The Heir - Catherine Coulter [28]
“That is an excellent point. However, I will allow it. You may eat. Then, if you’ve eaten enough in my estimation, I will give you your allowance.”
She gave it up, tossed up her newspaper and let it fall to the carpet.
“Yes, I’m relieved you appear quite recovered this morning, but not surprised. Dr. Branyon assured me last evening that you would be restored to your usual self today. Since that made all present roll their eyes, I imagined that your usual self is something of a treat for everyone.”
“I’m not a treat—no, no, you meant that as a trial and I’m not a trial to anyone. Well, maybe to you, but surely that’s understandable. I don’t like you. I wish you weren’t here. Rather, I know you have to be here since you’re the new earl, but I don’t have to like it. Damn you.”
Her fork trembled in her hand, but she quickly raised it to her mouth.
“You said a lot there. Much of which I would say myself about you, but I am a gentleman. I am polite. I am the host. I must be polite. Would you care to ride with me, ma’am? After you’ve finished your breakfast, of course. I am nearly done myself. I would appreciate a tour of the property. If you can bring yourself to do it.”
She wanted to refuse him. She wanted him to ride out and get lost and maybe have his horse toss him into the fishpond, but it didn’t make any sense since the fishpond was only a couple of feet deep. “I will take you about,” she said. “I am not illogical.”
He raised a black eyebrow to that, in just the same fashion that she did, as her father had done. Her father. She felt her throat close. Damnable pain. She welcomed it but she hated it, too, because it stripped her and laid her raw.
He saw it, knew she would hate it if she knew he’d seen it, and said, “Excellent. Which horse do you ride, ma’am? I shall send word to the stables.”
“The earl’s horse,” she said without thought, still sunk in misery.
He didn’t like her sunk like this, thus he said, “Oh? Do you not think it will be a trifle uncomfortable riding pillion? Not, of course, that I would necessarily mind sharing my horse with you, at least until you’ve gained more flesh. Then perhaps the poor beast would not be too pleased carting about the both of us.”
That did the trick. She looked at him as if she would like to wrap the tablecloth about his head and smother him. He grinned at her.
“You did that on purpose. You know I did not mean your bloody horse. I meant the earl’s, that is, my father’s—”
“You mean Lucifer.”
“You knew that I did all along.”
“You have my permission to ride Lucifer.”
“I shoot very well,” she said, shoving back her chair in a motion reminiscent of her display in the library the afternoon before.
“I would appreciate it, ma’am, if you would contrive to take better care of my furniture.”
She couldn’t find words to demolish him. It was because she was tired. It was because she’d so recently felt flattened. She could only stare at him, hoping he could see the killer light in her eyes.
He rose and came to her. “Come, my dear ma’am. Don’t you think we’ve flayed each other sufficiently this morning? I, for one, would not particularly care to have my breakfast disagree with me.” At her continued silence—actually, she was grinding her teeth—he added with a smile, “I will make Lucifer a gift to you. Soon we shall rename him the countess’s horse.”
“Ah, that is bald speaking.”
“Naturally, I’m a bald man.” She snorted, he was sure he heard it. The preamble to a laugh. Her grief for her father would lessen, slowly, but it would lessen, and he could help her if she would allow it. Odd that he did not believe her a shrew, a harridan, and a termagant all rolled into one this morning. He thought he had died and gone to Hell after meeting her the previous day. She had rubbed him rawer than a pair of new boots. He hadn’t believed it possible that a man could exist with such a woman. Today, though, was different. Today he nearly made her laugh. Today he had seen the quickness of her mind. He had actually