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There it was again, that flicker of hurt in her expression. He felt his own matching flicker of regret, but her sharp words brushed away both his reaction and hers.

“A child,” she repeated, humorless laugh grating. “That’s what you see me as, isn’t it?”

It really, really was not, but Benedict was trying not to think about all the ways he knew—intimately—that she was a woman, fully grown, and as tempting a one as he’d ever known.

“Because you meant it the way you said it first, I gather,” she went on, staring defiantly up at him. “These are rules, rules you intend to lay down like I am some—some misbehaving schoolgirl who needs to be shown the error of her ways. Well. Allow me to explain some of my personal rules toyou.”

She stepped into his space, the movement a clear challenge. She still had to crane her neck to look up at him, but her height meant that she didn’t need to do it with quite the acuity that another woman would have required.

“You are—and trust me when I tell you I get no pleasure from admitting it,” she continued, “right about some things. You will have my fidelity. And I do not intend to do anything to sabotage this marriage—or my sisters’ prospects for marriage—by makingour private disagreements public. We will, as you say, present a unified face to the world.”

Her words were conciliatory, but every single other thing about her made it more than clear that he was not going to like what she had to say next.

“But if you think—if you even presume tosuspect—that you can tell me how I am or am not allowed to feel?” Her face melted into a sneer. “Well. I daresay, My Lord, that you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of disappointment. Don’t say I did not warn you.”

She was breathing heavily as though chiding him had taken a great deal of physical strength. It made her bosom heave over the neckline of her perfectly appropriate day dress—and damn him to hell for noticing it. His reluctant attention to her physical form sparked his irritation all the higher.

“I don’t know why you’re arguing with me, Emily,” he snapped back at her. “Are you being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn? Because if there is any other reason, pray, enlighten me—for I cannot see it. Youknowwhat I sought in a bride; you went into this with your eyes open. Do not now turn around and pretend like a blindfold has come off. It’s ridiculous and unbecoming.”

“Ridiculous and unbecoming,” she scoffed. “Well, that’s me told, isn’t it? After a lifetime of being called a wallflower, a spinster, a nag, a giantess, a poor motherless dove—” Her gazes grew as incisive as a knife. “—a secret temptress hiding behind apolite façade, well, yes, Benedict. After being called all those things, I am simplydistraughtat being thought ridiculous and unbecoming.”

Benedict felt strangely caught between emotions. On one hand, he wanted to shake her. Shewasbeing ridiculous. Itwasunbecoming—at least, mostly. But he also wanted to slap himself for turning those comments about her tempting nature, which he’d made while his tongue was turned honest by lust, into weapons to be used against her.

And he wanted to do more than slap anyone else who had thrown careless cruelty in her direction.

This was about two and a half more feelings than he was comfortable experiencing at one time, so he tamped them down and gritted his teeth.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” he told her.

“Melodramatic!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands melodramatically. She really did have a tendency to do that, he noted—to repeat his words and gesture outrageously—when annoyed. In this case, however, she was standing close enough that he was lucky he didn’t lose an eye.

She stalked a few steps away from him as she continued to gesticulate (fortunate, that, for the state of his face) expostulating on his apparent absurdity to the empty breakfast room.

“I’m melodramatic?” she asked his untouched plate of eggs and kippers. “And this, coming from a man who solemnly sat me down to breakfast to announce what feelings I am and am not allowed to experience?”

She whirled on him again, the heat of her anger scorching. This was, he supposed, marginally preferable to her shouting at breakfast foods.

“Do you really not see how this is insane?” she demanded. “Or are you so wrapped up in self-importance that you truly, honestly believe yourself able to dictate the emotions of those around you?”

He took a step forward this time—because, damn it, he wasn’t going to be perpetually retreating, not in his own house with his own blasted wife—bringing him within arm’s reach of her.

“Do not insult me, Emily,” he warned. “I won’t stand for it.”

“Why not?” she returned. “I thought you were not a hypocrite. And you have insulted me most dreadfully.”

Again, there was that flicker, the one that looked like pain. She ducked her head—he didn’t like it—and turned as if she was going to brush past him. He liked that even less. He reached out and grabbed her arm, staying her movement. She froze, even though his grip wasn’t very tight at all, and looked back up at him.

He was, he realized, frankly horrified by it, going to kiss her.

This was obviously a very bad idea. Excessive kissing—and things beyond kissing—was what had gotten them into this situation in the first place. If he hadn’t kissed her the first time, they’d not be married at all. (Benedict resolutely ignored the part of him that wondered if that was actually as preferable an outcome as he thought.) If he hadn’t kissed her the second time, the first incident could have been disregarded as an outlier.

And if he’d kept his damned hands to himself the night prior, he wouldn’t have generated any expectations. They could have calmly discussed their plans for their marriage then could have enjoyed a peaceful, appropriate marriage night, without any of the…additional nonsense that had left him tossing and turning all night long.

Kissing Emily had a proven record of mucking things up for Benedict. Well established. No evidence to the contrary.

He was going to do it anyway.

His hands were already reaching for her, his traitorous mind already wondering if she’d like behind grasped by her sweet, round arse as much as she’d liked being gripped by her hair. He could practically already feel the way she melted against him, soft and eager—and wasn’t that so much nicer, for both of them, really, than this shouting and squabbling?