No, that was wrong. She was a real wife. And she’d agreed that their lives wouldn’t be separated. They may not be in love, but if they were going to be sleeping in the same bed and being intimate physically then that didn’t mean she couldn’t help him out emotionally when that was needed.
“Cedric,” she said quietly, looking up into his face, “what is it?”
She was very warm and he could smell wildflowers-her scent. And her eyes were as bright as the flames in the hearth. There was a crease between her fair brows: she was worried. She was worried about him. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that he was fine. More than fine. And he’d show her how fine he was, right now in fact, in that bed behind her, the bed where he’d probably been conceived.
But he wasn’t fine and he knew it.
The difficulty had started back in France, as they’d got on the plane. Or no, maybe it had started before then, when he’d heard her fears about herself, and he’d told her that she was perfect the way she was. Then he had proved that to her, several times, before lying back on that sun lounger with her in his arms, his hands buried in her hair, realizing that he couldn’t give this up after the honeymoon was done.
And not just couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
He wanted her in his bed every night. To be able to talk to her whenever he wanted. Argue with her if they were both so inclined. Read books together. Walk in the woods together. Share meals and ideas, and passions. He’d never had that before with anyone and he couldn’t see why he couldn’t have it with her. Just until their child was conceived.
The desire for it felt so strong that he hadn’t been able to sit still the way he normally would, couldn’t put it from his mind to come back to later the way he would with anything else. Couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter to him, either.
And perhaps that was why he was so agitated about it. That it mattered to him. That he wanted her to say yes and couldn’t bear the thought of her refusing.
That was a problem, when he wasn’t supposed to care.
He didn’t know when it had happened, when she’d crept beneath his guard and got inside him. Got him interested in her opinions, her thoughts, and her feelings. And he was interested, that was clear. They mattered to him and they shouldn’t.
The whole situation had been exacerbated by coming back to Haerton, and the wash of memories that poured in on him every time he stepped over the threshold.
He hated this place.
So why bother holding on to it? Why come back here at all? Why bother with all of this marriage nonsense for your inheritance in the first place? Because he couldn’t let it go. If he did, his father would win. His father had wanted him to disappear, and he couldn’t have that. He would take his inheritance and he would make it his. He would force the spirits of this place to acknowledge his existence once and for all.
“Cedric,” Anna murmured and gave a little hiss of pain.
And he realized he was standing there, holding on to her tightly. Too tightly. Fuck, he’d hurt her. What was wrong with him?
Why was he letting this house get to him? All of that had happened years ago and he’d made his mark now.
He’d forced the entire world to acknowledge his existence and they had. He’d become more than his brother would ever be, richer, more famous, more powerful, more notorious… Forcing away the agitation took every ounce of strength he had, but he managed it, dropping his hands from her and stepping back.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
But she was still frowning, still looking at him with some concern. He didn’t want to disturb her and he certainly didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want her asking questions, either, because talking about Vincent, conjuring up his brother’s shade, was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
So he gritted his teeth, forced himself to smile, to relax as if nothing at all was wrong. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”
Anna shook her head as if that was negligible. “You didn’t really hurt me. It’s okay. But you looked upset.” Her gaze searched his face, sympathy glowing there, as if she knew exactly what he was feeling and why. “Is there anything I can do?”
It made him feel even more exposed than he already was, that look. And he didn’t want to explain, because this agitation, this desperation was inexplicable. Even the things he could explain, such as Vincent, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to have this discussion at all. He was tired, that was the problem. They should have spent the night in the city, but he’d wanted to get here. He’d thought being here with her would make a difference and yet it hadn’t. Perhaps it would tomorrow. He was no fit company for anyone tonight, though.
“I’m not upset.” He knew he sounded cold, but there was no helping it. “It might be better if I leave you to sleep alone tonight.” He made himself let her go and turned away, moving over to the door.
“Is it this house? I’ve noticed that you don’t really like staying here for long,”
Her voice was soft yet the question struck him like a blow, pinning him to the spot, his hand still on the door handle. His heartbeat echoed in his head, a loud pulse of sound. “What did you say?” he asked, even though he’d heard the question perfectly well.
There was a long pause and he heard her soft exhalation. “I know about your brother, Vincent. This house must have…some bad memories for you.”
Electricity crackled the length of his body, his knuckles white where they gripped the door handle. “How do you know about my brother?” His voice sounded strange in his head.
She met his gaze squarely. “I did what you told me to do. Some research.”
Of course she would have done some research. The information was there on the internet for anyone to see.