leave your belongings alone.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I didn’t mean that, precisely. They’re your things too now. Even my Aristophanes. ”

“And what about Celeste? Just what is hers?” Good God, could she be jealous? He supposed that wives should be angry to overhear their husbands talking about their mistresses. And she wasn’t really a wife yet. She was a bride. It was her wedding night and she’d heard him talk about his mistress.

“Celeste,?

? he said very precisely, “is absolutely none of your concern. She has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Now, if I let you go, will you stop acting like a wild thing?”

“Yes,” she said.

Brent released her. She stepped back from him, rubbing her arms. He wondered if he’d bruised her, and frowned.

“Good,” he said. “You will now remember that you are a lady and my wife.”