A Worthy Wife (8 page)

The devil indeed! There stood his wife in a sheer gown, limned in the glow from the firelight. Speechless, he could only watch as she took a few steps into the room, turning slowly. He’d wager that she didn’t know how the light behind her made her nightdress almost transparent, from the dark peaks of her breasts to the darker triangle between her thighs. He’d lose.

Aurora knew precisely what she was doing, licking her lips and shaking her head till the blond tresses flowed down her back. She waited only until she was positive she’d stirred his interest, by the stirring of the front of his white lawn nightshirt. Staring pointedly at the pointed evidence, she smiled and skipped back to the door. “You see, my lord, two can play the game. I have managed to seduce you, without even saying a word.”

He had to laugh. It was either that or cry. The chit had bottom—and top, and everything in between. Playing knight errant hadn’t been an error after all, it was appearing, though she’d lead him a merry dance. Well, she’d had her jig; now it was time for a nice, slow waltz.

He waited until the sounds of movement stopped, when her maid called good night and the hall door shut with a click. Then he tiptoed back across the darkened sitting room toward Aurora’s bedchamber. Before he got there, though, he discerned a lump on the floor. He went back for his quizzing glass. Devil take it if he wasn’t
going to have to pay for a new carpet, with all the to-and-fro.

Closer inspection revealed the lump to be a half-grown, half-starved boy. There was Ned, asleep on the floor in front of his mistress’s closed door like a faithful watchdog. And there went Kenyon’s hopes.

Ned’s hair was still wet, and his cheek was red from scrubbing. The earl went back and fetched another blanket to cover the lad. Returning one more time to his own cold, empty room, Windham wondered, had he ever really wanted a restful wife?
This
restful?

Chapter Eight

A female of a certain age was entitled to a certain number of eccentricities. An old woman of infinite wealth was forgiven an infinite number of whims. Lady Anstruther-Jones was of the latter class of character. Hortense had been concubine to an Oriental prince, favorite in a sultan’s harem, and first wife to a tribal chieftain before marrying her India nabob viscount. Or else she’d been a vicar’s daughter from Devon. No one seemed to recall, or care. With Anstruther-Jones gone to his final reward, the lady was finally able to indulge herself. Now she was titled an Original. Her notions of gracious entertaining, for example, were an eclectic blend of rites and rituals from any number of ancient societies, or guidebooks.

One never wore shoes in her house. Silk slippers were offered to guests in the entry hall in
summer, thick woolen socks from Yorkshire mills in winter. Granted, the lady had white fur rugs, but the rule held for the bare-floors areas, too. And no one sat on chairs. Guests couldn’t, for none were available, only thick cushions. Ladies as well as gentlemen were invited, nay, encouraged to smoke, as their hostess was never without a long pipe carved out of ivory. No one called without an invitation—or left without a token of her esteem. Her regular guests quickly learned not to admire anything in the house, for they’d be leaving with it. To refuse was to insult Lady Anstruther-Jones, which meant social disaster, since Hortense had become one of London’s luminaries, despite barely leaving her house. No matter that you were expected to reciprocate with a present of equal value, you graciously carted away the elephant-foot umbrella stand or the brass gong that rang so loudly the windows shook—next door. Exchanging gifts was a tradition from the East, Hortense always claimed, but it could have been East Anglia. Finally, as Lord Windham explained to Aurora, one never,
ever,
arrived without a gift in hand. Hence their shopping expedition.

Lady Anstruther-Jones had responded to Kenyon’s note with an invitation to pay a morning call, which meant sometime after noon. Of course she would be delighted to meet with Windham and his wife, since they were the premier topic of conversation now that the notice of their marriage was in the papers, and Lady Anstruther-Jones was the premier gossip.

Not wishing to waste an opportunity to get into his wife’s good graces, and not daring to leave her alone to get into more scrapes, Kenyon was therefore taking his lady shopping, just what he least enjoyed. “I suppose it will have to be jewelry, though the old dragon must have a lairful of gems by now. I cannot imagine what else she could want or need. I never bought you a wedding gift, either.” He reluctantly headed the curricle toward Rundell and Bridges, where he’d doubtless stand around for hours, until it was time to pay for Aurora’s choices. Since she seemed to possess nothing but a string of pearls, he expected to spend a great deal of time and a great deal of money. She was wearing her mother’s wedding ring, for he’d refused to allow the one Podell had purchased to touch her finger. That should take another hour, judging from his past experience in purchasing finery for a female.

“I knows a place what has pretty gewgaws the old lady might like,” Ned offered helpfully from his tiger’s place behind the driver’s bench.

Kenyon clamped his jaws shut. He hadn’t wanted the boy along in the first place. Just what he needed, a diminutive duenna. Now he was to be bear-led by a barely civilized brat, one who hadn’t the least notion of what was due a lady of Quality like Lady Anstruther-Jones or Lady Windham. “I’m sure Rundell’s will suffice.”

“I don’t know about no soft ice, but No More Morris has sparklers what should turn the old bat up sweet so
she tells you what you wants to know. Real pretty, they are, and half the price of what those top-lofty, thieving jewelers in Mayfair charge. That’s why they calls ’im No More Morris. ’E sells stuff for what it’s worth, ’n no more.”

“Paste, I am sure,” Kenyon scoffed, but Aurora was all for going to look. “No reason not to save money,” she said from lifelong habit learned at her Scots uncle Ptolemy’s knee.

“An’ No More Morris wouldn’t cheat no friend of mine. He’s a collector, don’t you know. Only has the best.”

And he only had two gold balls hanging outside his ramshackle, rundown shop. The other had fallen to the ground, some time in the last century. “It’s a deuced pawn shop!” Kenyon complained as Ned went to the horses’ heads.

“But not a fence, guv’nor. I wouldn’t bring ’er ladyship to no criminal ken, don’t you know. All the folks what bring their merchandise to No More has swallowed a spider, legitimate. Most are swells, too.”

Aurora needed a translation.

“Your protégé seems to believe that all the goods herein come from the homes of the upper classes, those who find themselves temporarily financially embarrassed.”

She nodded, taking his arm as they walked through the narrow door and hoping he would stop fretting about leaving his cattle in Ned’s hands. “Debtors. I should think that selling off their heirlooms is preferable to going to Fleet Prison. At least their creditors might be paid.”

Kenyon wasn’t listening. “Great gods, is that a Tintoretto?” He had his quizzing glass out, examining the dark canvas in its heavy gold frame.

While he and Mr. Morris enthused over the painting’s provenance, then moved on to examine what might be a Turner in better light, an unknown Madonna of the Italianate School, and a vase that No More wouldn’t swear to being Ming, but looked to be a perfect match
to one at Warriner House, Aurora wandered around, ignored.

The shelves were crowded and dusty, the glass cases of jewelry so dirty she had a hard time viewing the contents, and the light so bad that she mistook a sleeping cat for a marble sculpture. Mr. No More Morris might be a collector, but he was no housekeeper.

Not knowing Lady Anstruther-Jones, of course, Aurora had no idea of the woman’s taste, but couldn’t find anything that she thought might be a suitable gift. The diamonds resembled crystal chandeliers, the pearls were the size of birds’ eggs, and the emeralds looked like they belonged on Cleopatra’s breastplate. No woman of refinement would wear such gaudy pieces, except to a masquerade.

Perhaps a well-traveled, elderly lady would like an antique book. Aurora picked one off a pile on the floor, only to have the gold-leafed cover come off in her hands. She sneezed, from the dust or the cat, and her husband looked up, as if suddenly remembering her existence. “One of these will be perfect for the viscountess. Why don’t you pick out a necklace for yourself while Morris shows me what he has in the back room?”

There was more of the stuff? Aurora sighed, then dutifully regarded the jewelry again. She’d rather have the cat. On top of one of the cases, though, she spotted a gold filigree butterfly on a wooden base. Lifting it, she saw that a key on the bottom made the butterfly sway and turn to a tinkling little tune. Aunt Thisbe would adore it. Aurora held onto the music box, thinking to show Ned, so he could return for it once she had an allowance of her own and could afford to buy gifts for her aunt and uncle.

Kenyon and the proprietor returned to the shop’s front room, both carrying stacks of paintings and portfolios. When Mr. Morris went back for the rest, and string to tie them with, the earl grinned at Aurora. “Can you believe I found a Leonardo sketch? I’m sure it’s his, with the mirror writing. It’s a lovely piece on its own, even if it does turn out to be by one of his students. And the price was too good to pass up. What a find this
place is! I’ll have to apologize to Needles, and make sure he doesn’t tell anyone else about it. Did you find something you like?”

“Just this, for my—”

She held up the music box, but a collection of snuff boxes caught his eye. He had to squint to see them in the poor light. “Fine, fine, whatever you like, my dear.”

Just then a shelf full of clocks started to toll the hour. Some chimed, some gonged, one had a little bird that warbled, and another was in the shape of a ship that rocked. They did not all finish at the same time, either. But they did remind the earl that they were expected all the way across the City. “Confound it, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry. Morris, add her ladyship’s purchase to my bill, and send the lot to the Grand Hotel.” He tucked the small Italian Madonna under his arm and led Aurora out to where Ned was waiting with the curricle.

“All right ’n tight, m’lord. I walked ’em just like you said.”

“Good lad. We’ll have to see about fitting you with a suit of livery.”

Ned’s thin chest swelled with pride. So did Aurora’s. “Thank you, Kenyon,” she said when Ned had scrambled up behind and they were under way again. “That’s a better present than anything you could have bought me.”

“What did I buy you, actually? I’m sorry I got so caught up in the artwork. I have been looking to add to the family’s collection of paintings for years, without finding much of interest.”

“I understand. I get that way in bookstores.” She wound the music box to show him how it worked, but he could only spare a glance, since they were in traffic.

“That trumpery bit is what I bought you for a bride gift?”

“Actually you bought it for Aunt Thisbe. I thought it would go nicely with the butterfly collection.”

“Thunderation, you must think me the worst kind of nip-cheese. Blister it, I meant to buy you something pretty this morning. A new wedding ring, at least. Now there’s no time to get to the jeweler’s.”

“I don’t mind, truly. I like wearing my mother’s ring. I have so little of hers, you see, not even many memories.”

As hard as it was to credit that a female was content with an insignificant gold band, Kenyon had to believe those guileless blue eyes. Still feeling guilty, though, he vowed to send for the Windham diamonds before another day had past. His loving first wife had financed her elopement to France with all of the other family pieces, but she’d left the diamonds at least. His sister had worn them for her come-out. Aurora should wear them for her introduction to the
ton
.

Meanwhile, he leaned back and called to Ned, “Bonnets. Where can I find bonnets in a hurry?”

“But there’s no time, Kenyon, and I have two new hats already,” she protested.

His grimace was opinion enough of her headgear. The yellow ruched affair she wore yesterday had made her look like a dandelion, and today’s was a blue coal scuttle. “Master Needles?”

“Left at the corner, guv, then straight for ten blocks. Mam’selle Marie will…will suffice.”

His lordship’s lips were twitching at Ned’s quick study, but he asked, “A Frenchwoman?” After Genevieve, the entire breed was suspect.

“Mary Maloney. She be as French as Yorkshire puddin’, Earl. But the gentry morts come down heavy for Frog legs.”

“Frog legs?” Aurora thought of her uncle’s beloved batrachians.

“He means the ladies will pay more for the cachet of French fashions.”

“That’s right, m’lord. Mary gets good cash for spoutin’ a few mercies and wees.”

“Merci
s
and
oui
s,” Aurora said, correcting him.

“That’s what I said. Turn here, m’lord, and down that alley. Mary can’t afford no street front rent, but she matches the styles of them what does.” He hopped down to take the horses’ leads. “You tell her Needles sent you, and that ’er ladyship is aces wiff me.”

Aurora didn’t need a translation. “Why, thank you, Ned.”

She didn’t need three new bonnets, either, but she got them, nevertheless. “The Countess of Windham cannot be seen in the same hat every day,” her husband declared. Besides, he was having fun. Picking out bonnets was not nearly as exciting as selecting Lady Anstruther-Jones’s gift, but Kenyon was finding a challenge in creating his own masterpiece. Some brims shielded Aurora’s fine, high cheekbones; some ribbons clashed with her eyes; a few permitted too many gold curls to show, which might tempt a man into touching them. His favorite was the tiny jockey-style cap with the blue feather that curled down, almost to the corner of her mouth. No, he really liked the straw bonnet with the silk forget-me-nots peeping under the brim. The lace-trimmed satin, though, lent her a sophistication and maturity befitting a married woman. Aurora was laughing as he and Marie discussed her finer points: It was good to see her so carefree.