Calypso Magic (Magic Trilogy 2)

He watched Diana prowl toward the French windows and jerk them open. Balmy night air swirled into the room.

"She is mistress here, Diana."

Diana whirled about, her face flushed with renewed anger. "She struck Moira! And for what? Nothing, that's what!"

"What does it matter? Moira is a slave, a possession, a piece of property."

"Don't you condescend to me, Lyonel Ashton! Or use that sarcastic tone. She is a human being with feelings! I know that your poor servants in your precious England are many times treated awfully! I can just imagine how your darling Charlotte treats her servants."

"Are you quite through being snide?"

Diana walked to the armoire and smashed her fist against the pale oak door. "Ow," she muttered, and rubbed her hand.

"Do you feel better?"

"No. I wish it were Deborah's face."

"You are quite fierce, aren't you?"

"I would rather be fierce than act so righteously superior!"

"It is not an act, sweetheart."

She heard the humor in his voice, but refused to acknowledge it. She began unfastening the buttons at her bodice. She was so rough that one button popped off and went flying across the floor.

Lyon looked at her a moment longer, shrugged, and pushed away from the door. They undressed in silence. He watched his wife snatch her nightgown from the armoire and carry it with her behind a screen.

"That is a waste," he called.

Lyon stretched out naked on the cool sheet, his arms above his head. He could hear the sweet song of a nightingale and the muted hissing of the waves. In a few minutes, he would kiss away her upset and love her thoroughly. His member grew enthusiastic at the thought, and he grinned. Moonlight flooded into the room. The flowers smelled sweet. And he was randy as a boy.

"What are you doing, Diana?"

"I am sewing together my nightgown," she called out, her voice nasty.

When she finally emerged, she doused the one lamp and walked slowly toward the bed, her body silhouetted in the shaft of clean moonlight.

"I'm tired," she said, sitting on the far edge of the bed.

"Your bed is somewhat short. I'm not at all tired."

"The bed is just fine for me, and you should be."

"Shut up and come here."

"You have no modesty at all." She inched away from him.

He grabbed a nightgowned shoulder, and as she jumped off the bed and he didn't release the delicate lawn, it tore cleanly, from throat to foot.

"Oh!"

Lyon lay back on the bed. "I told you the gown was a waste. I fancy that is one item of clothing you will have no need for, for at least the next thirty years. Come here, sweetheart. You are in a foul humor and you shouldn't be. You have me, after all."

"You are good for very little."

"I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Did you tell my father the truth? About us?"