The Countess by Catherine Coulter

dark brows. I wanted to tell him that Grandfather approved and he’d been even older than Lawrence, perhaps another whole generation away. No, better to keep my mouth shut if that was all I could think of to say to justify my drinking. I knew he wouldn’t let this go. I waited. The reproach wasn’t long in coming. However, it wasn’t a screaming condemnation, as I was used to. No, when hespoke, his voice was cold and precise. “I presume the duke is responsible for your unusual taste in drink?”
    â€œIt certainly wasn’t my idea at the beginning,” I said, hoping perhaps to disarm him with candor. “I found it revolting when I was thirteen. At fourteen, Grandfather informed me he was pleased that he had educated my palate. Now it is merely a habit of long-standing. I trust it doesn’t offend you.”
    It wasn’t a bad defense, I thought. What made it better was that I hadn’t lied. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps a lie would have served me better when my husband said in a very calm voice that didn’t fool me for an instant, “It is entirely inappropriate for a lady to drink port. It smacks of commonness, of trollops in alehouses. I have always detested commonness.”
    â€œI believe that excellent port is far too expensive for the mouths of trollops, my lord. Oh, goodness, don’t blast me. My mouth is amazingly fast, isn’t it? My brain is somewhere off in the corner, just watching. Do forgive me.” I decided not to mention my love of brandy, from Armagnac, in the Gers region of France, as every educated person knew.
    He stared at me as if I was an amazing sort of creature he had never seen before.
    â€œMy grandfather,” I said, slowly, ready to do battle, because I wasn’t all that different from any other young lady. I stopped, cleared my throat, and began again. “My grandfather wasn’t ever common, not even for an instant in his entire life. If he approved of something, then anyone who dared to question it would be regarded as the common one, not him.”
    I thought he would stand up and dump the table over on me, but he didn’t. He drew a deep breath.“I should know by now that one must accustom oneself to the habits of one’s spouse. I have the experience. You do not. You are very young. I don’t wish to break your spirit, Andrea, no, Andy, but I cannot allow you to continue this habit when we will be in company. No, don’t argue with me. I offer you a compromise. Your port drinking will be between the two of us. Isn’t that fair?”
    â€œI never drank port in company,” I said. “It was always just between Grandfather and me.”
    â€œThen we have no argument.” He raised his glass and clinked it lightly against mine. “To my beautiful new wife. May she not ever believe that she has married a stodgy old man.”
    â€œHear, hear,” I said, and grinned at him like a sinner who’d escaped punishment. I sipped the port. It wasn’t nearly as good as the port from Grandfather’s cellar. If I’d been drinking it with Grandfather, I would have made a rude noise and dumped it. I kept sipping. He was certainly fair, but life sometimes wasn’t. I believe some people would say that I’d been hoisted on my own petard.
    â€œYou are perhaps strong-willed?”
    â€œNot at all,” I said, blinking a couple of times. I looked down at my napkin. I’d spread it, then folded and refolded it. “If I do anything to displease you, you must tell me. As you said, when married, one must learn compromise. One must bend. Perhaps one must even be in the wrong upon occasion.”
    â€œDo I understand that you’ve just given me permission to correct you if I happen to feel strongly about something?”
    I hadn’t said that at all, but he was being quite indulgent, something I’d heard older husbands manytimes were toward young wives. I was