gives me the singular honor of finding you waiting for me in my bedroom?”
She sounded almost petulant. “How did you know I was here?”
Sloan touched one of the bedside lamps and it glowed softly. “Your perfume. Midnight Passion isn’t something I’m used to smelling—at least not in this room. Next time you try to hide, you might want to wash it off first.”
“I’m not hiding. I need to talk to you.”
“I was afraid it would be something like that.” He tugged his tie loose and dropped his cuff links in a tray on the dresser. Without hurry, he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Would you stop that?”
“What? Undressing? It’s my room, I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired. What do you want, anyway?”
“I want you to stop this preposterous behavior in front of my mother.”
“You told me you didn’t want Abigail to have reason to suspect that we might not be quite as happily married as she’d like.”
“Yes, I did.” Her admission was obviously reluctant. “But you don’t have to pretend that we can’t keep our hands off each other. Your attempt at demonstrating affection was rude and distasteful.”
“To whom? It seemed to me that toward the end you were starting to enjoy it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, you were contradicting yourself.”
He frowned. “How exactly am I supposed to have contradicted myself?”
“First you made it sound as if we rushed right off to bed the instant you got home. Then when I came in to say good night, you implied that we hadn’t done anything of the sort.”
“And how did I do that?”
“I’ve been gone from home much too long,” she quoted, sounding impatient.
“Oh, that.” He grinned. “Your mother probably thought I meant it was time to rush off to bed again. After a whole week’s absence, you know, once would hardly be—”
She had turned faintly pink. “Well, you’ve made your point, Sloan. You can knock it off now.” She stood up. “Oh—and don’t get any crazy ideas about why I’m in your bedroom, now or any other time.”
He draped his shirt over the back of a chair. “Are there going to be other times?”
“Probably.” Morganna sighed. “Mother came upstairs with me tonight.”
Sloan was honestly puzzled by the switch of subjects. “What’s that got to do with anything? Where else could she go? The guest rooms are all on this floor.”
“She lived in this house for thirty years, Sloan—she knows where the master bedroom is. I could hardly stroll down the hall to my room with her standing outside the guest room door watching me. So I came in here instead.”
He shrugged out of his shirt and kicked off his shoes. “I see. If we were a normal married couple, we’d be sharing this room—and that’s what she expects. I get it.”
“Good for you. Unfortunately it’s likely to happen again. I just want you to understand that any time I have to spend in your bedroom has nothing to do with you.”
“So what are you planning to do with all the time you’ll be waiting? I suppose we could sit on my bed and play penny-ante poker every night until you’re sure Abigail’s asleep and you can sneak down the hall to your own room. But how are you planning to keep her from noticing that when Selby brings up your breakfast tray in the morning he doesn’t deliver it to the master bedroom?”
It was obvious from the way she caught her breath that Morganna hadn’t yet considered that difficulty.
“And considering your fondness of breakfast in bed,” Sloan mused, “I doubt you’d find it appealing to get up at the crack of dawn every day so you could beat her downstairs.”
“I suppose we could knock a hole in the wall between your closet and mine so the suites connect.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “That way I could just stroll through your bedroom every time I want to go to my own, and you wouldn’t have to put up with my presence for any length of time.”
“Not a bad idea, but I think she’d ask questions about the noise and the workmen. Anyway, my suggestion is much less dusty than yours.” Sloan walked into the bathroom and reached for a toothbrush. “Move in here with me,” he said over his shoulder.
“Pretend to share a bed? That would take more acting than I want to think about. I suppose we could take turns sleeping on the window seat, but she could be here for the next month.”
“I didn’t say anything about pretending.” Sloan smeared toothpaste on his brush and started to count off the seconds, betting with himself about exactly how long it would take her to react.
Before he’d reached five, Morganna was standing in the bathroom door. “If you think for a single moment that I’m actually going to sleep with you, Sloan Montgomery—”
“Not a single moment,” he conceded. “I’ve been thinking it for more like six months.”
He brushed his teeth for a full three minutes, dividing his attention between watching the silently shifting expressions on her face and cataloging the contents of the bathroom. It was fortunate, he decided, that he didn’t own a straight-edged razor, because if she couldn’t get her hands on one, she couldn’t slit his throat with it—no matter how much she looked as if she’d like to try.
“No.” The single word sounded as if she were strangling.
He pretended not to have heard. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this anyway. You’ve had six months to get used to the idea of being married, and now it’s time to take the next step.”
“This has never been a marriage, it’s a merger.”
“Up till now, yes. But really, Morganna—you’re surely not naive enough to think I intended it to stay that way.”
“But you already have everything you wanted from me! The house, the listing in the social register, the trophy wife on your arm at parties—for heaven’s sake, Sloan, they’re going to ask you to be one of the official hosts at the Carousel Ball!”
He was momentarily distracted. “I must admit I’d like to know how you pulled that one off, Morganna. But what makes you think that’s all I wanted?”
“What else is there?”
He said, slowly and very deliberately, “I want the Montgomery name to have the same respect in future generations that the Ashworths have had in the past. In short, I want my children to be accepted as the cream of Lakemont society.”
Her eyes were wide and unfocused, as if she was looking at a scene too awful to comprehend. “Your children—and mine, you mean? No.”
“Why? Because you think your bloodline is too rarefied to mix with a barbarian’s?”
The
