The thought was horrifying and humiliating, but to her chagrin, not surprising—at least to her. It was a learning experience, though, as she managed to soften her smiles. They no longer looked like snarls.
On Tristan’s end, he found that the gowns were working. She might not have chosen an emerald gown next, but the rose was a far cry from the blacks and the grays that might have made some people think that Miss Priggish was not only priggish, buta widow, too. She also had a midnight blue that made her creamy skin look softer.
Cathy was not used to it. Tristan noticed how she would tug at her necklines every few minutes. Her cheeks would flush naturally. They were no longer soaked with rosewater, thank heavens, and even her lips only had a hint of pink. There were days when he had to control himself to keep from touching those lips and cheeks, or even helping her adjust those necklines for her.
Today, she seemed eager to return to her repertoire of seduction over their breakfast. She tilted her neck once more, probably trying to see if she could do so gracefully without being accused of having a crick in the neck.
“Are you trying to look at what is happening behind my back?” he deadpanned.
“No. No. I, uh, was just—” she protested, straightening herself. “Never mind.”
“Oh, do go on. I am your husband. I want to know what and how you are doing.”
“It is nothing, really,” she mumbled, as she slowly twirled a lock of her hair.
“Were you in the gardens this morning?” he asked, proud of himself for resisting a chuckle.
“Why did you ask that?”
“It is your hair. There must be something caught in the strands. What do you think? Hopefully, it is not lice.”
Cathy straightened once more, her hands back on the edge of the table.
“Of course, I do not have lice, Your Grace!” She sounded rightfully indignant.
“Mm. I suppose it is your new form of communication, then?”
“I am trying to match yours,” she mumbled, looking like she might hurl him toward the end of the room.
There she was.
Of course, Miss Priggish was peeking out somewhere there. She tried her best to resist herself. Her jaw was clenched, and she was now slicing her eggs as if she were murdering them.
“You are being... difficult, Your Grace.”
“I do not see what you mean,” he replied, adopting an air of the same indignation his wife was feeling. “I believe I have been attentive these last few days. Admit it, Cathy. I do appreciate that you have deigned to join me during meals. But if these interactions are making you ill, then—”
“I told you I am fine, Your Grace!” Cathy exclaimed.
Her attempts to become more pleasant were taking a toll on her. It would be awful if she succeeded. She would be like another Anne Longrove.
“You are looking well now,” he observed. “The color is coming back to your face. I must say I loved how you walked in this morning. One could hear the rustling of silk from your dress. That will certainly catch everyone’s attention.”
Cathy narrowed her eyes at him. Suspicious? Offended?
“Is that so, Your Grace?” she asked, managing to keep her voice soft, but at least not in the breathy way she was doing that first day.
“Yes,” he said happily.
Then, he stood up and walked past her, making certain his hand trailed almost imperceptibly against her shoulder. She shuddered. Oh, yes, she did. If she was playing her game, he was playing his, too.
“By the way, I shall meet with my men in the woods today. We will see about fixing the north fence, and they need my guidance.”
“Will you return early enough for dinner?”
He could not help but feel his chest twinge at how she sounded. She was almost like a child, feeling small. Still, he liked teasing her. He stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder at his wife.
“Of course, I will. I would not miss dinner with you for the world, Cathy.”