“Yes, I am.” Simon’s gaze was openly murderous. “And if you ever approach her again—”

“Darling,” Annabelle interrupted with a whimsical smile, “I adore your primitive moods. But let’s save this one for after the ball.”

Simon didn’t reply, glaring at Wells-Troughton until his simmering menace attracted the attention of people standing nearby. “Stay the hell away from my wife,” he said softly, causing the other man to blanch.

“Good evening, my lord,” Annabelle said, draining the rest of her glass and giving him a bright, artificial smile. “Thank you for the champagne.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Hunt,” came Wells-Troughton’s disgruntled reply, and he hastily took his leave.

Pink with embarrassment, Annabelle avoided the curious stares of the other guests as she left the ballroom with Simon at her heels. Finding her way to an outside balcony, she set her glass down, and let a gentle breeze cool her burning cheeks.

“What did he say to you?” Simon demanded roughly, looming over her.

“Nothing of importance.”

“He made an advance to you—anyone could see that.”

“It meant nothing to him, or to anyone else here. That’s how they all are—you know quite well these matters are never taken seriously. To them fidelity is just a…a middle-class prejudice. And if a man approaches another’s wife as Lord Wells-Troughton did, no one attaches any importance to it—”

“I attach importance to it when my wife is the one being approached.”

“For you to react so belligerently will make us both objects of mockery—and besides, it hardly demonstrates any faith in my fidelity.”

“You just said that your kind doesn’t believe in fidelity.”

“They’re not my kind,” Annabelle snapped, losing her temper. “Not since I married you, at any rate! I don’t know where I belong now—not with those people, and not with yours, either.”

His expression did not change, but she sensed that she had hurt him. Instantly contrite, she sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Simon, I did not mean to imply—”

“It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go back inside.”

“But I want to explain—”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“Simon…” She winced and closed her mouth as he took her back to the ballroom, wishing with all her heart that she could take back her impulsive words.

CHAPTER 24

As Annabelle had feared, the impetuous accusation she had made at the Hardcastle ball had created a small but undeniable distance between her and her husband. She longed to apologize and explain that she did not blame him for anything. However, her efforts to tell him that she had no regrets about having married him were quietly but firmly rebuffed. Simon, who was always willing to discuss any subject, had drawn the line at this matter. Unwittingly, she had struck at him with the delicate accuracy of a stiletto, and his reaction betrayed a certain guilt at having removed her from the upper-class world that she had once dreamed of occupying.

To Annabelle’s relief, their relationship quickly returned to the way it had been before, their interactions playful, challenging, and even affectionate. Still, she was troubled by the awareness that things were not completely the same. There were moments when Simon was slightly guarded with her, for now they both knew that she had the power to hurt him. It seemed that he would allow her to come only so close, protecting himself by preserving a last crucial distance between them. He would, however, give her unqualified help and support when she needed him…and he proved that on the night that trouble came from an unexpected quarter.

Simon had come home at an unusually late hour, having spent all day at the Consolidated Locomotive works. Strongly scented of coal smoke, oil, and metal after spending a day at the site, he returned to the Rutledge with his clothes decidedly the worse for wear.

“What have you been doing?” Annabelle exclaimed, both amused and alarmed by his appearance.

“Walking through the foundry,” Simon replied, stripping off his waistcoat and shirt as soon as he crossed the threshold of their bedroom.

Annabelle threw him a skeptical glance. “You did more than merely ‘walk.’ What are those stains on your clothes? You look as if you were trying to build the locomotive by yourself.”

“There was a moment when some extra help was required.” An expanse of well-honed muscle was revealed as Simon dropped his shirt to the floor. He seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood. Being a supremely physical man, Simon enjoyed exerting himself, especially when there was some risk involved.

Frowning, Annabelle went to draw a bath for him in the nearby bathing room, and returned to find her husband clad in his linens. There was a fist-sized bruise on his leg, and a red scorch mark on his wrist, causing her to exclaim anxiously, “You’ve been hurt! What happened?”

Simon looked momentarily puzzled by her concern, and by the way she flew to him. “It’s nothing,” he said, reaching out to catch her waist.

Pushing his hands away, Annabelle sank to her knees to inspect the bruise on his leg. “What caused this?” she demanded, skimming the edge of it with her fingertip. “It happened in the foundry, didn’t it? Simon Hunt, I want you to stay away from that place! All those boilers and cranes and vats…the next time you’ll probably be crushed or boiled or punched full of holes—”