The Luckiest Lady In London (14 page)

It was only nine when she rose from the table. So she sat down in the drawing room and wrote a long letter to her family, extolling the beauty of her new home.

He did not join her in the drawing room, sneaky rascal indeed. But she could not deny it: His distance was having the desired effect. Her heart was beating fast as she returned to her bedroom and changed out of her dinner gown.

This time she would make sure to disrobe him. Slowly.
She’d seen so little of his body. She wanted to touch him, study him, and perhaps map out tiny imperfections on his person like constellations in the night sky.

She glanced at the clock: half past ten. He would come to her at eleven; she knew it. So she pulled out two pieces of stationery and wrote a letter each to Lady Balfour and Lady Tenwhestle.

It was two minutes to eleven when she was finished. She extinguished most of the lamps in the room and climbed in under the bedcover: She planned to emit some thunderous snoring noises when he opened the door.

She giggled to herself, imagining his response. They would probably burst out laughing in unison. And then she would grab him by the lapel and not let go until sunrise.

The connecting door, however, remained stubbornly closed. She listened, but couldn’t hear any sounds. Vexed, she sat up in bed. The man was being insufferable. Yes, a certain amount of waiting whetted the appetite. But beyond that certain amount, appetite was replaced by irritation!

At half past eleven, she’d had enough. She left her bed, shrugged into her dressing robe, and yanked open the connecting door. His bedroom was unlit. Light meandered in from her room, enough to show that there was no one inside. She walked to various doors leading out from his bedroom—nothing. The entire apartment was empty.

She went back to her bedroom, lit a hand candle, and set out for the billiard room, hoping she remembered the way correctly. Her sense of direction served her just fine, but the billiard room was deserted. As were the smoking room, the library, and the conservatory, and all the other rooms she passed along the way.

Muttering under her breath, she checked his apartment again. Still dark and vacant. Where in the world could a man
go at this time of the night? Surely he did not mean to compel her to search the house room by room?

She sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of her neck. This couldn’t possibly still be a game, unless the point was to give offense and cause frustration. But if it wasn’t a game . . .

If it wasn’t a game, it would mean he’d had enough of her for the time being.

Impossible. The night before he had been so aroused he had not even taken the time to disrobe. He must want her still—and intensely, too.

Yet after an entire day away, instead of seeking her company, he had chosen his own.

She lay down on her bed, her mood glum. She wished she knew where he was. She wished she understood what drove his strange decisions. She wished she’d remembered never to lower her guard where he was concerned—she was to trust him only in bed and nowhere else, no matter how adorably he styled the dress dummies.

She fell asleep dreaming that he came through the connecting door, full of smiles and apologies.

L
ouisa would have preferred to hunt him down the next morning and demand an answer, but she woke up to a house preparing itself for battle. The first batch of guests for the house party was expected in the afternoon. And had she somehow come to the belief that she needed only to stand back and let the great machinery belowstairs rumble on by itself?

How wrong she had been. This was an army, and she its general. It didn’t matter that she’d never been anywhere near a proper campaign; dozens and dozens of decisions now fell to her.

Some obviously mattered: Funds needed to be approved so that the extra help hired specifically for the occasion would have their coin at the end of each day. Some were of passionate importance to those directly involved: Mr. Sturgess could not stop agonizing about the combination of linen and fresh flowers at the table—should it be a white tablecloth to show off the vibrancy of the ranunculus, or should it be a dark
tablecloth so that the late marchioness’s blush roses could be displayed to their best advantage? And some made her feel like both a complete bumpkin and a wonderful sage for not caring one way or the other: Should the east lawn be trimmed to the correct height for croquet and the west lawn for tennis—or vice versa? She pretended to reflect on the difference, and then instructed the groundskeeper to seek the master of Huntington.

“Did Mr. Connelly find you?” she asked the master of Huntington when she finally saw him, an hour past luncheon, coming down the grand staircase in a light tweed suit, The Ideal Country Gentleman.

“Yes, he did.” He addressed her with an affable familiarity, as if they’d been married years and a night missing from her bedchamber were nothing for anyone to be concerned about.

“And how did you answer him?”

“The west lawn for tennis and the east lawn for croquet—that way there will always be shade, as on hotter days tennis is usually played in the morning and croquet in the afternoon.”

“A rich man’s concern,” she scoffed.

“A rich woman’s too,” he answered with a smile at her. “Don’t forget what you have become, Lady Wrenworth.”

It was only a half smile—or perhaps less, perhaps only a quarter. But all the same, it was as dazzling.

“If you will excuse me, I must go out and inspect the grouse we will soon be shooting,” he said, leaning in so that his lips brushed her cheek.

She laid a hand against his heart, the tweed warm beneath her hand. “I missed you last night.”

Maybe marriage was not a hotbed of transparency and honesty, but she had never lied when it came to her physical desire for him.

Now he no longer smiled. Now he looked at her as he had
in their bridal bower, with a ferocity that bordered on vehemence.

Only for a second. Then he took her hand in his, kissed her across the knuckles, and departed the front door without a backward glance.

Leaving her unsure whether she felt better—or even worse.

L
ouisa’s husband stepped into her room just as Betsey pronounced her toilette finished.

He dismissed Betsey and came to stand behind Louisa, inspecting her in the mirror, his hands behind his back. She had chosen an ornately embroidered dinner gown in a pale lilac brocade, a double strand of pearls—a wedding present from Lady Balfour—about her throat.

“Very nice,” he said. “But not quite right yet.”

“I would look better if I were more satisfied in bed,” she retorted.

“Really?” He brushed one hand against her pearl necklace. “I would have said you looked quite ravishing when you’d gone twenty-four years without.”

No doubt she would have come up with a witty and biting repartee, but he did something with her necklace, his warm touches upon her nape causing a cascade of sensations inside her.

And now he removed the necklace altogether, placing it on the vanity with a soft click.

She wanted him to keep touching her. When he did, she felt less adrift, less . . . cast aside.

He pulled a handful of something from his pocket, which, as he placed it around her throat, resolved itself to be a sensational diamond necklace, the gems brilliant with an icy flame. “From my mother’s jewelry collection. All the pieces are yours to keep.”

She could not care less about the necklace, or the other pieces—her attention was solely focused on his fingers. Did they linger as he worked the clasp? Did he display the slightest interest in her skin?

No, he was completely impersonal, needing no more than three seconds to fasten the necklace.

“Now you look perfect,” he said, his words just as impersonal. “Shall we go?”

I
t took Louisa the entire predinner chitchat and the first course after sitting down before she was able to shove herself back into the role that she’d played so often and so well during the Season.

There were adjustments to be made, of course. Now it was the ladies she must cultivate. For while her husband’s wealth and stature gave her a certain cachet, that was not, by itself, quite enough to elevate her standing to the kind of stratospheric height he enjoyed.

And for five thousand pounds a year, she owed him a wife as popular and well-thought-of as he. To that end, she made sure she appeared amiable but also sure of herself—her public persona reflecting, at least in some measure, his cool sophistication.

After dinner, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. From that moment until the ladies retired, he spoke to her only once, to ask what time she had arranged for coffee and biscuits to be brought in—an inattentiveness that was exactly as it ought to be, as the duty of the host and the hostess was to see to the guests, rather than to each other.

Yet she felt herself constantly under observation, a sensation not unlike what she’d experienced the night of their first meeting. He would be speaking to each of their sixteen guests in turn, or participating in a game of cards, or taking part in
a duet, his singing voice remarkably pure and warm—and she would feel the tangible weight of his scrutiny.

No solid evidence of this observation, only her intuition. But even her intuition could not quite decipher the nature of his inspection. Did it mean anything at all, or was he merely making sure that her performance as his wife was satisfactory?

At ten o’clock coffee and biscuits were served. The ladies, herself included, retired shortly thereafter. She had told her maid not to wait up for her. That freedom of movement now allowed her to conceal herself in the darkness of the solarium, across from the billiard room.

A quarter of an hour later, the gentlemen arrived in a herd.

“A game, Wren?” asked someone. “I’ll put down twenty quid.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” answered Louisa’s husband. “I will not be staying long enough tonight for an entire game—I am a married man now, with a married man’s duties.”

His friends chuckled. Some of them teased him good-naturedly. Louisa rubbed her finger on the heavy toile that covered the wall behind her. Did he mean it, or was he only acting the part?

Good for his word, he left the billiard room after only a few minutes. She slipped out of the solarium and followed him. At the stair landing, he stopped and turned around, his person only a silhouette. She caught up to him and together they ascended the steps.

“I am not following you around the house,” she said, a little defensively, once they were out of earshot of those still in the billiard room. “I only wish for a minute of your time.”

“And you are, of course, entitled to that,” he said politely. “Shall we go to my sitting room?”

He was making her nervous, and not in a pleasurable way. Instead, she felt like the insolvent young woman she had been
until very recently, attempting to persuade a shopkeeper to extend her more credit.

She preceded him into his apartment. A moment later a light came on, then another. She blinked, looking about, not sure what she was seeing.

The decor was not English, nor exactly what she thought of as the French style. His apartment was an ecstasy of pastels—white, gold, and sky blue. She almost could not imagine how exuberant it would appear during the day, with sunlight streaming in through the windows.

The plaster medallions on the wall, the fresco paintings of pastoral idylls, a ceiling that was the brightest, cleanest sky, with birds in flight and even a hot-air balloon.

What the inside of a fairy-tale castle looked like, more or less.

“It’s beautiful. It’s . . .”

“Rococo is the word you are looking for, I believe.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She had no idea what the word meant, except to know that it was the last thing she’d have extrapolated from his otherwise clean, spare style.

She liked this rococo interior. It was luminous and joyful. But instead of uplifting her mood, it only made her feel more apprehensive. What else didn’t she know about him?

“I would ring for some tea, but the staff has already retired for the night,” he said, quite formally.

“Thank you, but I don’t need any tea.”

“In that case, what can I do for you?”

She bit the inside of her lower lip. “Perhaps you can explain why you are no longer my lover.”

“Am I not?”

“You haven’t touched me in two days.”

“And forty-eight hours is enough to disqualify me?”

“We are on our honeymoon. And you have given me every expectation that I may expect an attentive and
frequent
lover.”

“You might be recalling things I’d said when I had you in mind as a mistress, whom I might see as little as twenty days out of the year. Marriage is something else altogether.”

“Yet I am confident you said to me, on our wedding night, that you would—that you wanted to—fuck me every hour of every day.”

The inside of her mouth felt as if it were on fire. The word was incredibly vulgar, yet strangely potent and muscular.

His eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then he leaned forward a little, his manner almost conspiratorial. “Let me tell you something, my dear: You should never believe what a man says when he is fucking you.”

Now it was the inside of her chest that burned. “If I cannot trust you even in bed, then where can I trust you?”

“I am disappointed. I thought you prudent enough to never trust me anywhere, at any time.”

She was just as disappointed in herself, but there was a small part of her that still couldn’t quite believe that all her worst suspicions were coming true. That the marriage she’d thought might prove to be ultimately heartbreaking was breaking her heart this moment.

“I should have had it written into the marriage settlement—how often I must be made love to,” she said, trying to sound flippant.

He said nothing. She had the sense that he was already waiting for her to leave.

Her heart clenched. Was this it? Was her loss to be so abrupt and unceremonious? And would she accept this banishment so meekly, with barely a murmur of protest?

She took a step toward him. He regarded her with an impatient condescension, the grand aristocrat who found the country bumpkin a terrible bore. But she couldn’t quite comprehend this new reality yet. When she looked at him, she
still saw the man who had gone to great lengths with the dress dummies to make her laugh—and only that man.

So she took another step forward. And then another. And placed her hand over his heart.

His fast-beating heart.

She gazed into his eyes. For some reason she could see no contempt in them, only a barely leashed desire. Her hand moved to his jaw, followed by her lips. A chaste kiss, then a touch by the tip of her tongue.

He jerked away, but she only moved closer. This time she put her lips to the side of his neck, just above his starched collar. The rain-fresh scent of him made her light-headed with yearning. She grazed him with the moist inside of her lower lip.

And found herself picked up and pushed against a wall. They stared at each other. Her beautiful lover kept a tight grip on her shoulder, merciless enough to hurt, except she could feel only a desperate thrill.

“I seem to have married the horniest girl in all of England,” he said softly, but with a sharp edge to his words.

“You knew it long before you married me.”

His eyes were now on her lips. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” he murmured.

“Kiss me,” she heard herself say. “Kiss me as you did the other night.”

“But how will a kiss satisfy you? It is satisfaction you want, isn’t it? Say yes, and I will give it to you.”

She almost could not believe what she was hearing. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. And yes again.”

His hand moved lightly down her arm. For a brief moment, he encircled her wrist with his thumb and middle finger. But the next second he was dragging her skirts up, his motion swift and efficient.

His hand parted her legs, seeking her through the slit of her combination. She was caught off guard. She wanted him
to touch her everywhere, of course, but the way he went about it seemed so . . . focused, as if there were no other pleasure to be had except through that one place.

But she could not quite deny that it was a quick and instant source of pleasure. She was glad now of his hand that still pinned her to the wall at her shoulder—without it, her knees just might not support her weight. His fingers, God, those clever fingers, gentle and forceful by turn, knowing just what to do.

Her eyes fluttered closed. The sound of herself panting filled the room. Then she was crying out, her pleasure peaking and cresting.

His lips were close to her ear. His breaths, too, were shallow and irregular. She opened her eyes and turned toward him, his forehead against the wall, his eyes tightly shut.

She put a hand on his arm. But before she could say a word, he pulled back. Just like that, dropping her skirts and walking away. Halfway across the room, he took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand, as if he’d touched something dirty.

And then he tossed the handkerchief into a wastebasket.

She was suddenly shaking.

“I believe my work here is done,” he said coolly.

She was too stunned to move—or to cry. She’d never once in her life considered herself unfortunate: She had a healthy, loving family; their roof might leak but it was still a good enough roof, and they’d always had money to buy food and enough left over to look respectable.