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CHAPTER 12
ELEVEN DAYS LATER
Michael
“I’m fairly certain that spot is well and truly smooth, brother.”
Michael turned at Gabriel’s approach and watched as his brother surveyed the surrounding clutter for a suitable seat. He availed himself of an obliging crate, somehow managing not to catch the tails of his greatcoat on the smattering of rusted, half-bent nails. Generations of ducal blood, honed by hours of monotonous training, put to good use as he deftly avoided a most unfortunate piercing of his nether regions.
Michael glanced down at the sanding block, more smooth than sandy now, truth be told.
“I’ll admit my knowledge of ship construction is somewhat limited,” Gabriel said. “But I don’t believe you’re meant to sand clear through to the interior of the hull.” He raised his brows. “Problems in matrimony, little brother?”
Michael pasted a bland, unaffected smile on his face, then returned his attention to his task. He raised his voice only so much as to be heard over the sound of the rasping wood.
“Not at all. Things are going precisely as I expected they would.”
“Ah, I see. So you anticipated a future in which you would be driven to vent your frustrations upon unsuspecting planks until your aristocratic hands blistered?”
“Of course. She’d hardly have been worth upending my life and removing my affairs to the middle of nowhere were she the sort of woman who would forgive a man upon his first paltry apology.”
“And how exactly did that first apology go?”
Michael paused to mop his brow with his shirtsleeve before resuming again… with fervour. “I haven’t apologized.”
Gabriel inserted his own pause.
“Because you’re not sorry and you won’t lie.”
“Exactly. But even if I had apologized, it wouldn’t matter. They’re just words. Utterly meaningless. She needs to see that she can trust me. That I’m a changed man.”
“And are you… changed? Metamorphosed by the love of a good woman?”
Michael snorted. “Of course not. People don’t change. Certainly not for their wives, anyway. Nor does love carry any real weight, given that everyone’s definition of the word is entirely different. But she’ll want to believe in both because life is easier when you don’t hate your husband.”
“Just because people experience love differently, or lack the ability to define it to your exacting standards, does not make it any less real.”
“Love doesn’t exist, Brother. By virtue of its endless ambiguity, love means everything and therefore—nothing at all.”
“And here I thought it was familial love that allowed me to tolerate you all these years.”
“You’re simply assigning love to what comes of mutual survival. We were like soldiers united against Napoleon—only instead of one tyrant to contend with, we had a matched pair. What remains now is loyalty… and the dregs of childhood sentimentality.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel for you isn’t love, you idiot. I know what I feel.”
Michael shrugged. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “You love me then. Very nice. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
Michael tossed the block to the ground, where it clattered across the slipway, and then he reached for another. “My point is, she’ll forgive me because it’s in her nature to do so. And we’ll rub along well enough afterwards because we are well matched.”
He’d said it to himself often enough since the day she’d agreed to marry him, but as the weeks wore on, their hours of lovemaking the only warmth in an otherwise cold and silent marriage, the reassurance rang increasingly hollow.
“She can’t see it yet, of course. Not when the circumstances of our marriage are still so fresh in her mind. My necessary coercion has rather overshadowed everything else. But that’s a temporary inconvenience, and I am a patient man, especially when the reward is inevitable.”
When Gabriel remained silent, Michael continued to stuff words into the empty space. Damn it all. Why was it that only his brother could reduce him to this? He'd never felt compelled to justify himself to anyone else. “Had I thought her even remotely open to marriage, I would have given her all the time she required, wooed and courted her properly. She would have married me eventually, of course, and been perfectly content with the man I am.”
Another bout of that finely cultivated aristocratic silence.
