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Except, no. She wasn’t thinking of that. She was still on a strict no-kissing regime.

“But,” the Earl went on, “you were meant to have already moved over there.Beforethe wedding.”

The Dowager shuddered in an exaggerated motion. “Why, don’t be ridiculous. Why should I spend one more minute than is strictly necessary in that awful, dour place?”

“It’s a fine house,” the Earl began. His mother spoke right over him.

“Besides, I know you were caught in a compromising position with your—” Now she did finally look at Emily; her eyes were shining with disdain. “—wife,but I rather assumed that you could control yourselves long enough for me to gather my things.”

Emily gasped at the crass implication. How dare this woman…? And about her own son!

The Dowager Countess’ expression flickered between victory and pity, as if Emily were so obviously pathetic that it didn’t even need to be said.

“I warned you to watch your tongue, Mother,” the Earl said tersely. “I will not repeat myself again. If you wish to remain welcome in this house, you will not speak out against my wife again—not overtly nor in implication,” he added when the Dowager Countess opened her mouth, clearly intending to argue that she hadn’t actuallysaidanything untoward.

Emily felt the tiniest flicker of pleasure at being defended.

The Dowager, meanwhile, was clearly furious.

“Fine,” she said, thrusting her nose in the air. “If you wish to be that way, I cannot see that I have any way of stopping you. I shall gather my things and go. I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted.”

“If only that were true,” the Earl muttered under his breath.

Emily wasn’t sure if she was shocked at this or if she wanted to laugh. In the end, she was blessedly free from having to choose as the housekeeper (a brilliant woman, Emily decided, who need a raise posthaste) took that moment to draw Emily aside with a detailed question about the upcoming week’s menus that could have easily waited another day…or three.

Despite the distinct lack of urgency to the task, Emily let herself be drawn into a lengthy conversation about butchers and cuts of meat, grateful both for the comfortable terrain and for the distraction from her new mother-in-law’s departure.

For, indeed, by the time Emily was returned to her husband’s side, his mother had (with several annoyed sighs that went unanswered) decamped for her temporary lodgings at the dower house. And if the Earl looked slightly put out, Emily decided to believe this was because his mother was (it must be said) rather trying and not because he’d been abandoned barely an hour into his marriage.

“There you are,” he said irritably when she found him pacing in the upstairs hallway, putting an end to Emily’s pleasant fiction that he hadn’t been irritated at her. “Where were you?”

“My apologies, My Lord,” she murmured politely. “I was speaking with the housekeeper regarding my domestic obligations.”

To her surprise, this made his frown deepen. Goodness gracious, if he wasn’t the most impossible man alive! Weren’t men meant to be pleased when their wives did…wifely things? But oh no, notthisman. When she was quarrelsome, he didn’t like it; when she was demure, healso didn’t like it.

Maybe he had some sort of rare medical condition, she allowed, one that had rotted the part of his brain that most people dedicated to not being utter prats all the time. Perhaps a medical journal would like to write about him. She should make inquiries.

“What?” she demanded, her resolve to behave correctly weakening under the weight of her frustration.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he said, his annoyed mumble containing a hint of sheepishness.

What in the…? She had no idea what he was on about. “Call youwhat?” she asked.

“’My Lord,’” he replied. Whatever bashfulness he might have felt over this current absurdity was quickly being overwritten by snappishness. How utterly typical. “You shouldn’t call me that. I’m your husband. It’s ridiculous.”

That was… Well, it was annoyingly reasonable in a way that made her want to snap at him. She summoned the part of herself that had spent a lifetime practicing how to not shout at the twins seventy-four times per day and took a deep breath before responding.

“What would you prefer I call you?” she asked, her tone remarkably controlled if she did say so herself.

He scowled again, but this one seemedpro forma. “My name is Benedict,” he said. “Try that.”

She had to take another deep breath.

“Very well,” she said. “Benedict.”

She’d meant for the word to come out exasperated. For one, shewasexasperated. He didn’t need, after all, to be so eager to jump to offense. For another, it seemed a way to show that she wasonto him, that she understood his cantankerousness was more bark than bite while remaining within the bounds of propriety.

Instead, it came out…