She looked at him, taking in the dirt and mud, including the smudge he was rather certain he sported on his left cheek, and she shook her head. “It’s no problem at all.”
“What is troubling you?”
“It’s the children’s nurse,” she said without preamble. “I don’t like her.”
That was not what he expected. He set down his spade. “You don’t? What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just don’t like her.”
“Well, that’s hardly a reason to terminate her employment.”
Eloise’s lips thinned slightly, a sure sign, he was coming to realize, that she was irritated. She said, “She rapped the children across the knuckles.”
He sighed. He didn’t like the thought of someone striking his children, but then again, it was just a knuckle rap. Nothing that didn’t occur in every schoolroom across the country. And, he thought resignedly, his children were not exactly models of good behavior. And so, wanting to groan, he asked, “Did they deserve it?”
“I don’t know,” Eloise admitted. “I wasn’t there. She said they spoke to her disrespectfully.”
Phillip felt his shoulders sag a bit. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I do not find that difficult to believe.”
“No, of course not,” Eloise said. “I’m sure they were little beasts. But still, something didn’t seem right.”
He leaned back against his workbench, tugging her hand until she tumbled against him. “Then look into it.”
Her lips parted with surprise. “Don’t you want to look into it?”
He shrugged. “I’m not the one with concerns. I’ve never had cause to doubt Nurse Edwards before, but if you feel uncomfortable, by all means, you should investigate. Besides, you’re better at this sort of thing than I am.”
“But”—she squirmed slightly as he pulled her against him and nuzzled her neck—“you’re their father.”
“And you’re their mother,” he said, his words coming out thick and hot against her skin. She was intoxicating, and he was aching with desire, and if he could only get her to stop talking, he could probably maneuver her to the bedroom, where they could have considerably more fun. “I trust your judgment,” he said, thinking that would placate her—and besides, it was the truth. “It’s why I married you.”
Clearly, his answer surprised her. “It’s why you . . . what?”
“Well, this, too,” he murmured, trying to figure out just how much he could fondle her with so many clothes between them.
“Phillip, stop!” she cried out, wrenching herself away.
What the devil? “Eloise,” he asked—cautiously, since it was his experience, limited though it was, that one should always tread carefully with a woman in a temper—“what is wrong?”
“What is wrong?” she demanded, her eyes flashing dangerously. “How can you even ask that?”
“Well,” he said slowly, and with just a touch of sarcasm, “it might be because I don’t know what is wrong.”
“Phillip, this is not the time.”
“To ask you what is wrong?”
“No!” she nearly shrieked.
Phillip took a step back. Self-preservation, he thought wryly. Surely that had to be what the male side of marital spats was all about. Self-preservation and nothing else.
She began waving her arms in a bizarre fashion. “To do this.”
He looked around. She was waving at the workbench, at the pea plants, at the sky above, winking in through the panes of glass. “Eloise,” he said, his voice deliberately even, “I am not an unintelligent man, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her mouth fell open, and he knew he was in trouble. “You don’t know?” she asked.
He probably should have heeded his own warnings about self-preservation, but some little devil—some annoyed male devil, he was sure—forced him to say, “I don’t read minds, Eloise.”
“It is not the time,” she finally ground out, “to be intimate.”
“Well, of course not,” he agreed. “We haven’t a bit of privacy. But”—he smiled just thinking about it—“we could always go back to the house. I know it’s the middle of the day, but—”
“That is not what I meant at all!”
“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “I give up. What do you mean, Eloise? Because I assure you, I haven’t a clue.”
“Men,” she muttered.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her glare could have frozen the Thames. It quite froze off his desire, which irritated him no end, since he’d been looking forward to getting rid of it in another fashion altogether.
“It wasn’t meant as such,” she said.
He leaned back against the workbench, his casual posture meant to irritate her. “Eloise,” he said calmly, “try to afford a small measure of respect for my intelligence.”
“It is difficult,” she shot back, “when you display so little.”
That was it. “I don’t even know why we are arguing!” he exploded. “One minute you were willing in my arms, and the next you’re shrieking like a banshee.”
She shook her head. “I was never willing in your arms.”
It was as if the bottom dropped out of his world.
She must have seen the shock on his face, because she quickly added, “Today. I meant just today. Just now, actually.”
His body sagged with relief, even as the rest of him seethed with anger.
“I was trying to talk with you,” she explained.
“You’re always trying to talk with me,” he pointed out. “That’s all you ever do. Talk talk talk.”
She drew back. “If you didn’t like it,” she said in a snippy voice, “you shouldn’t have married me.”
“It wasn’t as if I had a choice in the matter,” he bit off. “Your brothers were ready to castrate me. And just so you don’t paint me completely black, I don’t mind your talking. Just not, for the love of God, all of the time.”
She looked like she was trying to say something utterly clever and cutting, but all she could do was gape like a fish and make sounds like, “Unh! Unh!”
“Every now and then,” he said, feeling quite superior, “you might consider shutting your mouth and using it for some other purpose.”
“You,” she fumed, “are insufferable.”
He raised his brows, knowing it would irritate her.
“I’m sorry you find my propensity for speech so offensive,” she ground out, “but I was trying to talk to you about something important, and you tried to kiss me.”
He shrugged. “I always try to kiss you. You’re my wife. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”
“But sometimes it’s not the right time,” she said. “Phillip, if we want to have a good marriage—”
“We do have a good marriage,” he interrupted, his voice defensive and bitter.
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, “but it can’t always be about . . . you know.”
“No,” he said, deliberately obtuse. “I don’t know.”
Eloise ground her teeth together. “Phillip, don’t be like this.”
He said nothing, just tightened his already crossed arms and stared at her face.
She closed her eyes, and her chin bobbed slightly forward as her lips moved. And he realized that she was talking. She wasn’t making a sound, but she was still talking.
Dear God, the woman never stopped. Even now she was talking to herself.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked.
She didn’t open her eyes as she said, “Trying to convince myself it’s all right to ignore my mother’s advice.”
He shook his head. He would never understand women.
“Phillip,” she finally said, just when he’d decided that he was going to leave and let her talk to herself in private. “I very much enjoy what we do in bed—”
“That’s nice to hear,” he bit off, still too irritated to be gracious.
She ignored his lack of civility. “But it can’t be just about that.”
“It?”
“Our marriage.” She blushed, clearly uncomfortable with such frank speech. “It can’t be just about making love.”
“It can certainly be a great deal about it,” he muttered.
“Phillip, why won’t you discuss this with me? We have a problem, and we need to talk about it.”
And then something within him simply snapped. He was convinced that his was the perfect marriage, and she was complaining? He’d been so sure he’d gotten it right this time. “We’ve been married one week, Eloise,” he ground out. “One week. What do you expect of me?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“I’m just a man.”
“And I’m just a woman,” she said softly.