She said nothing.
“Would you care to drive into Milton Abbas and see the sights?”
She could only stare at him, completely at sea. “Why?”
“We are on our wedding trip,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Surely we should find some enjoyment.”
Victoria had already thought ahead to the long empty hours facing her. There was nothing more he could do to her. “All right.”
“Excellent,” he said, and took another bite of ham. “Perhaps we can have something to eat there.”
There was a moldering old mare in the stable, but Victoria preferred riding even that relic to sitting in the closed carriage. The afternoon was clear, the sky light blue dotted with white clouds. They left Tom Merrifield chatting with Mrs. Ripple, that good woman flushed with pleasure at his attentions.
The weathe
r provided conversation fodder for a good five minutes. When it ran dry, Rafael looked at her profile for a moment, then drew a deep breath and said, “If you shouldn’t mind too much, tomorrow or perhaps the next day we can continue to Cornwall. I wish to stay at Drago Hall for a week or two, that is all. Just to give me enough time to find the land where I want to build my home.”
“Perhaps you will find a house already there that you like,” she said, closing her eyes against the awful return to Drago Hall and Damien and Elaine.
She hadn’t refused outright to go to Drago Hall, and he wondered about that. He’d expected her to shriek invectives when he told her. He looked at her and saw that she was smiling. At what? Damien?
“That appears to please you,” he said, and she heard the suspicion in his voice.
“Yes, it does. I have sorely missed Damaris. I have cared for her a good deal since her birth.”
“Yes, I remember your mentioning her now. You would not mind staying at Drago Hall for a while?”
She chewed on her lower lip, staring between the old mare’s ears.
“Your position would be quite different, you know, from before. I assume you were at Elaine’s beck and call.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mind. After all, until a very short time ago I believed myself a poor relation.”
“Now you are my wife.”
He sounded possessive, and that surprised her. She said nothing.
She felt his hand lightly touch her arm, and she turned to face him. “You are mine, Victoria,” he said again. “I want no more strife between us.”
She looked at his hand, his long fingers. “The strife was of your making, Rafael.”
“That is true. I wish now to unmake it.”
“Do you truly mean it?”
He dropped his hand from her arm. The hopefulness in her voice shook him, made him hate himself, and his deception. Well, it was what he wanted. He wanted her trust. He wanted her to smile again. He wanted to make love to her and then he would see.
“Yes,” he said, “I truly mean it.”
11
I do desire we may be better strangers.
—SHAKESPEARE
The problem, Victoria thought objectively, was that she became besotted when he was with her, notably when he basted her, just as Mrs. Ripple would a birthday ham, with his particular brand of charm. She disliked feeling this way immensely. Rafael didn’t deserve anything but the most rancid of reactions from her after what he had done. She sighed.
He had, in the most sincere manner possible, asked her for a truce.