“Five dozen silver buttons,” Rafe said to her back, as she started up the stairs, the movement of her gown around her rear even more fascinating than those ankles. “Why would you need sixty buttons?”
“It is cheaper to buy them in bulk, as any good merchant’s daughter knows,” she retorted. “One would think he would be grateful, but no, I get nothing but complaints.”
Rafe fought a smile as he climbed the stairs after her. “One jeweled music box,” he read.
“All the best countesses have jeweled music boxes.”
“And do all the best countesses take snuff? You bought a hand-painted enamel snuffbox inlaid with pearls.”
She sniffed. “That was a gift for you, but you’ve upset me so thoroughly, I shan’t give it to you now.”
Maintaining her haughty air, she started up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. Rafe followed, enjoying himself far too much to stop.
“One pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses,” Rafe read out.
“What else would a countess take to the theatre? Oh!” She whirled about so abruptly that Rafe stopped only a few steps down, looking up into her bright blue eyes. “Let’s go to the theatre!”
She looked so earnest and excited that Rafe almost agreed. But of course they couldn’t go to the theatre. They’d both taken enough risks today. Had she forgotten? He could not tell if she genuinely forgot things, or if it was a ploy to distract him.
“No,” he said.
With a sigh, she resumed walking. “I suppose you don’t like the theatre.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, vexingly stung at her disappointment and annoyed that he cared enough to defend himself. “But being around you is theatre enough.”
In the doorway to her dressing room, she turned back. “You like the theatre?”
“A dozen lace handkerchiefs.”
“You cannot announce something astounding like that and not elaborate. It’s insufferable. Do you really like the theatre?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Theatre is so frivolous and you…” She frowned, studying his face. “You never really smile.”
“I smile.” He realized his brows were drawn together so deeply he could see them. He smoothed them out. “Very well,” he said, resuming the game. “Let’s go to the theatre. Tonight.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Well, we can’t go tonight.” She spun and traipsed into her sitting room, with its small heap of parcels by one wall. Rafe followed her. Not quite proper, given they weren’t actually married, but to hell with it. No one would know. For now, they were sheltered by the fiction of their marriage.
“Why not go to the theatre?” he asked.
“Because I don’t have any jewels. London would be horrified to see a countess with no jewels. ‘By George,’ they would say, ‘it must be true he’s a devil, because only a devil would not buy his wife jewels.’ No,” she added firmly, shaking her head. “I simply cannot have them speaking of you like that.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“I am an excellent wife.”
“You are not. You’re not even a good wife. As a wife, you are of little use to me at all.”
Thea’s eyes flickered down to his chest and a faint blush colored her cheeks. He guessed she had understood his meaning. It was wrong to tease her in this way, but he could not bring himself to stop. Not yet. In a moment, he would stop.
She looked back up, nibbling at her lip. She took a step backward. Rafe took a step forward. She brushed her knuckles over her jaw, glanced down at his chest, and away.
Again he stepped forward. Again she stepped back.
“Do you know why men marry women?” he asked.
“Because they’re not allowed to marry their horses?”
Her gaze flickered to his lips, and he realized he was half smiling. “Because among women’s many delightful attributes, they have—”
“The ability to embroider buttons,” she finished, too loudly.
“That too,” he agreed.
Another step forward, another step back, and her shoulders were against the wall. Her gaze roamed over his face, then dropped to his mouth, then lower to his chest. Her skirts brushed against his legs: She was twisting her fingers in them. Her cheeks were a little pink.
“Am I frightening you, Countess?”
“No,” she squeaked. “Though you act like you are hunting me.”
“Ah, but man is a hunter.”
She snorted derisively. “If man is a hunter, why does he sit around expecting other people to serve him? ‘By George,’ he says, ‘I could hunt the cow myself, but instead I’ll send the wife for roast beef.’”