you can stuff your self-righteousness into your trunk and take it with you to hell.” He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Now get out. I’m busy.”
“Fine!” She marched two steps toward him, chin high, eyes fierce, but stopped. “Except…”
“What? What?”
“I’m afraid I got a little distracted,” she said, sheepishly. “I meant to inform you that we are attending a rout at Lord and Lady Morecambe’s house this evening.”
He flung the door shut and leaned against it. “We are?”
“Yes. You and I.”
“Lady Morecambe invited us?”
“She is my aunt by marriage. Of course she invited us.”
That couldn’t be right. Invite Cassandra, certainly. But Joshua too? Cassandra’s uncle and grandfather—the Marquess of Morecambe and the Duke of Sherbourne—both received Joshua, but not to the more refined events, especially if Treyford would be there; society took care to avoid having Joshua and his father in the same room.
“Mr. Das and Mr. Newell have freed up your schedule tonight,” she went on, cheerfully oblivious to her looming social faux pas.
He was too amused to mind that she had taken over his schedule too. He pushed off the door and paced back around the room, trying to hide his grin.
“I should be delighted to attend,” he said.
“Good. It will be our first outing together as a married couple.” She smiled. No wonder she was welcome everywhere, with a smile like that. “Mr. Newell has had a word with your valet, a Mr. Vickers, I believe, who will select an appropriate outfit and shave you. Please remove the earring and do try to sit still long enough for him to tie your cravat properly. And if you could submit to a more fashionable haircut…”
She eyed his hair, which was, admittedly, getting too long. He wondered how long her hair was, when she let it out, all those thick chocolate tresses tumbling down her back. He did not have a chance to wonder too long before she turned to leave, saying, “Just…make an effort.”
Her skirts swayed about her as she marched to the door, graciously and purposefully, and he could almost make out the shape of her bottom and thighs beneath the layers of fabric.
“Is my hair so very terrible?” he called.
She stopped and turned back.
“It suits you, I suppose.” She looked him over again. “Your bruise has faded to a fetching shade of yellow. Like a kingcup.”
“Perhaps Vickers can find a matching waistcoat. I shall be the envy of every dandy in town.”
She didn’t seem to be listening. After a brief hesitation, she crossed back to him. “Why did Harry, I mean, Lord Bolderwood punch you anyway?”
“How the blazes did you know it was him?”
“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”
“So now you have sympathy. For Harry.”
“Well, you’re bigger and more dynamic and…”
She fluttered her hands at him. It took him a moment to realize she was indicating the size of his shoulders and chest.
“He is a bit puny, isn’t he?” he said. “Not all men can be as powerfully built as I am, you know. I trained as a blacksmith in my youth, and I worked as a stevedore. I’m still so strong I can balance a ton of steel on my little finger.”
She gave an endearing huff. “You would need to be strong to carry your vanity, which must weigh more than a ton.”
“Who said anything about vanity?” He feigned affront. “You’re the one who started talking about how broad and muscular my chest and shoulders are.”
“I never said a word about muscular shoulders!”
“So now you’re saying I’m puny too. Well.” He folded his arms over his chest, watched her eyes follow the movement. “That’s a bit unkind.”
“Of course you’re not puny! You’re shaped like a classical warrior and you know it. But that…Oh. You’re impossible. Why…Oh.”
Words having failed her, she closed her eyes and covered her face with one hand.
Faced with her charming embarrassment, Joshua could not maintain his act. He did enjoy teasing her, and her obvious curiosity about his body provided a marvelous source of entertainment. To strip away her polite facade and explore the real woman beneath would be…
Would be a very, very stupid thing to do.
“Baltic investment,” he said.
She pulled her hand away from her face and peered at him with bright eyes. More green than brown today, they were. “I beg your pardon?”
“Bolderwood lost money on a Baltic investment scheme and blames me for it.”
“Oh.”
Her eyes glazed over, somewhere around “investment,” which fortunately put an end to her questions. He would rather not mention Bolderwood’s ridiculous accusation