marry him for so little. Still, she refrained.
For heaven’s sake, the man was strapped to a bed because he couldn’t care for his own safety, and he was attempting to make her feel inferior! So, she jabbed a little knife into that illusion of his that he was so much higher than she, clipping, “In truth, it was your father who has asked me to wed you. With much reluctance, I agreed.”
Yes, the stabbing little phrase seemed to leech the disdain out of him for a brief moment before he said flatly, “I don’t believe you.”
“He’s asked me to lend credence to your sanity so that you will be able to inherit and be forever free of the doctors.”
“My jailer, not my wife.”
“Aren’t they one and the same in any case?” she teased, hoping, despite the growing animosity, for a moment of lightness between them.
He grew quiet and seemed to disappear to some far-off place. His face, so hard and strained, relaxed for a moment. A strange glossiness turned his icy gaze mirrorlike before he blinked and replied, “No. They are most definitely not.”
The way he now looked at her, as if she’d just spewed filth on him, made her feel as if she’d suddenly revealed some secret part of herself that no person or ray of light had ever seen. Suddenly, she did feel ugly. She felt exceptionally low, lower than he could feel at this moment, despite his temporary committal to a madhouse. For at least he still had some hope in the state of marriage and faith in love.
How remarkable. Because she most certainly did not. She hadn’t for almost her entire life.
“I thought you to be at least a professional person, Miss Maggie, but I see that you are a preservationist in the end.” He attempted to shrug and then let out a growl of frustration when he could not. “Not that I blame you, my dear. Women seem to have little other course but to sell their slit in one way or the other.”
Fury, an emotion she very seldom allowed herself to experience, crackled through her. How she longed to scream that she had made her entire life independent without the aid of men. That she had aided others rather than been a burden, but she choked the protests back. If he wished to think her a gaudy bird determined to catch a wealthy keeper, she would allow him to assume so . . . if it furthered her present cause. “Then can we not assist each other?”
“You’re giving me damn little choice.”
She fingered the buckle at his chest, letting her nail graze the cold metal binding the leather strap. So close to his linen-clad flesh. Flesh so hard it resembled stone. It was a most strange thing for her to do, and yet she did it anyway and kept doing it, letting her finger trace the metal clasp. “’Twasn’t I found wandering the streets of St. Giles out of my wits . . . five times in one week.”
His lips pressed into a firm line. “The streets of St. Giles serve a very fine purpose.”
Her mouth dropped open, attempting to understand how an educated man could ever say such a thing . . . But then again, the whorehouses of the East End were full of rich, titled, and educated men. “The transmission of the pox?”
“Christ. Have you no imagination?” he bit out, impatience at her lack of understanding evident in his piercing stare. “Yes. The pox is rampant. But specifically, I refer to the ability to purchase the silence one needs from the never-ending voices screaming within one’s head.”
Voices.
She knew that those who experienced opium on a regular basis were wont to see and hear things . . . But he was taking the opium to
escape
the voices. She directed her gaze toward the gritty stone floor. It would take some time to break him of his addiction—if it could ever be done fully. While she’d been incredibly successful, she knew how many men returned to the call of opium, even after months or years of not touching it. Would she one day have to lock him in the attic, away from society and access to opiates? Giving
For heaven’s sake, the man was strapped to a bed because he couldn’t care for his own safety, and he was attempting to make her feel inferior! So, she jabbed a little knife into that illusion of his that he was so much higher than she, clipping, “In truth, it was your father who has asked me to wed you. With much reluctance, I agreed.”
Yes, the stabbing little phrase seemed to leech the disdain out of him for a brief moment before he said flatly, “I don’t believe you.”
“He’s asked me to lend credence to your sanity so that you will be able to inherit and be forever free of the doctors.”
“My jailer, not my wife.”
“Aren’t they one and the same in any case?” she teased, hoping, despite the growing animosity, for a moment of lightness between them.
He grew quiet and seemed to disappear to some far-off place. His face, so hard and strained, relaxed for a moment. A strange glossiness turned his icy gaze mirrorlike before he blinked and replied, “No. They are most definitely not.”
The way he now looked at her, as if she’d just spewed filth on him, made her feel as if she’d suddenly revealed some secret part of herself that no person or ray of light had ever seen. Suddenly, she did feel ugly. She felt exceptionally low, lower than he could feel at this moment, despite his temporary committal to a madhouse. For at least he still had some hope in the state of marriage and faith in love.
How remarkable. Because she most certainly did not. She hadn’t for almost her entire life.
“I thought you to be at least a professional person, Miss Maggie, but I see that you are a preservationist in the end.” He attempted to shrug and then let out a growl of frustration when he could not. “Not that I blame you, my dear. Women seem to have little other course but to sell their slit in one way or the other.”
Fury, an emotion she very seldom allowed herself to experience, crackled through her. How she longed to scream that she had made her entire life independent without the aid of men. That she had aided others rather than been a burden, but she choked the protests back. If he wished to think her a gaudy bird determined to catch a wealthy keeper, she would allow him to assume so . . . if it furthered her present cause. “Then can we not assist each other?”
“You’re giving me damn little choice.”
She fingered the buckle at his chest, letting her nail graze the cold metal binding the leather strap. So close to his linen-clad flesh. Flesh so hard it resembled stone. It was a most strange thing for her to do, and yet she did it anyway and kept doing it, letting her finger trace the metal clasp. “’Twasn’t I found wandering the streets of St. Giles out of my wits . . . five times in one week.”
His lips pressed into a firm line. “The streets of St. Giles serve a very fine purpose.”
Her mouth dropped open, attempting to understand how an educated man could ever say such a thing . . . But then again, the whorehouses of the East End were full of rich, titled, and educated men. “The transmission of the pox?”
“Christ. Have you no imagination?” he bit out, impatience at her lack of understanding evident in his piercing stare. “Yes. The pox is rampant. But specifically, I refer to the ability to purchase the silence one needs from the never-ending voices screaming within one’s head.”
Voices.
She knew that those who experienced opium on a regular basis were wont to see and hear things . . . But he was taking the opium to
escape
the voices. She directed her gaze toward the gritty stone floor. It would take some time to break him of his addiction—if it could ever be done fully. While she’d been incredibly successful, she knew how many men returned to the call of opium, even after months or years of not touching it. Would she one day have to lock him in the attic, away from society and access to opiates? Giving
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