Page 124 of Snowbound Surrender

“Hmph.” Scarlett closed the book. Did she trust this romantic portrayal, or was it simply a fairy tale?

She leaned her head back on the cushion behind her. There was a chance it might be true. But that didn’t mean love was worth the risk — at least, not for her.

Hunter eased openthe door as he let himself into the house. While he hadn’t been able to see the familiar red brick in the darkness of night, when he stepped into the entrance hall, the home welcomed him like a mother with open arms. Well, like most mothers would. With the exception of his own.

He had always loved this house, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until he had neared it. If only his bride would welcome him, then perhaps he could begin to spend more time here once again, at least when Session was out.

Spicer, his valet, had gone around the back and said he would prepare everything within his chamber before Hunter went up to bed. He was tired — it had been a long trip from London — but he decided a glass of brandy wouldn’t hurt to warm him up some after the frigid air that had made its way into the carriage and through the wrapper around him on the journey here.

He and Lavinia had always preferred this home, and once they were old enough, they chose to spend most of their time here as opposed to the cold, stately home their parents currently occupied and preferred. The oak floorboards creaked under his weight as he strode down the foyer and Oak Hall. He strode through the Green Room, turning left around the inner courtyard until he came to the room that was always home to him — his library. He was surprised when he pushed open the door and found the room warm, the embers in one of the hearths still lit as though the fire had just died out. Had someone been in here — his wife, perhaps? He made his way over through the dim yet familiar room to find the decanter ofbrandy just where it always was and he poured himself a drink. Eyes half closed, he meandered around the furniture to find his favorite chair, the one that knew his body better than any woman ever would.

Seeing the quilt his grandmother had made for him already draped over the chair, it was as though it had been waiting for him. Nothing was quite like coming home.

He bent and sat down, letting out a shout as something moved beneath him.

The body emitted a yelp of its own, before coming off the chair faster than he could have ever anticipated, barreling into him with the ferocity of England’s best wrestler.

“What in the hell?” he shouted as his drink went flying, spilling its amber liquid all over the Aubusson carpet as he came down with a thud beside it. But he was currently more worried about the wildcat atop of him.

“Who are you, you brute?” it yelled, and it took Hunter a moment to recognize the voice. He had heard it before, though not often. It was the anger behind it that allowed familiarity to sink in.

“Scarlett!” he yelled out as he attempted to grab hold of her wrists to keep her from continuing to pummel him. “It’s me, your — your husband!”

“My who?” She sounded a bit confused but sat back on her heels, and he took the opportunity to come to his knees and shuffle back, out of her reach.

“Your husband,” he repeated, more calmly now. “Hunter.”

She stood then, making a hasty retreat away from him. “What — what are you doing here?” she asked in confusion.

“Well, this is my home,” he said dryly. “I should be able to come here anytime I wish without fear of being beaten to death.”

“You came upon me in the middle of the night with no word of warning!” she protested. “You could have been anyone. How was I to know that you would decide to return home after darkness, prowling about like a thief?”

“You seem to be forgetting that this is my library,wife,” he said. “I can come and go as I please. If you ever deigned to write me, perhaps you would learn more of my movements.”

Not that he himself had known he would be here until this morning, but it wasn’t as though he was going to share that information with her. She had chosen to distance herself from him, so any lack of communication was solely on her.

“You never told Lavinia,” she accused, and he didn’t need light to know that a smug smile had crossed her face.

“No, I did not,” he said dryly, looking for a match and lantern in the darkness. “Nor do I need my sister’s approval. I am the master of this house, am I not?”

“That is what I am told, though I have yet to see you act as one,” she said, and he took a deep breath to wrest hold of his temper.

“Is that not what you wanted? For me to remain in London?”

“It is.”

“Then don’t pester me about it, Scarlett,” he said.

“Lady Oxford.”

“You are my wife, so Scarlett you shall be.”

They were both silent for a moment as he finally found a match and lit the lantern, though she was far enough from him that he could only see the shadows of her face. They were at an impasse, it seemed.

“You have been making yourself comfortable,” he remarked, now trying to ignore the way her body looked, silhouetted by the dim light. She was wearing nothing but a nightgown, her thin wrapper currently hanging off one arm after their struggles. She must have seen him staring, for she began to hastily pullher other sleeve back up. In his pent-up frustration toward her, he had forgotten how alluring she was. She had curves in all of the right places, her body tempting him to dismiss the words that came out of her mouth. But then she spoke and the tension came rushing back in.

“Your house is quite comfortable, Lord Oxford, I must admit,” she said, tilting her head. “’Tis a pity you neglect it.”