Free Amanda Scott by The Bath Quadrille Page B

stirred beside her, making himself comfortable, she stiffened, suddenly completely aware of where she was and what was happening. Her firm control was slipping. She knew it and did not know what to do to prevent it. Anything she might say to him might provoke a quarrel or another sort of confrontation altogether, one that would be at the same time exciting and frightening. Her body wanted his, wanted to press closer to his, to urge him to do things she remembered with anxious desire. But if that was to happen, he would expect … What would he expect? Was this not the way it had begun before?
    She straightened, trying to move away, but the arm around her shoulders held her in place. “Please, Ned,” she said gruffly, “I will spill my wine.” Then, to show him how awkward it was for her to sip, she drank off what was left in the glass.
    He chuckled. “You’ll soon be tipsy if you keep that up, but give me your glass, and I’ll get you some more.”
    Since it meant that he would move away, if only for a moment, she obeyed him, and when he returned with the wine, she had slid into the corner of the sofa and turned so that he could not resume his seat so closely beside her.
    He handed her her glass. “What are you doing?”
    “I think that question ought more properly to come from me to you, sir,” she said quietly. The brief moment had been enough. She was in control of her senses again, but she knew well enough that her control would last only so long as he did not touch her. “What is your intention tonight, Ned? What do you think is going to happen between us?”
    He stood looking down at her, his expression somber. “You are my wife, Sybilla,” he repeated.
    His tone set off alarm bells in her mind, warning her that at this point it would not do to arouse his temper. She did not think, from what she knew of him, that he would force her, but she had never put that possibility to the test with him, and she had not the slightest wish to discover herself in error. She drew another deep breath, thinking rapidly. Then, at last, quietly, she said, “You have agreed to live separately from me, sir. Will you not hold by your agreement?”
    “I am having some second thoughts,” he admitted.
    “Well, I am not. Only consider,” she added rapidly when his brows drew together again, “how unsuited we are to live together. Only remember the quarrels, the shouting. We do not get on together, Ned, for the simple reason that neither of us is willing to submit to the other.”
    “The right to command submission is mine,” he reminded her. “ ’Tis your duty to submit.”
    “Well, I hope you will not command me,” she retorted frankly, “for I need not remind you that I lack the habit of obedience, and in this house the servants will obey me, not you.”
    For a moment, as she spoke, it had looked as though he might smile, but any look of amusement had passed by the time she finished, and his tone was grim when he said, “Don’t put them to the test, Sybilla. I might not be the master of this house, but I am still your husband. Your duty, as well as your father’s servants’ duty, is to see that you submit to my command. And do not,” he added more harshly, “make the mistake of giving way to that burst of temper I see rising. Such an air of profound indignation does extraordinary things to your décolletage, and the added color in your cheeks is another magnificent addition to your beauty, but if you treat me to one of your tirades, or give way to the temptation—equally obvious to my experienced eye—to throw that wine at me, I’ll be sorely tempted to assert my rights in a way that I know you will not like at all.”
    She gasped, glaring at him in indignation, but he did not look away, and she remembered, belatedly, her resolution not to arouse his temper. Lowering her gaze, she struggled to contain her temper, to think. But rational thought would not come. She thought of Lady Mandeville again instead, of