As she went to put the book down she noticed the name of the book beneath. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. There was a bookmark slotted between some pages so Connie opened them. Then her eyes narrowed. The words ‘For I am born to tame you, Kate!’ stared mockingly up at her from the top of the page. The rogue was reading The Taming of the Shrew!
* * *
Aaron ignored the light rain and slowly rode around the furthest perimeter of the estate. Feeling cold and damp was preferable to marching back into battle with his new wife. His father often accused him of avoiding confrontation or adversity—and perhaps that was true—but in this case it seemed the prudent thing to do. Besides, Connie was only one of his mounting problems.
The estate was another one. The fields were all empty of crops, something that did not really surprise him seeing as it was the middle of November, but they were also choked with weeds and something about that really did not seem right. Surely they should be ploughed like the tenant farms already were?
Not for the first time, he wished he had paid more attention when his grandfather had tried to teach him about estate management. The old man might well have been a vindictive and tyrannical man, but he had known everything there was to know about farming—especially how to turn a profit from the land. His father had always preferred to delegate the task and Aaron had been so determined to leave and join the army that he had never shown any sort of interest. Now he was back, and would soon be in charge of the estate and wholly responsible for the many people who depended on it, his lack of knowledge bothered him.
What Aaron could not quite get to grips with was the fact that the price of wheat was fixed, yet they were falling deeper and deeper into debt every year. Obviously, he had asked his father. Unfortunately, Viscount Ardleigh was so arrogant and so absorbed with besting the Stuarts next door that he failed to acknowledge there was even a problem. He was happy to leave all responsibility for the farming to his estate manager while he plotted and planned and schemed against the Stuarts in his study. Mr Thomas, the estate manager, was as elusive as fox and probably just as wily. Aaron did not warm to the man at all. Unfortunately, his father would not have a bad word said about him.
Mr Thomas was responsible for the enormous parcel of land his father had bought while Aaron was fighting in the Peninsula. The viscount refused to allow Aaron full access to the estate accounts—not that it had stopped Aaron from snooping in the ledgers when his father was not around—and as far as he could make out, things were now very dire indeed. The unnecessary purchase had created a massive void in the coffers that they had not recovered from. The land in question did not even border the Wincanton estate. It sat to the south of the Stuart estate, which probably explained why his father had paid ten times what the plot was worth just to get it. That the Earl of Redbridge had also desperately wanted the land had made his father even more reckless with his money. He was so pleased to have snatched it away from the Stuarts that he had apparently failed to notice that all those additional, ridiculously expensive acres were good for nothing. The soil was so thin it was barely a film upon the hilly rock beneath, so nothing would grow upon it. It had been a total waste of good money that had set them on the road to ruin. Each year since, they had failed to turn a healthy profit. Or, for that matter, any profit at all.
Aaron turned his horse towards the small hill. From the top he got a good view of the Earl of Redbridge’s estate and there all the fields were dark brown from ploughing. A fortnight ago he had seen men sowing seed in the land ready for next year. Why were his fields still idle? Perhaps the fact that they did this task so much later was the reason why their wheat crop had been so sparse last season?
It irritated Aaron that he did not know the answer to these questions. It irritated him more that he had no control over any of it either way. Not yet at least. Until his father died, he would not relinquish his control and Aaron could do nothing but watch the decline and wait. Except now, when his father did die, Aaron would not have the funds to fix things or to branch out into more modern investments. Thanks to his disadvantageous marriage.
Just thinking about Constance Stuart put him in a bad mood and he had no idea what to do about her. He had tried to be pleasant yesterday and had hoped that she would realise that they were both now stuck in the same boat and that she might come to appreciate his noble gesture. He had hoped that they might, in time, find a way to be able to co-exist without wanting to kill each other. After last night, he found that prospect less likely. The woman had no intention of making any form of compromise and trying to get her to see reason was exhausting. After hours of soul searching he had come to the conclusion that the best thing that they could do for the time being was avoid each other. At least until the dust had settled.
To that end, Aaron had been actively avoiding her all morning. He had ridden over every inch of the estate, was cold, soaking wet and the beginnings of hunger was gnawing at his belly. He wished he had had the foresight to bring some food and a blanket out with him, so he could have camped outside all night. He had slept quite soundly under the stars in worse conditions than this. Unfortunately, Connie would see such behaviour as cowardice rather than a tactical retreat and he was not prepared to give her that satisfaction. Clearly too many people had kow-towed to Constance Stuart for far too long and he was not going to be one of them. He had never run away from a battle in his life. Reluctantly, he turned his horse towards home and hoped for the best.
Connie whipped around, startled when the bedchamber door suddenly opened, but she was too angry with him to apologise for invading his privacy. Without thinking, she tossed the leather-bound volume of Shakespeare at him and it hit him squarely on his sopping wet head.
‘What the devil!’
Her hateful husband glared at her murderously as he rubbed his temple and Connie glared right back undaunted. ‘You were reading The Taming of the Shrew! The Taming of the Shrew! Did you hope it would provide you with a few pointers on how to deal with me?’
Connie stalked towards him, wielding another book. To his credit he did not back away from her. Far from it, in fact. He met her in the middle of the floor and stared right back at her with his hands planted on his hips as if she did not frighten him in the slightest. His confrontational stance reminded her that he was significantly larger than she was, something that was uncomfortably unfamiliar and quite intoxicating. He topped her by a few inches in height, but in width there really was no comparison. The dark, caped greatcoat that he still wore made him loom even larger and his expression was thunderous. Connie felt like a brittle sapling stood next to a mighty oak tree and was forced to raise her chin to look him in the eye. And they really were magnificent eyes. Her mouth went dry as she stared into the outraged depths of them.
‘The thought crossed my mind.’ Up close, she could see flecks of gold shimmer in the irises. ‘Why are you in my bedchamber, Connie?’
How could she admit to wild curiosity about him without sounding pathetic? ‘I like to know my enemy!’
His dark hair was beginning to curl at the nape of his neck where it was wet. For some inexplicable reason Connie felt the urge to brush the droplets of water from his skin, but stopped herself. What on earth was the matter with her? This man thought her a shrew. Why did she desperately want to touch him?
‘Did you find anything useful?’
His expression had changed. He no longer appeared quite so angry at her behaviour, more amused. As if he knew that she had wanted to know more about him. His arrogance, combined with the awkward realisation that he had seen through her bravado, rankled far more than his temper did.
‘You read boring books.’ What an utterly pathetic and insipid response. Connie felt her cheeks redden at the banality of the insult. His eyes flicked briefly to the weighty tome on farming still on the table before the ghost of a smile touched his lips, mocking her.
‘That particular volume is spectacularly dull, I will grant you that, but monstrously heavy. I suppose I should be grateful that you had the Shakespeare