Beyond that, they’d have long discussions in those quiet hours of the night about all sorts of things he’d rarely considered. He’d come to enjoy that nearly as much as their lovemaking. He couldn’t recall ever talking to a woman before, at least not about anything of significance. Felicity had a fine mind and a curious nature, and he found she stimulated his own intellect as nothing had since his school days.
By the third day, he had grown curious about how she was filling her evenings and had casually inquired as to her activities. She’d said she was pursuing her own interests, had promptly employed her mouth in a most inventive manner, and he had completely lost his train of thought. Every subsequent time he’d asked she’d either distracted him, although admittedly the distractions were usually most enjoyable, or had told him, politely but firmly, that he had exactly what he’d wanted and as she didn’t ask about his activities, he had no right to ask about hers. He was fairly certain her nighttime endeavors did not involve men, although he could not quite get the fact that she had not agreed to give them up out of his head. It was enough to make a man jealous if a man was a jealous sort. All in all, it was most annoying. Another month of this and he’d go stark, raving mad.
George set a plate of coddled eggs, sausages, and bacon before him. It looked every bit as good as the jam had tasted. Perhaps he should begin taking breakfast here. That was one aspect of domesticity he wouldn’t mind.
Even worse, with every passing day Nigel found he was enjoying himself less and less. His sense of triumph had faded. He had no heart for gambling and no interest in any of the other ways he had once spent his time. In truth, he couldn’t seem to recall exactly what he used to do that was so worth fighting for. And even if he hadn’t given up his more amorous adventures, no woman was nearly as interesting as the one waiting for him at home. Why, he’d actually taken to reading a book to while away the hours at his club on, of all things, the geography of the heavens.
That he wasn’t enjoying the life he used to lead was a revelation. That he preferred Felicity above other women was not. He’d thought from the first that there was a distinct sensuality about her, a ripeness, as it were. There was as well a sweet aspect to her enthusiasm, an innocence, if one could use the word in this context, in her willingness to learn. What was a surprise was the realization that he could indeed spend the rest of his days with one woman, with this woman, and not regret it for a moment. And that was the greatest revelation of all.
“I am glad you joined me.” Felicity set her pen and her toast down. “There are some things we must settle.”
“Indeed there are,” he said firmly. This was more like it. At last he was going to get answers to his questions. “It’s past time too.”
She cast him a curious look. “I didn’t think you were that concerned about such matters.”
“Well, I am.” He had, no doubt, given her the impression he was not concerned, and perhaps he hadn’t been a week ago. Now, however, was a different story. “Most concerned.”
“Very well then.” She shrugged. “I suppose I should I start with a confession.”
“Aha!”
She raised a brow. “Aha?”
“Go on then.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Confess. I’m ready.”
“As long as you’re ready,” she murmured and laid a hand on one of the stacks of correspondence. “In this pile are invitations addressed to me alone. My mother sent them on to me here.” She moved her hand to the second stack. “This pile was addressed to you alone, and as it was apparent they were invitations, I took the liberty of opening them. I thought it was a wife’s duty to do so. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s it.” He stared at her. “That’s the confession? The entire confession? All of it? There’s nothing more?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that’s it. This last stack are invitations addressed to both of us. They’ve all arrived within the past few days. Apparently we’ve become quite a popular couple.” She smiled in a wry manner. “I daresay no one can believe the infamous Mr. Cavendish has finally wed.”
“I can understand their doubt,” he said under his breath. “And this is what you wished to discuss?”
“Well, we do need to decide which we plan to accept.” She picked up the pen and tapped the notebook. “I have made some notations here regarding which events we were both invited to separately, before our marriage, that is, and then those that requested the presence of the Honorable Nigel Cavendish and the Lady Felicity Cavendish.” She grinned. “I do like the way that sounds.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” he said grudgingly and realized he meant it. Blast it all, he did like the way it sounded. It sounded, well, right.
“Do you have any preferences? As to which invitations we accept, that is?”
“No.” He sighed in surrender. “None whatsoever.”
“I should hate to interfere with your”—she gestured aimlessly—“whatever it is you do in the evenings.”
“Would you like to know?” He leaned toward her. “What I do in the evenings, that is?”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head in a firm manner. “It’s none of my concern. Your life is your life.” She paused. “As is mine.”
He forced a casual note to his voice. “I should be happy to exchange information. As a gesture of…of goodwill between us.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is there ill will between us then? I thought we were getting on extremely well together.”
“We are but—”
“Although I will admit”—she lowered her voice in a confidential manner—“and you should like this as it is another confession, that I didn’t think all this you-live-your-life-and-I-live-mine nonsense was going to work well at all. And in fact, I think it’s worked famously.”
“Still, I—”
“And the credit is due entirely to you, Nigel. You didn’t want to be married, and this arrangement, as it were—” Her eyes widened. “Oh dear, you don’t mind my calling it an arrangement, do you? I know you seemed somewhat sensitive about the word when we first discussed this.”
“In truth I would prefer—”
“It is only a word after all, Nigel.”
“Yes, but—”
“As I was saying, then, I think our arrangement has proven most beneficial to you given you did not wish to marry in the first place. It was really brilliant of you to think of it. Why, in many ways, you have every freedom you had before we wed. Which means you have no reason to feel, well, trapped is the only way to describe it, I suppose.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “You don’t feel trapped, do you?”
“No.” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t.”
“Good. Now then.” She glanced at the notebook. “It seems to me we have been remiss in this past week in regards to our social obligations. There were a few parties that I had been looking forward to, most especially the Charitable Society’s ball, and I did hate to miss them but it couldn’t be helped, I suppose.”
“Then you haven’t attended any social events?”
“Dear Lord, no.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of going without you. My appearance in public without my husband would only exacerbate the gossip about our unexpected marriage.”
“Is gossip the only reason then?” he said casually. “For not attending, that is.” Or did you find something better to do?
“Yes.” She thought for a moment, then sighed. “And no.”
“Yet another confession?”
She laughed. “You do like confessions, don’t you?”
“I do. Almost as much as I like”—he paused to emphasize the word—“honesty.”
“I thought you preferred flattery to honesty?”
He narrowed his gaze. “Apparently marriage has changed me.”
“Well then, in the interest of honesty, I will confess, yet again, that I haven’t attended any social events without you because I didn’t think”—she met his gaze directly—“that they’d be
the least bit enjoyable without you.”
He stared. “You didn’t?”
“Of course I didn’t, Nigel. I quite like your company. One of the reasons I regret missing the society’s ball is that we have missed the chance to dance together again. We haven’t danced very much at all and”—she cast him an affectionate smile that warmed his very heart—“I do love dancing with you.”
“My apologies. I have been remiss in my duties.” He pushed his chair back, rose to his feet, and held out his hand. “Dance with me now.”
She laughed. “Don’t be absurd, Nigel. One doesn’t dance at breakfast. It simply isn’t done.”
“Then we shall be the first.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet and into his arms. He stared into her brown eyes and wondered that he’d ever wanted to spend any time apart from her at all. And realized that he no longer did. “Dance with me, Felicity.”
“What will the servants say?” Amusement rang in her voice.
“They will say, ‘Why, isn’t that Mr. Cavendish dancing with his wife at breakfast?’” He pulled her closer and spoke low into her ear. “Which is nothing compared to what they would say if I were to make love to you right here on the dining room table amid the breakfast dishes.”
“Nigel! I’m shocked.” The light in her eye belied her words.
“Not as shocked as they would be.” He chuckled. “However, I shall settle for a dance at the moment.”
“But there’s no music.”
“We don’t need music. But I shall hum if you like.” He hummed the strands of a waltz and twirled her around the dining room table. Her laughter echoed in the room, and it was all he could do to provide some semblance of a tune in spite of his own laughter and not trip over a chair at the same time. At last he spun her to a stop. He stepped back and swept a dramatic bow. “My dear Lady Felicity, my thanks for a breakfast dance I shall never forget.”
She dropped a deep curtsy. “It was entirely my plea sure, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Might I reserve the next dance?”
“The next dance? Let me think.” Her brow furrowed with exaggerated thought, then she nodded. “Why yes, I believe I am free for the next dance.”
“Excellent. Then I claim it as my own.” His gaze met hers. “And every dance thereafter.” The tone of his words was abruptly far more serious than he had intended, and yet somehow, perfect.
She caught her breath and stared at him. “Every dance?”
“Every one.” He held out his hand. “Now, might I escort you back to your chair?”
“I should be delighted.” There was a slight unsteadiness in her voice, as if she were as aware as he that something of great significance had just happened between them. She placed her hand in his and he led her back to her chair, seated her, then took his own seat.
“I’ve always liked dancing, you know,” he said and attacked his breakfast. He was indeed hungry, far hungrier than he had thought. Obviously a breakfast dance and settling things with one’s wife gave one an appetite. “This is very good. Do we have a cook now?”
“A cook’s assistant really, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She too is on loan from your mother. Although”—Felicity smiled in a sly manner—“I am going to make every effort to hire her away and keep her here.”
“See that you do.” He laughed, turned his attention back to his meal, and ignored the fact that things were scarcely settled.
“As for these invitations,” Felicity began. “I think this one from…”
The food was indeed excellent. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was a rare jewel if this was an example of her skills. But the food paled in comparison to the company.
“And then I should hate to miss…”
The very idea that he would enjoy having breakfast with his wife, why, he grinned at the absurdity of it.
“Indeed that gathering is always most amusing and…”
And yet here he was, listening to her go on about what social engagements they would accept. It was surprisingly enjoyable. Perhaps he should indeed join her more often. Perhaps he should start taking all his meals here. Perhaps he should…
Perhaps he should stop being an idiot and accept that he was now a married man. Perhaps it was time to admit that he was wrong. He cringed to himself. No, he couldn’t do that. He might well have been wrong, but admitting it would make him look like even more of a fool than he was. After all, he’d been so firm, so resolute, so…so…stupid.
No, he couldn’t simply throw up his hands at the breakfast table and announce that he’d made a mistake. That he was now willing to fully share his life. That he no longer wished to live his own life apart from hers because he’d realized it wasn’t anywhere near as enjoyable as he had once thought it. When all was said and done, it came down to a matter of his making the decisions that controlled his life. To admit he had made that decision and it was wrong, terribly, horribly wrong—
“So if we are to attend Lady Thomas’s soiree then we shall have to miss…”
Still, why was it necessary to admit anything at all? Why couldn’t he simply remain home in the evening? It would be his choice, after all. Not every night at first, a night here and a night there, not enough to attract her suspicion. More and more often. Until it became expected and not the least bit unusual. Until she forgot all about that business of separate lives.
“Nigel?”
Still, his staying in didn’t mean she would as well. Although there was nothing in their arrangement that precluded their going out together.
“Nigel?”
“Yes, absolutely, without question.” He nodded in a vigorous manner. “I think we should.”
She stared at him. “Should what?”
“Should attend that”—he had no idea—“what was it you called it?”
“A soiree?”
“Yes, of course, the soiree. Given by Lady…”
She bit back a smile. “Sir Digby?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Let me see your notes.” She handed him the notebook. She’d made charts of all they’d been invited to. The woman was remarkably organized. “I think we should go to them all.”
She laughed. “All of them? Why on earth would we want to go to all of them?”
“Why?” Why indeed? “Why…why to show the world that we have nothing to hide. Nothing dissipates scandal faster than the parties involved acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The more we appear in public, the less extraordinary our story will be.” He scanned her list. “There’s nothing for tomorrow night though.”
“Imagine that.”
“We shall have to make do, I suppose,” he said under his breath. He could certainly propose something, but that might be suspicious. One more night of separate lives certainly wouldn’t hurt. And it would make his plan seem all the more natural. “And where are we to go to night?”
She stared at him. “I didn’t think you’d wish to accompany me anywhere to night.”
“Nonsense. If we are to lay gossip to rest, there’s no time like the present to begin.” He studied her notes. “Here. Lord and Lady Treadwell’s masquerade is tonight.” He looked up at her. “It’s quite the event of the season. I can’t imagine you haven’t been planning to attend for weeks now. Surely you already have a costume?”
“Well, yes, I do, but I thought—”
“What is it? Your costume that is.”
“Titania, Queen of the Fairies.” She paused. “From Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“I know that.” He scoffed. “And obviously this is yet another instance of fate guiding our actions.” He grinned. “I was planning on going as Oberon, King of the Fairies.”
She snorted in disbelief. “No, you weren’t. You’re just saying that.”
“I was and I am.” He stood and grinned down at her. “You shall see to night.”
She cast him a curious look. “I can scarcely wait.”
“I must be off. Father is expecting me.” He took her hand and raised it to his li
ps. “Until to night then.”
The loveliest smile curved her lips. “Until tonight.”
He nodded and stepped into the hall, where George handed him his hat and gloves. Of course he hadn’t been planning to be the king of anything as ridiculous as fairies. He’d been planning on doing exactly as he usually did for this sort of thing; simply throw on a mask and be done with it. But if he was going to sweep his wife off her feet, and he wasn’t sure when he had decided that but it did seem the best way to keep her by his side, then dressing like a fairy would be a step in the right direction. How hard could it be to come up with something that looked suitably fairylike? He had once, years ago, attended a party as Robin Hood. Surely that costume could be made to work for Oberon. Perhaps Norcroft could give him a hand. He’d always had an artistic streak.
George opened the front door a step ahead of him. Nigel nodded his thanks and stepped out onto the walk. Poor George seemed to be doing every job in the house. Felicity really did need to hire more servants. He must speak to her about it. But in the meantime, he had more pressing matters to concern himself with.
First and foremost, where in the hell was he going to find wings?
“You look like a pirate,” Norcroft said idly.
“With wings,” Sinclair added.
“Nonsense.” Nigel surveyed Lord Treadwell’s ballroom and signaled to a waiter, who at once hurried to the three men and exchanged their empty glasses of champagne with freshly filled ones. The ballroom doors were opened to the terrace and the horde of guests moved freely in and out. The ballroom itself was decorated to look like the out-of-doors with palms and ferns and all manner of potted plants. He had lost Felicity somewhere in the crowd but was certain he would find her shortly. While there were any number of Titanias here—apparently it was a popular costume—none was as tall and lovely as his. The very thought was enough to make his wings quiver in anticipation. He grinned. “I look like Oberon, King of the Fairies.”
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