Liberty for Paul

by Rose Gordon

  Any trace of the man she’d seen before was virtually gone. He’d turned into the perfect coldblooded English gentleman. As much as she thought she’d like him better this way, she was soon learning she was wrong. In a cruel twist of fate, she was realizing that being married to a man who lived by the rules was actually quite boring.

  Feeling restless with her current bout of insomnia, Liberty slipped on her dressing robe and decided to go grab a book from the library. She knew she should have just brought it up with her, but recently she’d been losing books. As silly as it sounded, the books were literally disappearing right off her nightstand. Well, they weren’t disappearing exactly. She knew they couldn’t magically vanish. That’s just what she’d like to think was happening. The truth was, she had a suspicion Mrs. Siddons was stealing them. That was the only explanation she could fathom for why the books she’d leave in her room were disappearing. She’d considered bringing it up with her husband, but thought he’d laugh or say something demeaning to her for accusing his servant of stealing.

  At the bottom of the stairs she noticed there was a little sliver of light coming from under the door to Paul’s study, which just so happened to be the same room as the library. Nervously, she bit her lower lip and contemplated if she should go in or not. It had been nearly a week since they’d quarreled, surely he wasn’t still upset. She knew she wasn’t. Why should he be?

  At the same time, she’d always heard her father say Paul could have a mighty temper. Until last week, she’d never really seen it, and truthfully she had no idea if he held grudges.

  Stiffening her spine and deciding if he behaved poorly she’d spout Bible verses at him, she slowly opened up door so not to make a sound.

  The tableau waiting for her behind the door was the last thing she’d ever expected to see and not because her husband was clad in only his trousers and shirtsleeves.

  ***

  “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Grimes?!” Paul heard screamed from the doorway, causing his head to whip in that direction so fast his neck hurt.

  He knew if she ever caught him doing this she’d be angry. He’d just hoped she’d never find out. But she just had, and his belief she’d be angry was not necessarily wrong. However, it might be more accurate to describe her as enraged or livid or infuriated, or perhaps a lethal combination of all three. Actually, come to think of it, nothing could describe the emotion that filled her face. She’d once expressed interest in seeing a part of him separated from the rest of his body, and, at the moment, he thought that very thing just might be about to happen.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” he countered. “What are you doing in my study?” He’d long ago realized answering a question with a question was an excellent way to defend oneself. He just hoped that would prove true this time. There really was no good way to explain his way out of why there were three of her etiquette books on fire in the hearth or why there was another one in his hand waiting to be pitched in.

  “I’ve come to get one of my books,” she retorted, stalking across the room to grab the book in his hand.

  His hand tightened around the book he held. She wasn’t getting it without a fight. “You don’t need these,” he said more calmly than he felt. He was boiling with rage. He’d been boiling with it for almost a week now. Ever since the day of that horrid family affair at the baron’s house to be precise.

  “Yes, I do,” she snapped, tugging harder at the book he held. “Give it to me,” she ground out. The tears in her eyes on the verge of spilling over.

  Her tears didn’t bother him one bit. If they’d been shed about something—just about anything—else, he'd soften. But over etiquette books? No. “No,” he said, yanking the book from her grasp and flinging it into the fire.

  The fire was too large for her to have any chance of recovering the book and a sob caught in her throat as she stood in silent horror, watching the flames engulf it. “How could you do this?” she sobbed, swiping at the tears that coursed down her reddened cheeks. “You are a monster!”

  “No, I’m not,” Paul said flatly.

  “Yes, you are. Only an unfeeling monster could do such a thing,” she yelled the best she could through her sobs.

  Paul just stared at her. He’d been burning etiquette books every night since her father dropped them off. That night he’d come home to find her parents had dropped off five hundred twenty three books belonging to Liberty. Of those five hundred twenty three books, five hundred nineteen were about etiquette, manners, or some nonsense relating to behaving. It was infuriating. Poor John had likely spent hundreds of pounds on all that rubbish. Good thing the majority of them were treatises and not real leather bound books. “You’re wrong,” he said when her loud sobs had quieted down a few decibels.

  “No, I’m not wrong,” she yelled with conviction. “Those were mine. You had no right to touch them. And not only did you touch them, you’ve destroyed them. Why?”

  Grabbing her wrists, he forced her to face him. “Why do you want them?”

  “Because they’re mine,” she cried.

  “That’s not good enough,” he said, shaking his head.

  Liberty tried to pull her trembling hands from his grasp, but his strong fingers tightened their hold on her delicate wrists. “Those books are important to me,” she said, glancing at the shelves where she’d lined them all up on only a few short days ago.

  “Why are they so important?” he demanded, resisting the urge to let her go and light that whole bookshelf on fire.

  Her glossy hazel eyes met his. “Because…because…they were helping me to get a husband,” she cried.

  Abruptly his hands relinquished her wrists. “Well, you don’t need them and their invaluable information now,” he said mockingly. “You’ve got me,” he added, jabbing his index finger at his chest.

  “It’s not the same,” she cried. “You’re nothing like the husband I wanted.”

  “Well, not to worry, you’re not exactly the wife I pictured, either,” Paul retorted, taking a fraction of pride in seeing her blanch at his words. But the feeling was soon abandoned when only a second later, shame washed over him. By saying those words, he’d proven her earlier accusation of him true. “I’m sorry,” he said in a softer tone. “That was cruel and I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she snapped. “You meant it. I know you did. It’s written all over your face.”

  No point in arguing with that. He’d meant it; he just shouldn’t have said it. “Still, I shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t,” she repeated sharply, cutting him off. She stalked over to where his theology and Latin books lined a shelf and started grabbing as many as she could hold.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, coming up right behind her and snatching books out of her arms.

  “I’m sure you’ll recognize it in a moment,” she said angrily as she clutched tightly to the three volumes she’d managed to hold onto.

  Paul put his arm around her, catching her at the waist and hauling her back up against his solid chest. “Don’t even think about it,” he breathed in her ear.

  “Let me go,” she screamed, trying to stomp on his booted foot with her bare heel.

  His embrace tightened. “Put the books down and I’ll let you go,” he said savagely in her ear.

  “No,” she replied fiercely, attempting to squirm from his hold. “You burned my books; it’s only fair I get to burn yours.”

  “It’s not about being fair,” he spat. “Those books are worthless. They serve no purpose.”

  She snorted. “You’d be the one to think so.” Her voice full of pity.

  “Name me one thing those books are good for,” he said, trying to hold her writhing body still.

  “I already told you,” she ground out bitterly.

  Paul pulled her down to the floor and maneuvered his body so he was lying almost directly on top of her, trapping her on the floor. “You told me they were to help catch a husband. And
as I pointed out, you’ve caught one. Why do you think you still need them?”

  “I just do,” she choked, pushing at his immovable chest.

  He grabbed her hands and pushed them away. “What is so valuable in those books that would make you behave this way?” he asked with a snarl.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she snapped. “Nobody understands.”

  “Try me,” he growled.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to grow up in my sister’s shadows,” she cried. More tears rolling down her cheeks. It almost looked like there were two streams flowing from her eyes.

  “Don’t I?” he mocked. He of all people knew what it was like to grow up knowing he’d always be inferior. He wasn’t heir to a title, his brother was.

  “No,” she exclaimed. “You’re handsome. You don’t know what it’s like to be plain. Unlike my sisters, who have nice hair, pretty faces and beautiful teeth, I have unremarkable hair, ordinary eyes and crooked teeth. There is nothing special about me. Therefore,” she said, trying to wiggle out from under his body, “I studied propriety as a way to make up for what I lack in beauty. There, I’ve told you everything. Are you happy now?”

  “That’s why you don’t smile,” he mused disbelievingly. He rested his body’s weight on his forearms and stared down at her. She may not be a raving beauty like her sisters, but she was nowhere near as ugly as she thought herself to be.

  She scowled at him. “You’re not very quick, are you, Mr. Grimes,” she said archly.

  “Guess not,” he returned with a rueful smile.

  “Care to share those thoughts,” she asked a minute later when he hadn’t yet wiped the giant grin from his face.

  He brought his hand up and brushed back a lock of her hair that had fallen across her forehead. “Nothing really,” he said casually. “Just what I’m going to get you for St. Valentine’s Day.”

  “Don’t bother,” she snapped. “There’s nothing you could give me that I could possibly want.”

  “Not even a book?” Paul asked, getting on his knees and offering her his hand to help pull her up. She was hesitant to take his hand, so with a shrug, he stood up and watched her scramble to her feet.

  “No,” she said. “Well, wait unless the book is Proper Manners for the Proper Lady or,” she walked to the bookshelf and started scanning the titles, “The English Wife, or Mrs. Sadie’s Rules for Young Ladies, or…” her fingers trailed more spines and she let out a strangled cry. “How many have you burned?” she demanded hotly.

  Paul shrugged. “Thirty. Perhaps a few more,” he said casually.

  Her eyes flew to his. “You burned thirty of my books tonight?” Her voice rang with rage mixed with torment.

  “No,” he said evenly. “I’ve burned only about five or so a night since they arrived.”

  “You what?” she burst out. “Have you been stealing them off my nightstand?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That would be Mrs. Siddons. She doesn’t like things out of place.”

  Liberty glared at him. “Has she been joining you for your nightly ritual?”

  “No. It’s been a solo pursuit, I’m afraid,” he answered with an exaggerated sigh. “But if you’d like to join me,” he suggested excitedly, walking over to the books and grabbing half a dozen treatises from the end. “It’s an excellent way to relieve tension.”

  “I can think of better ways to relieve tension,” she yelled. She grabbed one of the bigger volumes near her and threw it at him, clipping him in the shoulder.

  “I’m sorry you did that,” he said, throwing all the books that were in his hands into the fire at one time.

  Her eyes went wide and she let out a suppressed cry of rage. Grabbing another book, she took aim again and flung it at him. But this time he ducked and she missed altogether.

  Paul leaned down and picked up the tome that was meant for his head. He blinked and tried not to laugh when he saw the title and the name of the author. “Hmm, I do wonder what Miss Bea Haven has to say about hurling books at one’s husband in Please Your Husband, Please Yourself.” He flipped through only a few pages when Liberty’s hands grabbed onto the book.

  “Let go,” she said slowly, trying with all her might to keep her hold on the book. “Please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I happen to like this one,” she admitted solemnly.

  Paul scoffed. “I’m not letting it go. If I do, you’ll tell me you just so happen to like all of them for some idiotic reason or another. Into the fire it goes!”

  “Please,” she repeated, her fingers slipping off the edge when he gave it a yank. “I…this one…it’s different.”

  “How so?” he inquired. He was about to let it fly into the fire, but to hear her reason, he could wait a second.

  “I bought that one based solely on the author’s name,” she said testily.

  A grin split his face. “So then you do have a sense of humor. Very well, you may keep this one,” he said, handing the book back to her.

  Her fingers snatched it from his palm and instinctively she brought it to her chest.

  “But as for the rest of these,” he said, gesturing to all the other books on the shelves, “they’re not so lucky.” He started grabbing handfuls of pamphlets and treatises and tossing them into the fire.

  “No!” she screamed, dropping the book she held on his desk before running to him and latching onto his arm.

  Paul shook off her grasp. “Sorry, but they need to go and nobody wants them. I asked at the lending library two days ago. They don’t want them. There’s nothing else to do with them.” He shrugged. “It’s a shame to waste your father’s money this way, or to carelessly throw away paper, but at least we’ll stay warm tonight.” He shot her a quick smile as he tossed more books into the fire.

  She stared at him. Her face was a mixture of distress and anger. Her lower lip quivered and tears ran down her cheeks. And yet, at the same exact time, her eyes told him her hatred for him was stronger now than ever before. “If you hate me so much, why not just ask me to leave? I would have gone if you'd have only asked it of me. But to stoop to this,” she said, waving a shaky hand at the fire where even more of her precious books were currently being used in place of firewood.

  Paul stopped throwing books into the flames and looked at her. “Lib—Mrs. Grimes,” he began softly, “is that what you think? You think I did this because I want you to leave?”

  “Yes!” Liberty shouted. “Why else would you be doing this? Why else would you do any of the things you’ve done to me since we married?”

  Paul fought the urge to put his arms around her and comfort her. She thought he’d done all those things to get her to leave? That was completely opposite of what he’d been trying to do. But how could he explain that to her? How could he tell her that he wanted the woman he’d met last spring? The one who talked his ear off during dinner. The one he’d watched from across the room as she gave comfort to her sister after she’d been thrown over for one of the most unpleasant chits in society. Where was that woman? He’d liked her that night. He may not have done a very good job of showing it. But he was a man, for goodness’ sake, what did she expect?

  Seeing she was still waiting for an answer, he said the truth, “I did those things because I wanted to break down your defenses. Ever since we married you’ve been acting as docile as a lamb. I don’t like it.” He let out a deep exhale. “I thought if I could vex you, you’d break out of your little act.”

  “You burned my books because you intentionally wanted to vex me?!” she hollered, her eyes huge and twin red flags stained her cheeks. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Grimes, you succeeded.”

  “I didn’t burn your books because I wanted to vex you. I did that because I wanted you to stop obsessing over propriety. It’s not you,” he bellowed back.

  “Well, excuse me if it disappoints you that I was trying not to disappoint you,” she said with a sniff. Then before he could respond, she fled the r
oom.

  Paul stared at the door she’d just exited through. He had no idea what she meant by that last cryptic statement. With a sigh, he took a seat. He was too exhausted to keep throwing books into the fire. If she hadn’t come in when she did, he would have stopped at five like he had every other night. But when she came in the room, she’d somehow stirred the fire of his temper.

  Each night he’d randomly selected five books and tossed them in. He hated having to look at them each time he came into the room. More than that though, he hated what they’d done to Liberty. Surely if it weren’t for those blasted books, she wouldn’t live her life like a crusty old bat.

  He got up and walked to the hearth where the fire was still roaring. Grabbing the poker sitting to the right of the hearth, he started to bank the fire. He knew she’d find out eventually that he’d disposed of her books. He was just hoping it would be a little further down the road. Perhaps after she’d loosened up a bit, and preferably by him telling her, not by her walking into the room and witnessing it. Oh well, nothing for it now, he told himself. As funny as the situation wasn’t, he couldn’t help but smile when he thought about how she’d gone to the shelf and knew exactly which books he’d burned. So much for his random selections.

  With the fire banked, he walked to the door, picking up her forgotten book on the way out. Tomorrow he’d make up for it, he promised himself. She may be hesitant to smile now, but he’d take care of that little problem tomorrow. As for tonight, he’d go to bed knowing she was upstairs thinking him an ass.

  Chapter 15

  “He is such an ass,” Liberty ranted to Elizabeth as soon as she walked into her drawing room the next day.

  “Really, dear? Tell me about it. I’ve always been quite fascinated with equines,” Elizabeth said sweetly, pouring a cup of tea.

  Liberty couldn’t help the wobbly smile that took her lips. “Unfortunately, he’s not of the four-legged variety.”