Marissa looked down at the black, polished leather, and then back up to his face. A smile, as bright, cold, and artificial as a winter sun, touched her lips.
"There is no need to explain, Your Grace," she said, her voice a perfect, light, and utterly false sound of wifely understanding. "I do not mind Lady Senna staying in the east wing. It is, as I said, the appropriate and generous thing to do."
She leaned her shoulder against the door, a subtle, passive-aggressive pressure to remind him he was not welcome. "But," she added, her polite smile never wavering, "our grandmother clearly disapproves of the entire situation. I would only advise you not to let this… arrangement… cause any new conflict with her. She is, after all, the matriarch of this house."
She was handling him as she would any other household problem: with cool, polite, and distant logic.
