Page 205 of Dukes for Dessert

Margaret returned the papers, hands trembling, her thoughts in chaos. Of course, she hadn’t even bothered to look at them, she realized—but, then again, why should she have bothered? She couldn’t see the print in the carriage's darkness, anyway.

And Lord, it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did... After making such a tremendous fuss about it all, why had he so rudely refused to kiss her?

Had he judged her and found her lacking?

Did he regret binding himself to her, after all?

Though why should it matter what he felt for her? Or what he must think of her? She’d chosen him because he’d offered her this union without the usual trappings—without duty, and without attachment. Margaret desired a loveless marriage. She didn’t mean for them to fall madly in love at first sight, and then long to fall into each other’s arms. She certainly didn’t wish to consider a married life, with tots running about the house.

And yet, never in her life had any man ever looked at her with such intensity of expression. Never had she experienced such a fluttering in her belly, such a tightness in her breasts—as she was feeling this moment.

Her heart beat a staccato as she stared at Gabriel’s lips, her gaze lifting to his blue eyes and those brows tilted so devilishly.

Her brow furrowed. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And why, oh why, must she care?

The questions plagued her, though she told herself it was absurd. Preposterous. Outrageous. Completely without merit. So what if he didn’t want to kiss her? Perhaps he had judged her and found her wanting, but why should that matter?

Still, the possibility weighed like stones in her belly—niggled her as well if, the truth be known. He sat there, looking far too unrepentant, and she had the most disconcerting desire to box his ears.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a notion—but yes, yes, she did, and she couldn’t suppress a sudden huff of laughter over the memory of a sweet, young boy who’d once vexed her so thoroughly that she had cursed the encumbrances of her femininity.

“Laughter suits you,” her husband declared.

Margaret shook herself free of her reverie, taken aback by the compliment.

“What are you thinking about?”

Margaret refused to be soothed by flattery—or mollified into sharing her private thoughts. How dare he rebuff her in front of that ill-tempered man, then expect her warmth. She shrugged. “A childhood memory—nothing of importance.”

And then, compelled to, she lifted her chin as she sat forward. “Not that I’m particularly upset over your change of heart, mind you… or your reasons, for that matter, but I hardly appreciated the humiliation of your declination, sirrah.”

He leveled his gaze upon her. “Pardon?”

Margaret inhaled a breath. “It was certainly your prerogative to change your mind—again, might I point out—but you could have advised me well in advance, before I managed to make myself appear the ninny.”

The man knit his brows, feigning obtuseness, but obtuse was something Margaret was quite certain he was not. “Advised you? That I cared to do… what, precisely?”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Kiss me.”

He lifted his brows and turned up those sinfully beautiful lips. Of course, in her anger, it probably sounded like a demand, and Margaret was at once chagrined over the path in which their conversation had veered. “I mean to say. You might have said... before—never mind!”

He lifted his head to peer at her through the shadows, looking too composed, while she, on the other hand, in the space of an instant, had managed to feel even more a fool for her outburst. She groaned, discomfited.

“I thought you would be relieved.”

The mere slant of his brows sent her heartbeat to bedlam. She shrugged, mentally attempting to compose herself. “Of course I am,” she lied.

His lips curved a fraction more, and she cursed him to perdition for it. “Truly?”

“Of course,” she said. “I only—”

“We could remedy it easily, if you so desire?”

Margaret froze. “Remedy?” Her voice sounded strangled, even to her own ears. She stared at Gabriel’s face through the shadows, trying desperately to read his expression. He sat straighter.

“I mean to say, if you should desire a kiss, after all…” His expression was perfectly sober, and more than a trifle compelling. “I am quite willing.”

Margaret waved him away. “How absurd,” she said, though her heart pounded like thunder at her temples. If, in truth, he couldn’t hear it, he must be deaf. “Why ever should you think I wished to kiss you?”