Infuriating, pompous, rude man. How could he speak to her so condescendingly? How could he be her husband?
“I’ve never thought about it,” she flared back at him. “I’ve hardly had time to adjust to my own ‘politically expedient’ marriage, much less critique anyone else’s!”
His expression did not change, though the arm around her back tightened just a fraction—just enough to make Gabrielle gasp, but not enough to make her miss her step as their dance continued. She was suddenly certain that she did not want to hear whatever he might say next.
“Have you been married before?” she asked hurriedly, hoping to fend him off.
“Never.” His brows arched, making him seem both regal and inaccessible at once. Gabrielle swallowed nervously.
“You must have had long-term relationships,” she continued. She had no idea what she was saying. “You are forty, are you not?”
“Is this a blind date, Gabrielle?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Do you plan to sort out my character through a series of inane questions?”
“I’m trying to get to know you,” she replied evenly, raising her chin in defiance. “It seems a reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances. What else should we talk about? The weather?”
“You have the rest of your life to get to know me,” he said, with a Gallic sort of shrug. The ultimate dismissal. “Or do you think knowing the way I take my coffee will give you insight? Will it make you more comfortable? The end result is the same. I am your husband.”
He was hateful. And his derisive tone ignited the temper she’d worked her whole life to keep under wraps.
“I think you must be the one who is afraid,” she declared, anger making her brave. “Why else react so strongly to simple questions?”
She expected him to lash back at her—to try to cow her with his dark gaze or that sharp edge in his voice.
But instead he threw back his head and laughed. It was not long, or loud, but it was real. His gray eyes gleamed almost silver for a moment, and she saw an indentation in his lean jaw—far too masculine to be called a dimple. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and he was once again magical and irresistible.
Suddenly Gabrielle had the sensation that she was standing on a ledge at the edge of some vast cavern, and the ground beneath her feet was shaky. Again that restless tension swelled inside her, terrifying her. Her skin was too small, too sensitive. He filled her senses. And when he looked down at her again, his expression sobering, she felt something shift inside her. It felt irrevocable. Or possibly insane.
Nerves, she thought, desperately trying to maintain her calm. Nothing but nerves—and too much champagne on an empty stomach.
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