BLACKTHORNE WONDERED WHO was taming whom. Over the past week, he’d allowed a cat and her kittens to set up house in his wife’s bedroom. He’d cleaned and furnished the gatekeeper’s cottage and installed three young girls with a governess to watch over them during the day, so his housekeeper could be available to continue her work at the Abbey. And he’d made a special trip back to his tenant’s home with Josie, to deliver a colorful selection of silk ribbons to Mr. Moreland’s daughters, which she’d personally woven into each delighted child’s hair.
And he’d done it all to please his wife.
Blackthorne had found himself reveling in the enchanting smile that appeared on her face in each instance. For the kittens. For their housekeeper’s sisters. For the little girls receiving their silk hair ribbons. He’d waited for her to turn that dimpled smile on him. He’d yearned for it. And been left wanting.
Blackthorne couldn’t imagine any duchess of his acquaintance concerning herself with a few flea-bitten cats (which she’d divested of their fleas), or the housekeeper’s kin (for whom he’d been named guardian), or hair ribbons for a tenant’s children (which he’d driven her into town to personally select). His wife was turning his world on its ear. She seemed to care about everyone and everything at the Abbey. Except him.
He hadn’t noticed at first that Josie was avoiding his company, because they’d both been busy over the past week in their separate spheres of activity. He’d spent hours every day locked in his study with his steward. She spent her days supervising the housekeeper and the cook, searching the attic for treasures and figuring out what needed to be ordered to bring the kitchen into the nineteenth century. He was stunned when it dawned on him that she was only speaking to him in response to questions he addressed to her.
He’d thought relations between them would improve after the intimate moments they’d shared in the loft. But he and his wife were further apart than ever. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. He’d spent every night sleeping by himself, having discovered, after surreptitiously checking each evening, that the door between his bedroom and hers was locked.
He paced the floor of his bedroom for the umpteenth time, wondering if it was worth the effort to check the door tonight. And if it was locked? Was he going to knock? Was he going to ask his wife—beg her—to let him in?
He’d be damned before he did any such thing! To hell with her. If she didn’t want him, that was her loss.
Blackthorne untied his Sulka robe and threw it onto the foot of the bed, then buttoned his nightshirt the rest of the way up the front. He shoved both hands through his hair, leaving it standing on end, as he went over everything that had happened between them since their marriage, wondering what he could have done differently.
Why hadn’t he pressed his advantage in the loft? He’d felt Josie’s pulse racing in her throat, seen her eyes glazed with passion, watched her desire rising. Why had she stopped him? What was it about him that she found wanting?
He’d always thought that getting to know the girl who’d captured his heart with her courage would be a dream come true. It was turning out to be more of a nightmare.
He’d been the soul of patience, not pressing Josie for explanations he felt he deserved. Where had she been all this time? Why hadn’t she admitted who she was when she’d applied to be his bride? And why had she married him, especially when she didn’t seem to particularly like him?
Blackthorne put a hand to his chest. He’d never realized a heart could actually, physically ache with hurt. After all the disaster in his life so far, he hadn’t believed he would ever let himself get close enough to anyone to suffer this kind of pain again. But then, he’d never imagined ending up married to someone he admired but who, apparently, had such a low opinion of him.
And it wasn’t just his heart she’d trampled. Josie’s rejection of him—and his lovemaking—had touched his pride. When he’d married Fanny, he could have had his choice of any female he wanted with the mere crook of his finger. When he’d decided to marry a mail-order bride, he hadn’t cared one way or the other what she thought of him, or whether he ever bedded her again, once they’d consummated the marriage.
So why was he obsessing about Josie now? Why was he pacing on the other side of her bedroom door like a stag in rut?
The simple answer was that he wanted her to like him. He wanted her to want him. What he didn’t understand was why it mattered to him. How had she managed to get under his skin in such a short amount of time? How had her opinion come to mean so much to him?
Blackthorne realized that, if he didn’t get out of his bedroom, he was liable to do something stupid. Like breaking down the door and ravishing his wife.
He headed downstairs and only realized when his bare feet left the scruffy Aubusson carpet on the stairs and landed on the cold stone floor below, that he hadn’t bothered to put on any slippers. He also hadn’t bothered to bring a lantern with him. He ended up in the library, where he knew he would find a decanter of brandy on an end table.
He poured himself a drink and slumped down in one of the two chairs facing the fire to contemplate the state of his life.
Why hadn’t he asked Josie those all-important questions about where she’d been all this time, and precisely why she’d married him? What was he waiting for? What was he afraid of?
He’d just swallowed the last of his brandy when he heard a commotion and realized someone was banging on the front door. He looked down at the nightshirt that was all he was wearing and grimaced. He hadn’t even stopped to put on his robe before he’d left his bedroom. In London, his butler would already have answered the door, but he wasn’t sure Harkness could even hear the noise, let alone get to the door before whoever it was gave up and went away.
It suddenly occurred to him that no one would have come to the Abbey at this hour of the night unless it was some sort of emergency. Blackthorne leapt up in alarm, swearing bitterly when he stubbed his toe in the dark. He hastened to the front door, his heart in his throat the whole way, and swore again when the door stubbornly refused to open. He finally managed to free it and found a man standing before him bathed in moonlight.
It took him a moment to recognize the messenger’s livery. When he did, fear rose in his throat and choked him into silence.