"You didn't want a child from me, did you?"
Barely a flicker crossed his face, but she had the sudden feeling he was cautious. "I'm a duke. I require an heir."
"You didn't want an heir, did you?" Adele stabbed a finger toward him. "That was an excuse. This whole game was a joke to you. Seduce me? Ha. Something about Devoncourt set you off. Who is he? What is he to you?"
It had to be Devoncourt that had roused her husband's interest. All this had occurred in the wake of that damning photograph.
Malloryn's gaze grew narrow again. "Devoncourt works for my enemy—"
Adele barely heard him. "Oh, my goodness." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Oh, my goodness." None of it had been true. "I cannot believe I actually thought you suddenly interested in me, after so many months of indifference. I'm an idiot."
"You're not an idiot," he replied carefully. "You're quite an intelligent young woman. I've always known that—"
"I am an idiot," she declared. "I actually thought...."
That you wanted a child with me.
Her heart threatened to punch its way through her ribs. The image of the baby she'd begun daydreaming about, the one with little Alex's face, was suddenly ripped to shreds. And it hurt. It hurt so badly she thought she was almost going to cry. And worse, she'd actually begun to soften toward her husband. He'd kissed her as if she were made of spun sugar. He'd charmed his way into her bed with one flicker of his perfectly arched brow.
He could have bedded her if he'd desired. She would have let him.
She'd wanted him to do it.
All of it was a lie.
A means to test her allegiance. A way to twist her around his little finger while he worked out her loyalty. She felt like she wanted to throw up.
Or throw something.
"Adele?" A silky smooth whisper.
Don't you dare call me that. Adele slammed her walls up, protecting her poor, battered heart.
"Say something."
She wanted to say everything. But the sudden seething rage inside her choked off the words, leaving her shaking with fury.
"I came here expecting you to throw something at me."
That did it. Adele drained the contents of her brandy glass, not willing to waste good liquor, and hurled it at him.
Malloryn snatched the glass out of the air. They stared at each other. "I'm a blue blood," he pointed out. "I'm faster than you, Adele. You can throw anything you like at me"—he examined the glass—"though I do note Charlie gave you the lesser set of glassware."
"The lesser set of glassware?"
He didn't even care.
"He must have been anticipating fireworks."
"Fireworks?"
And suddenly she was filled with the urge to ruffle those elegant feathers. To make him act like he did give a damn. Anything. All she wanted was for him to shout at her, just once. Some bloody sign of emotion that might make her feel not so alone in this.
Reaching behind her, she found the decanter of brandy. Malloryn's eyes widened as she lifted it.
"Perhaps we should test your phenomenal reflexes then?"
She hurled the decanter, which he caught. The stopper tore loose though, half the brandy splashing across his chest before he righted it swiftly and set it aside. There were three more glasses that she threw at him in quick succession, and Malloryn snatched them all out of the air.
"Adele," he barked, juggling glassware like a professional.
Her back was up, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "I thought you were gadding about behind my back with your bloody opera singer," she shouted, flinging the silver tray at him like a discus. "I let you—" Her words choked off as a flood of embarrassment swept through her. I let you kiss me all over. I let myself.... No. She stopped the thought right there, ignoring the aching twinge in her chest at the memory of how she'd felt when he looked into her eyes and slowly, slowly kissed her mouth.
She did not care about him.
She hadn't been entertaining stupid, foolish daydreams about her husband sweeping her away to the country where they could lie in bed all day and whisper idiotic love words to each other—
"Let me what?" His mercurial gaze sharpened as he dumped all the glassware on a shelf nearby.
Still unruffled. Still wearing that faint, supercilious mask, one eyebrow arched.
That was more than she could take.
Books came into her hands and she flung them at him, one after the other, depleting the bookshelf in swift succession. Malloryn had an armful. His eyes narrowed as he glared at her over the top of it. "Adele. Stop. I'd expect this from—"
"From?"
"A highly strung Italian soprano!"
"I'll give you 'highly strung!'"
More books. She was throwing with all her might now. Malloryn cursed under his breath as he dropped everything he held, trying to capture the encyclopedic tome she'd slung at his head. He glared at her as all the books tumbled into disarray at his feet, his shirt creased and drenched in brandy, one coppery curl draping across his forehead. Disarray achieved.
Finally.
Adele tossed one more book at him, almost a taunt, and then the mask shattered. He strode across the study with predatory intent, and she suddenly realized she was in trouble now.
This time the scurry of lobbed objects was made as she tried to flee. If he got his hands on her—
"Yes, 'highly strung'!" Malloryn accused, ducking beneath a paperweight. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"You're a blue blood," Adele shot back, darting around the desk and glaring at him over it. "You're so much faster than I am," she taunted, batting her eyelashes at him. "You can survive almost anything—"
"I'm not sure a barrage of books counts," Malloryn snarled, launching toward her. "Or you. Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to survive you!"
Adele squealed and darted the other way. "Well, I don't exactly have a pistol right now! It's the books or nothing, and I—"
"You'd what?" A hand snagged in her skirts. "You'd like to shoot me?"