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“I might.”

“Do not ask around about John!” he barked. “I told you not to. This is one thing I will not budge about. I gave you your roses. I gave you my bed. I will not be pushed on this one!”

She studied him and chuckled, her own anger rising in her chest. “He was my brother, Duke,” she stated. “Don’t you think I have the right to know?”

“No. I am your husband and I tell you, there’s nothing to know.”

She scoffed, trying to fight the anger down, and failing. The basket, she tried to remember. He must have his reasons to be this way. He was damaged and wounded, and he was miserable.

But it was hard to remember those things when he got like this.

“My husband! You haven’t been my husband very much at all. You keep me at a distance, even when you let me sleep in your bed.”

He shook his head and began pacing the room like a furious lion. “It’s for your own good.”

“What do you mean, for my own good?” she demanded, clasping her hands.

“For your own good means that you will stay safer and happier away from me,” he barked out. “Have you not learned that?”

“No,” she said. “I have not. I want to understand you better, understand my brother better. I know you’re a good man despite your anger, and no matter how ill you think of yourself. Nothing will change that.”

“Then you must be more daft than I thought you were.”

His words stung like the lash of a whip. Daft?

Part of her told her to fight back, to scream something, to throw something at him.

But that was not her. She didn’t scream or throw things; she had empathy.

And she was most certainly not daft. She had been complimented by Sir Smith and Mr. Essop for her botany studies—for her ideas, her execution, her patience, her observational skills, and even on her skills of illustration. Perhaps she hadn’t lived as long as he had, but calling her daft was quite unfair.

He threw a furious glance at her, and his eyes softened for a moment.

“Ah, do not make those eyes at me!” he yelled as he stopped. “Just take your damn basket and throw your pain and hurt in there like you’ve done your whole life. That’ll make you feel better, huh? Put your fake smile on your face and pretend like I didn’t say anything.”

He must mean well, she kept repeating to herself. He didn’t truly mean to hurt her with those words. She had an urge to do something with her hands, so she walked to her needlework from yesterday, picked up the circle, and sat on the chair. She fought the tears, but her vision blurred. Her chest and throat hurt from spasms.

She tried to smile, but it came out all sad, with the corners of her lips pushing downwards instead of upwards. Oh God, how she wanted to cry. Just to let herself go and sob and wallow in this sad, bad emotion.

But that was not something she did. Look at the positive. What was she grateful for?

She picked up her needle, but her hands shook, and as she stabbed it through the fabric, a sharp pinch told her she’d pricked herself.

She cried out and put her finger into her mouth, smudging her needlework of a sunflower with a smear of blood.

No, no, no. She was actually going to cry, wasn’t she?

“Great!” Dorian grumbled as he hurried towards her. “You can’t even handle a needle.”

She glared at him at that, and for perhaps the first time, she couldn’t stop her harsh words.

“You can’t handle a wife, sir!” she yelled. “Why can’t you tell me of a simple memory with my brother? What is so horrible that happened in Oxford that you keep denying it, running away from it like a coward?”

“Like a coward?” he roared, his face going crimson.

“You are a good person. An angry person, but a good person. You can do better. If you just opened up and let me in⁠—”

“A good person?” he spat out.