It's in His Kiss (Bridgertons 7)

It had been exactly his purpose, and for that reason Gareth didn’t say anything. Not a word.

“You’ll rue this,” Hyacinth hissed. “You will rue the day. Trust me.”

“Oh, really?”

“As your future wife,” she said, her eyes flashing dangerously, “I can make your life hell on earth.”

Of that, Gareth had no doubt, but he decided to deal with that problem when he came to it. “This is not about what happened between us earlier,” he said, “and it is not about anything you may or may not have heard the baron say. What this is about—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Hyacinth cut herself off in the nick of time. “Who do you think you are?”

He jammed his face next to hers. “The man who is going to marry you. And you, Hyacinth Bridgerton soon-to-be St. Clair, will never ever wander the streets of London without a chaperone, at any time of day.”

For a moment she said nothing, and he almost let himself think that she was touched by his concern for her safety. But then, she just stepped back and said, “It’s a rather convenient time to develop a sense of propriety.”

He resisted the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake—barely. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I came back around the corner, and you were gone? Did you even stop to think about what might have happened to you before you ran off on your own?”

One of her brows lifted into a perfectly arrogant arch. “Nothing more than what happened to me right here.”

As strikes went, it was perfectly aimed, and Gareth nearly flinched. But he held on to his temper, and his voice was cool as he said, “You don’t mean that. You might think you mean it, but you don’t, and I’ll forgive you for it.”

She stood still, utterly and completely still save for the rise and fall of her chest. Her hands were fists at her sides, and her face was growing redder and redder.

“Don’t you ever,” she finally said, her voice low and clipped and terribly controlled, “speak to me in that tone of voice again. And don’t you ever presume to know my mind.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a claim I’m seldom likely to make.”

Hyacinth swallowed—her only show of nerves before saying, “I want you to leave.”

“Not until I have your promise.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Mr. St. Clair. And you certainly are not in a position to make demands.”

“Your promise,” he repeated.

Hyacinth just stared at him. How dare he come in here and try to make this about her? She was the injured party. He was the one who—He—

Good God, she couldn’t even think in full sentences.

“I want you to leave,” she said again.

His reply came practically on top of her last syllable. “And I want your promise.”

She clamped her mouth shut. It would have been an easy promise to make; she certainly didn’t plan on any more middle-of-the-night jaunts. But a promise would have been akin to an apology, and she would not give him that satisfaction.

Call her foolish, call her juvenile, but she would not do it. Not after what he’d done to her.

“Good God,” he muttered, “you’re stubborn.”

She gave him a sickly smile. “It is going to be a joy to be married to me.”

“Hyacinth,” he said, or rather, half sighed

. “In the name of all that is—” He raked his hand through his hair, and he seemed to look all around the room before finally turning back to her. “I understand that you’re angry…”

“Do not speak to me as if I were a child.”

“I wasn’t.”