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at all.” She pulled the adjoining door closed, but when it should have clicked shut, it was forced open. She gasped as Winn grabbed her wrist and hauled her up against him. His skin was warm, and he smelled like the soap he used in his bath. She looked up at his face and glimpsed what appeared to be a scrape along his temple. She had the urge to lift her hand and ask what had happened.
    Her gaze strayed to his lips. Even when she was angry, she could not help but want his mouth on hers. She could not stop a silent prayer that he sweep her into his arms, carry her to the bed, and ravish her. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she waited to see what he would do.
    And waited.
    He released her wrist and stepped back. Disappointment slammed into her, and she almost crumpled from the weight of it.
    “We shall speak about this again in the morning.”
    She lashed out. “There is nothing more to say, unless you wish to drone on about commitments and duty and tenants who don’t pay their rent.”
    “I do not drone .”
    She raised her brows in challenge. “No, your adventures in estate management are fascinating. I’m certain you are equally fascinated by my tales of garden parties and French lessons. By the by,” she added, “Georgiana’s birthday fast approaches. If you are not too occupied with more important matters, your daughter requests the pleasure of your company at her celebration.”
    And with that, she closed the door, shutting out the storm clouds crashing about his face.
    ***
    Winn took a deep breath and forced himself not to open the door and throttle the woman. His wife. She had never spoken to him thus. And she had never attended a ball alone. And she had never looked so completely ravishing as she had tonight.
    He moved away from the door, from temptation, and lifted his brandy again. It wasn’t merely the gown she’d worn to the ball. She wasn’t wearing anything more alluring than a linen night shift and an old wrapper tonight, but something about her was different.
    Or was it?
    He pulled the drapes back and peered into the garden. The shrubs threw long shadows on the paving stones, and he spotted a forgotten book lying on one of the stone benches. One of his daughters had probably left it there.
    Elinor had always been an attractive woman, but her main appeal was her affection for him. He’d known from the first she was madly in love with him. And he’d known her feelings for him would work to his advantage. She would not question his frequent absences; she would not question his secretiveness or his unexplained injuries. Added to that, he knew from the start she would make him an excellent baroness and be a good mother to their children. After all, he had a duty to more than his country. He had a duty to his title.
    His mother had approved of her. After his father’s death, she had advocated a quick union and the production of an heir. To his mother’s disappointment, there had been no heir, and it did not appear one would be forthcoming. He would have had to share a bed with his wife to produce another child. And while the idea was not unappealing, he had been far too busy these past few years to spend much time sleeping in a bed, much less engaging in any other activities therein.
    His nephew would undoubtedly inherit the title and accompanying estates, and Winn thought the lad would make a fine baron. If Elinor only knew how little time he spent worrying about his title and his lands. Until recently. Recently, he’d been thinking a hell of a lot. Too much. He’d never considered what would happen if—when—he retired from the Barbican group. He hadn’t really believed he ever would retire until…
    What would he do when his time at the Barbican was through? His children were growing up before his eyes. Soon they’d be having children of their own. And his wife—well, Winn was relatively certain, at this point in their lives, she hardly cared whether he lived or died. If he was not