"Bloody hell and damnation I AM NOT MARRIED."
His yell fairly shook the ground so loud was it and Mariah had to stop herself from covering her ears.
"You are a bloody nuisance. You have given me nothing but trouble since the second you pulled up to this house. I am not married. I have never been married and if all women are like you, I have no intentions of ever being married," he shouted.
Mariah felt quite hurt at that last bit.
"That was very rude," she berated him and watched as his jaw dropped open so wide she was surprised it didn't hit of the floor.
"Are you serious?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes, I am," she answered firmly. "There really is no need to be so insulting."
Now, Mariah had been witness to plenty of afflictions in her time helping Papa. But never had she seen someone's face turn quite so red in so short amount of time as Mr. Haverton's did at that moment.
"Of all the ridiculous, exasperating, maddening chits I have ever met. You — I, you — argh!"
Mariah watched in bemused fascination as the large man before her, who much surely be over six feet in height, threw what could only be described as a total temper tantrum right in front of her.
He threw his hands in the air, even stamped his feet at one point and shouted mostly incoherent words to the ceiling.
Mariah wondered briefly if she should slap him then figured that would probably make the situation worse. So she waited calmly, hands clasped together until he was finished.
After a moment or two of frankly ridiculous behaviour Mr. Haverton stomped over to the sideboard, which held a selection of drinks, and proceeded to pour a measure of brandy bigger than any Mariah had ever seen.
He threw back the entire contents then slammed the glass onto the table.
She waited a few seconds but when he didn't speak or move, she guessed that the tantrum was over.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked politely.
He ignored her.
Like a child.
"So" she ventured again after more mutinous silence, "you're not married?"
Mariah was quite sure she heard a curse before he turned around to face her.
"No. I told you before and I am telling you now. I'm not married. Do you really think I would have kissed you the way I did if I had a wife? Do you think I am that type of man?"
Mariah felt instantly guilty then instantly defensive.
"Well how should I know what type of man you are?" she wailed, wringing her hands nervously. "You barely speak to me and when you do you are boorish and uncivil. In fact, if you didn't k-kiss me like, well, like you do, I would think you hate me."
Embarrassment warmed Mariah's cheeks. This was not how she had expected the evening to go. She'd had marvellous visions of her delivering an icy set-down then gliding from the room, magnificent in her anger.
Instead, she'd been subjected to a full-blown tantrum, and now here she was, trying to defend herself.
Mr. Haverton sighed and ran a hand through his hair. She was beginning to see that this was a habit of his when he was agitated and upset. She found the gesture thoroughly arousing. But now was not the time to be thinking such things.
"Mariah, I—"
"I really do not think it is appropriate to call me by my given name, sir," she sniffed.
The look he gave her curled her toes.
"Mariah," he continued, eyes blazing, "if you could read my mind where you're concerned, me using your name would be the least of your worries."
A dart of heat shot through every part of her. Well. What was she to say to that?
"I told you yesterday my life is complicated. But I am not married. Nor am I the type of man who would look to anyone other than his wife for affection."
"Well then, who owns this gown?" She picked at the soft material, shaking it at him.
From the clenching of his jaw it seemed this was a subject he didn't like to talk about. "It doesn't matter who owns it. It's not my wife's, since no such wife exists. That's all you need to know."
Curiosity rose, tempering her ire at his tone and his refusal to discuss her concerns. "It does matter. It matters to me," she persisted. "If I am wearing someone's clothes, I'd like to know whose."
"Drop it, Miss. Bolton," he said fiercely.
So, she'd been relegated back to being Miss Bolton?
"But why? I do not feel very comfortable about this, Mr. Haverton. We have – well, you have kissed me and," she could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment at how naive she much sound but she continued on doggedly, "and to my mind that should make me privy to-"
"For God's sake I said drop it."
This time Mariah did cover her ears, so loud was his shout.
The subsequent silence was deafening.
Mariah could feel tears burning the back of her eyes.
What dark, horrid secret was he hiding? Who owned the blasted gown and why wouldn't he tell her?