"What, another outspoken woman? I begin to see you've gained your tendencies from

your mother's side."

His warm teasing forestalled her anxiety. "Yes, well, I fear I must tell you that with our hasty wedding, well, she's anxious to begin planning the christening of our - our firstborn."

"Is she, now?" His smile was almost lazy.

Arabella held her breath. He hardly looked displeased at the prospect. She regarded him cautiously.

"How do you feel about children, Justin?"

He shrugged. "I must be honest," he said dryly. "Prior to the last few weeks, I've given little thought to the idea of marriage, let alone children."

Arabella took a breath. "If we ever have children," she said solemnly, "I hope they

resemble you."

Justin froze. Did she know what she was saying? A child who looked like him*He blanched inside.

For an instant, he couldn't breathe. He thought he might choke.

"I saw the portrait of your mother at Thurston Hall." Arabella sighed dreamily.

"You are the very picture of her, you know. I confess, I like the idea of a daughter with your striking coloring. Or a son with your exquisite features." Still smiling, she touched his cheek.

Justin couldn't help it. He recoiled.

"Good G.o.d. Do not say that. Do not even think it."

His sudden harshness stilled her smile.

She sat up, drawing the sheet over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Is the idea of children so abhorrent to you?" she asked carefully. "Or is it that you fear they will look like me?"

He made a sound in his throat. "For pity's sake, Arabella, I refuse to dignify such a ridiculous statement. If I were afraid of how our children would turn out, I wouldn't have married you, now, would I?"

Timidly she asked, "So you wouldn't mind a daughter with flaming red curls?"

"No," he stated flatly.

It was hardly the rea.s.surance she craved. Seeking some measure of encouragement, she stretched out a

hand toward his face.

He stopped her cold, winding his fingers around her wrist and thrusting her hand back in her lap.

He might as well have slapped her in the face. A treacherous little pain knotted her heart, yet somehow

she found the courage to lift her chin. "You did that on our wedding night. You did it again now. Twice," she pointed out quietly. "Justin, why won't you let me touch your face?"

He flung the sheets aside and rose, patently ignoring her as if she hadn't spoken.

Arabella had gone very still inside. Numbly she stared at the rigid lines of his back as he reached for his

dressing gown. "Justin?" she whispered.

Almost savagely he jerked the ties of his robe closed. "This whole discussion of children is

premature." He didn't look at her as he spoke. In fact, he was already striding toward the door.

Arabella slid from the bed. She grabbed her own dressing gown from the hook on the wall. She was still

trying to shove her arms in the sleeves when the door slammed shut.

She was undeterred - and not three steps behind him when he entered his study.

He went straight to the table near the window and reached for a crystal decanter. Her lips compressed

when he poured a generous splash, for she knew he was well aware of her presence. But he chose not to

face her. Instead he raised the gla.s.s to his lips, staring out the window, his back to her. Behind him, Arabella crossed her arms over her chest. "You're right," she said evenly. "The subject of children can wait, though we certainly haven't done anything to prevent the prospect, have we? But I want an answer to my question, Justin. Why won't you let me touch your face?"

At first she'd been puzzled, then hurt. Now she was determined.

He drained the gla.s.s and reached for another.

"Please look at me when I talk to you."

He turned, his green eyes distant. "Must we discuss this now?"

Her tone was as arch as his. "And when would be a good time? Never?"

His eyes flickered. "If it pleases you, Arabella, I should like to enjoy my brandy in

private."

"Well, it doesn't please me," she shot back hotly. "What did I do? What did I say that was so wrong? Answer me, d.a.m.n you!"

His lips pulled into something that scarcely resembled a smile. "Not very pretty language for a

vicar's daughter, my love."

Arabella stared. He was thin-lipped and stony. It was as if she could see him withdrawing, pulling awayinside himself*away from her. But why? Why?A pulse was ticking inside her. Ticking like a clock in an empty room, until she wanted to scream. She stood motionless, aware in some strange, unfathomable way she didn't fully comprehend that something was deeply wrong. Beneath his handsome facade was something hidden, something he refused to share.

Her anger drained away as suddenly as it erupted. But her composure was shaken badly. She felt bewildered, hurt, anxious, and it took every ounce of courage she possessed to remain where she was.

"Why do you look like that? Justin, what happened to you?"

He gave a curt laugh. "My G.o.d, three weeks wed and you'd think she'd known me forever."

Arabella caught her breath. G.o.d, but he could be cruel!

"It was you who said we were alike." She shook her head. Her gaze turned pleading.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you so cold?"

"What, Arabella!" He raised his hands high at his sides. "You don't like what you see? What I am? Perhaps you should have married Walter."

His voice p.r.i.c.ked her deeply. "I know what you're doing, Justin. You're trying to

push me away, aren't you?"

"For pity's sake! Can't a man have a moment to himself?"

More than anything, Arabella longed to go to him. To wrap her arms around him and cling. But somehow

she knew he would shut her out, shut her away. How could a night that began so perfectly have turned so

ugly?

The breath she drew was deep and racking. "Something's wrong, Justin. I know it. I can feel it. Something is very -"

"There is nothing wrong!"

The tension spun out endlessly. Seized by a bone-deep despair, she hugged her arms around herself, as if

to ward off a chill. Indeed, she acknowledged vaguely, she felt as if she'd been plunged into a vat of ice.

"Is this how it will always be?" Her voice was very low, thick with the threat of tears that

lay just beneath the surface. "Will we share nothing but pa.s.sion? Nothing but a bed? Can you tell me nothing -"

"Arabella," he intoned politely, "I invite you to leave." With that he turned, staring out the window, his chiseled profile etched in silver. His posture inflexible, his face a mask of stone.

The silence was unending. It was as if she hadn't spoken, as if she weren't even there*as if he'd forgotten her.

As if she didn't even exist.