Chapter 21
The next couple of days were very trying for Stephen’s patience.
It was like he and Vera had gone back to the beginning of things.
Every time he entered a room, Vera left it.
When they shared a meal, she sat as far from him as she could manage.
She ignored him completely, except for when he caught her scowling at him for no reason at all.
At first, he thought she was embarrassed at her own behavior and didn’t want his presence as a reminder of it. He was the only one who’d heard her ridiculous outburst, after all.
Stephen was willing to give her a bit of distance. He thought she’d find him and apologize for her unreasonable behavior when she was ready. Then perhaps they’d have a slightly awkward conversation about knowing one’s limits while drinking wine, and that would be the end of it.
But time and his gentle patience did little to mend things. In fact, the longer he gave her to process her own feelings, the angrier she seemed to become. She fairly snarled at him when he’d politely asked for the salt at the breakfast table the second day.
She even had the temerity to turn her back to him while he was speaking, in front of Mr. Douglas, that afternoon.
“What on earth did you do?” the old man asked, grinning. “I didn’t think anything could make Vera that angry.”
“Nevermind,” Stephen had said, and Mr. Douglas laughed.
Stephen would have been far more embarrassed to admit that he had no real idea what he’d done, especially when the man looked positively delighted at this turn of events.
In the end, Mrs. Portence did make the sandwich—she’d gone so far as to write the marquess’s cook and request the recipe—but though it was as delicious as he remembered, he enjoyed it little, remembering that it had been the start of the strange rift between him and Vera.
Mid-morning on the third day, he’d had quite enough. He waited until Benjamin and his mother left for a ride, then cornered Vera in the library. She was sitting in her customary perch upon a leather sofa. Her eyes went wide and darted toward the door when she noticed him looming before her.
“Are you ready to speak with me yet?” he said.
“No.”
Stephen sighed. “Vera, this has to stop. I know you’re angry with me, but we have to live together. We have to work together. And frankly, I think this whole thing is quite ridiculous.”
She stiffened, her chin lifted. “That’s possibly the worst part—that you don’t see anything wrong with it. I gave you time to apologize, and you haven’t.”
“Why on earth should I apologize?” He reared back in surprise.
“I thought perhaps you’d been drinking too much,” Vera plowed on. “I thought that perhaps you’d made a terribly off-color joke that you’d regret in the morning.”
“I thought the same of you—that perhaps you’d had too much.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I assure you—I was perfectly sober—”
“So was I!” He flopped his hands in the air.
“—I meant every word I said. The fact that you see nothing wrong with your…your desire for variety…” She spit the last word as if it were a foul thing.
Her chest heaved. Stephen had never been more perplexed in all his life. On one hand, Vera had never looked more beautiful. Her anger lent a lovely clarity to her eyes, an animation to her stunning face. Her cheeks were flushed, and every golden freckle stood in stark relief to her luminous skin.
But no matter how gorgeous she was in the moment, she was acting like a crazy person. No matter how he felt for her, he wouldn’t consign himself to a lifetime of living through random tirades such as this one.
Vera took advantage of his stunned silence and continued. “I’ve barely been able to look Mrs. Portence in the eye since you told me.”
“I hardly think it’s her fault.” Stephen frowned. “She’s just performing the duties Mother hired her to do.”
“Your mother knows?” Vera’s mouth gaped.
“Of course! Mrs. Portence has worked here for nigh on fifteen years. She did the same for my father, when he was lord, and probably for my mother, too, when I was away.”
Vera appeared to be choking against a sudden bout of tears. Stephen hated the sight, no matter that this whole thing was outrageous and completely of Vera’s own design.
“Look, I don’t know how things were done in your household growing up—”
“Certainly not like this,” she snapped.
“—but if you don’t like a meal, you certainly don’t have to eat it. Mrs. Portence will be happy to make you something else.”
She reared back. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter to me if you didn’t like the amuse-bouche, but I shouldn’t be punished because I did. We don’t need to enjoy all of the same foods to get along, Vera, and it’s quite controlling of you not to allow for a difference in our tastes.”
“What?” Her hands dropped, her mouth gaped, her shoulders went back as if bracing from a shock.
“The amuse-bouche! I liked it. You didn’t. Why on earth is that such a big deal to you?”
“You were talking about the food?”
“Of course!” Stephen’s head drew back. “What on earth were you talking about?”
“Miss Warrington. And…and other ladies.” She snapped her mouth shut, as if she hadn’t intended on saying the words.
“What on earth does Miss Warrington have to do with roasted beets?” he fairly bellowed.
Vera covered her face and her shoulders began to shake.
“Oh dear.” Stephen ran a hand through his hair. The other fluttered next to her shoulder then dropped to his side. “I’m very sorry I yelled. I’m exceedingly frustrated, but that’s simply no excuse.”
“You were talking about the food,” she sniffled.
“I’m very confused,” he admitted. “Were you upset because Miss Warrington liked the dish? And I did too, and you felt…left out, somehow?”
Vera just cried harder. He was trying to sort through the puzzle carefully, trying to slot things back into place as if someone had upended his medical bag.
He lay a hand on her shoulder. “I assure you, Vera, I don’t mind in the least if you don’t care for beets.”