she was deploying that feminine floral fragrance that certain women used to create havoc.
“You’re meant to be in Warwickshire,” he said.
“You’re meant to be in Liverpool.”
“I did not give you permission to come to London.”
“I did not ask your permission.”
He stopped so abruptly that it took her a few steps to stop too, and her hand slipped from his arm. She looked back at him questioningly.
“You should,” he said. In a single stride, he drew level with her again. Once more, she took his elbow and they moved on, although he was no longer sure who was leading whom. “Let me explain, Mrs. DeWitt, how marriage works.”
“Oh, please do, Mr. DeWitt, I’m all agog.”
“I am the husband, so I make the rules to suit me.”
“And I am the wife, so I change the rules to suit me.”
She must not say things like that. Bad enough that she had shown up here at all, as a real person. Even worse that she was attractive. If she proved likable also, that would be disastrous.
No, not disastrous. He was not a man who tolerated disaster. He was a man who punched disaster on the nose, then checked its pockets for coins and bonbons. But disruptive. Yes. Disruptive. A wife did not fit into his life, and the fact that he had a wife was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Never mind: She might be likable, but he was not, and as soon as she discovered that, she would leave of her own accord and everything could go back to normal.
“You seem puzzled,” said his disruptive wife, as they reached the gate. “Have I said something to puzzle you?”
“Most of what you say puzzles me. It’s almost as though you have a mind of your own.”
“Please don’t vex yourself. I’ll try not to use it too often.”
He ignored her look as he searched for Das and the hackney amid the furious tangle of London traffic. In front of them, a pair of enterprising lads inserted a dog into the traffic to worsen the snarl, and then charged a coin or two to relieve it.
“Who is Bram?” she asked.
“What?”
“You mentioned that Mr. Das knew someone called Bram.”
“One of my brothers. He lives in India.”
“You have brothers,” she said. “And now we are getting to know each other. Isn’t that lovely?”
“No. Here’s Das now.” He pointed with his papers. “Stop dawdling, woman.”
In the carriage, Joshua threw himself into the seat opposite his wife and glared at her. She had to sit forward a bit because of her stupid bonnet, and she used the parasol, closed now in a froth of ruffles, to steady herself as the hackney lurched into motion.
“I had forgotten how exciting London is,” she said.
“Enjoy it while you can. You’re going home tomorrow.” He drummed his fingers on the roll of paper on his lap. “Now what are you smiling at?”
“Mr. Newell warned me that you are not restful.”
“Restful?” He snorted. “I have no need of rest. I never get tired.”
“You are fortunate. Sometimes I get very tired indeed.”
She spoke so quietly he almost didn’t hear the words. A question rose to his lips but he bit it back. Go around asking people why they were sad and the next thing you knew, your life would be all tangled up in theirs, and that never went well for anyone.
“Then go home to your cottage and get some rest, and leave me in peace.”
“Oh, Mr. DeWitt, if only it were that simple.”
She returned her attention to the window.
Joshua stared at her profile, his thoughts leaping and bouncing. That was nothing unusual. He always had thoughts bouncing around in his head, but usually they were like two dozen couples in a country dance, moving together, taking turns to hop or leap or clap or turn. Now they were stumbling, getting out of time, falling over each other. He would not ask what made her sad and weary.
He would not.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and pulled his wayward thoughts into order. Electrical power—Patents—Investors—Potential—Excitement—Lust—Wife—
Damn.
Ah but—Lady Yardley had signaled her interest—Lord Yardley had signaled his lack of interest—He could find Lady Yardley and—Wife.
His eyes flew open and he sat upright.
No. Not now. He couldn’t start an affair with another woman when his wife was nearby. And he definitely couldn’t bed his wife. Ah well, never mind. He didn’t have time for an affair anyway. Celibacy had not killed him yet.
“You’re prettier than I remember,” he said.
She turned her bright eyes back to him, looking amused and