She peered at him from underneath her eyelashes, the pad of her index finger alighting upon a still-wet button on his shirt. “Maybe.”
Their gazes held for a moment. Twin arrows of lust and pain pierced her person. It would be so much easier if he weren’t such a good actor—if in one brief look he didn’t make her feel as if he would give up his entire fortune for one night with her.
“My, my, Felix, what delicious dishabille!”
Startled, Louisa looked toward the speaker, a striking, raven-haired woman in a gown of burgundy and gold stripes.
Lady Tremaine. Back from her man-sampling up north.
She approached Lord Wrenworth, her gloved hands outstretched. “What is this, Felix? I go off for a few weeks and come back to find you married?”
Felix. Appalling intimacy, when everyone else, even his oldest friends, thought it quite adequate to adhere to his title or some variant thereof.
He did not seem to mind at all. “My dear,” he said to Louisa, “allow me to present the Marchioness of Tremaine. Lady Tremaine, Lady Wrenworth.”
The two women shook hands.
“We are so glad you could come, Lady Tremaine,” said Louisa. “And did you find the . . . charms of Scandinavia as delightful as you had hoped?”
Something flickered in Lady Tremaine’s eyes, as if she hadn’t expected such a cheeky question from the country bumpkin her former lover had married. “The salmon was certainly of exceptional quality everywhere. And may I tender my congratulations on your marriage. I am sure Lord Wrenworth is an exceedingly fortunate man to have won your hand.”
“He thanks his lucky stars every day,” Louisa said sweetly. She turned to him. “My dear, best change before you catch a chill.”
And then, to Lady Tremaine, “I’m sorry we didn’t have advance notice of your visit. But shall we get you settled?”
• • •
Later that afternoon, another guest arrived, an expected one this time, but one as unwelcome to Felix as Lady Tremaine must be to his wife.
Drummond.
The man had an uncanny nose for marital discord—and rarely hesitated to take advantage of a wife’s displeasure with her husband to present himself as everything the poor sod wasn’t. Such tendencies had scarcely mattered to Felix when he was a bachelor. And would have scarcely mattered to him as a married man, had he and his wife remained cocooned in erotic bliss.
But erotic bliss did not characterize the state of his marriage. And as Drummond monopolized Louisa after dinner, Felix felt as if he were an incarcerated convict who could only rattle the bars of his prison with impotent frustration as another man circled his wife, getting ready to exploit his absence.
“Well, tell me,” said Lady Tremaine, pulling his attention back to her. “Why did this girl succeed whereas so many before her have failed?”
She had beckoned him to her earlier; they stood in a corner of the drawing room, half separated from the rest of the crowd by a Japanese screen.
He settled for a noncommittal reply. “Excellent timing?”
She appeared skeptical. “I thought you planned to marry the female equivalent of Lord Vere—tremendous looks and very little brain.”
Would that he’d adhered to that laudable plan. “And you believed me?”
“I had no reason not to. Many men like that kind of woman.”
“Obviously I decided against a dim-witted wife.”
“She is rather sharp, your lady.” She leaned forward an inch. “And how do you like married life, by the way, Felix?”
He had not thought much of Lady Tremaine’s unexpected arrival—this was where she was accustomed to spending half of her August, so why should she not have availed herself of his hospitality, when she found herself back in England sooner than expected? He also had not thought much of her interest in his sudden marriage—it would have come as quite a surprise to her, since the last time they spoke he’d had no idea himself that his bachelor days were coming to an end.
But now he was beginning to be a little wary. There was something in the tone of her voice. Perhaps it had been there since she stepped into Huntington, but he’d been first too distracted by his wife’s touch on his shirt button, and then even more distracted by the sight of her smiling at Drummond, her fan fluttering prettily.
“Married life is more or less as I’d expected,” he answered, choosing his words carefully.
“What? No paean to marital felicity?”
“Since when do you believe in marital felicity?”
“You are right. What a vulgar concept—and quite beneath The Ideal Gentleman.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. My wife and I deal with each other very favorably, you will see. And I have every expectation we shall maintain great harmony in this house for decades to come.”
“Well, then, my congratulations,” said Lady Tremaine.
But he was already once again distracted. In the mirror above the mantel he could see his wife tapping on Drummond’s arm with the tip of her now-closed fan, in an almost flirtatious manner.
He’d thought she could not stand the man.
“Thank you, my dear. Now, if you will please excuse me, I believe Drummond has something he wants to say to me.”
Drummond, of course, didn’t yet know that he wanted to say anything to Felix. But Felix planned to steer him into a conversation about horseflesh. And if there was anything Drummond could not resist, it was a discussion on the making of a prizewinning stallion.
He set his hand for a fraction of a second on Louisa’s lower back, before placing an arm around Drummond’s shoulders. “I know firsthand how irresistible Lady Wrenworth’s company is, but I do believe Mallen was hoping to arrange a match between your Gibraltar and his Lady Burke.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Drummond. “Lady Burke has a fascinating bloodline, from what I’ve heard—a worthy match for Gibraltar.”
“Forgive us,” Felix said to his wife, as he maneuvered Drummond away from her.
She nodded, a thin smile on her face. “Of course you are forgiven for every trespass, my lord. Always.”
• • •
For days, it had seemed that the house party would never end, that Louisa would always need to have her public demeanor firmly in place, sixteen hours a day. Then, abruptly, the last full day of the party was upon them.
The morning saw a vigorous tennis tournament. Louisa did not participate in the matches, but she was obliged to watch and applaud as her husband handed out one defeat after another.
For several days after the handkerchief incident, it had seemed as if she were made of cold ash, incapable of even the smallest embers of lust. She had thought that it would always be so, that his contempt had permanently smothered all her yearning.
Unfortunately that had not proved the case, especially at times like this, when she must keep her eyes on him to maintain her image of the devoted bride. So much athletic grace, so much stamina, so much cleverness and strategy—the angles of his shots were a thing of beauty—not to mention, from time to time, sheer physical dominance, when he simply overpowered an opponent with a muscular forehand.
It made her almost thankful for Mr. Drummond’s presence at her side. He did not criticize Lord Wrenworth’s technique or shot selection, but no one else escaped his criticism. And his constant faultfinding grated on her nerves just enough for her not to be prostrate with desire for the husband who did not reciprocate it.
Without that lust on his part, she was just a woman to whom he gave five thousand pounds a year, and who existed in the periphery of his life as a mobile ornament for the estate.
After luncheon, it began to rain. Many of those who had taken part in the tennis tournament were down for a nap, in order to be in top form for the bonfire party in the evening. Of those left awake, the ladies stayed in their rooms to write letters and the gentlemen
made use of the billiard room. For once, Huntington was quiet and relaxed.
Louisa retreated to the window alcove in the library, to spend time with a volume on the care and proper operation of telescopes. It was a wonderful book, tailored to a novice, the explanations detailed yet clear—or at least she thought so. She could be reading a housekeeping manual, for all she knew.
Why had he married her at all?
And was that the limit of her womanly appeal, all exhausted in a single night?
He made her miss the man who had baldly schemed to make her his mistress. At least that man had wanted her enough to take risks and damn the consequences. Whereas this man . . .
A thousand times she had cautioned herself against trusting him. But stupidly, she had been anxious only that she should not translate the physical pleasures he would give her into cascading verses of love. That he would distance himself from her during the honeymoon itself—the thought had never even crossed her mind.
The door of the library opened. The alcove was hidden behind a bookshelf that could slide along on concealed rails. It offered wonderful privacy, but on the other hand, the bookshelf, its back entirely paneled, made it difficult for Louisa to see who had come into the library.
But the sound of the gait was nothing like her husband’s. A woman, most probably. The woman made a round in the library and left after less than a minute.
A light fog had descended on the lake along with the rain, obscuring the opposite bank like a gauzy curtain. But now that curtain drew apart and Louisa found herself looking directly at the Greek folly.
A marble-columned pavilion stands by this lake.
A quick sentence in a matter-of-fact guidebook, yet in those days when he had tormented her with the possibility of becoming his mistress, she had concocted an entire three-act play around that setting. Act I: The girl, staring longingly at the great manor from across the lake, is ravished in the shadows of the pavilion. Act II: The girl, staring longingly at her evilly perfect lover, is ravished all across the grounds of his extensive estate. Act III: The girl, back home after a fortnight of ravishment, stumbling about like an empty shell of her former self, hears the doorbell ring at a most unusual hour.
A two-and-a-half-act play, rather: The clear-eyed realist that she was had never been able to picture opening the door of her house to him. The real Lord Wrenworth would not call, write, or send presents. She would just have to wait months upon months before staring longingly at him again.
Then he’d proposed, and her world had turned upside down in the most pleasurable way. And she had forgotten that around him she always needed her shield and her sword. Had walked into the dragon’s lair naked and unarmed, with nothing but the foolish conviction that the dragon would never incinerate a girl he liked.
But looking back, ought she to have been surprised? He had deliberately made her simmer in a state of arousal at the dinner at Lady Tenwhestle’s house. He had clearly enjoyed informing her that her preferred suitors were both deeply flawed. Not to mention he had never experienced the slightest qualm about enticing a respectably raised virgin to sell her body.
Why shouldn’t such a man prove himself capricious and heartless?
The door of the library opened and closed again.
“There is no one here,” said a woman. “I came through just a minute ago.”
Lady Tremaine.
“And pray tell, why is the lack of a public so important?” That serene voice belonged to none other than Louisa’s husband.
“Privacy is always nice, don’t you agree?”
He chuckled but gave no reply.
They were coming closer. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of a woman sitting down and adjusting her skirts. “Care for a seat, Felix?”
Lady Tremaine sounded as if she were speaking directly into Louisa’s ear.
“I will be able to better admire your toilette, Philippa, from my superior vantage point right here,” he answered.
There was a smile in his voice, a cool smile.
Lady Tremaine laughed, a sultry sound. “Look all you want, Felix.”
A long pause. Lurid images exploded in Louisa’s head. Then Lady Tremaine spoke again. She did not sound as if there were a man pressed against her. “Congratulations on your stellar results in the tennis tournament.”
“Thank you.”
“You were very, very vigorous.”
“I am a man of twenty-eight, rusticating in the country. If I didn’t abound with energy, I’d need to consult my physician.”
“You are also a man on your honeymoon. Shouldn’t you have conserved a bit of stamina for pleasuring your wife?”
“Your concern is very kind. But I am sure I will somehow gather the wherewithal to see my wife to her satisfaction.”
Liar.
“Maybe you can, but are you? For every day of my stay, I have seen you from my window at half past four in the morning, coming back into the house.”
It was hardly news to Louisa. But that Lady Tremaine should know about it . . . She flushed with hot shame.
Lord Wrenworth did not address Lady Tremaine’s point, but instead asked, “What were you doing up at half past four in the morning?”
“Having trouble sleeping, obviously.”
The sound of rustling silk again, and of someone standing up. Footsteps. Louisa imagined Lady Tremaine circling Lord Wrenworth like a she-wolf about to pounce.
“I have been observing your wife. I do not believe she loves you. I do not even believe she likes you.”
He was silent for a long time. Louisa hoped he was at least chagrined that anyone would toss such a thing in his face. It was almost enough to make her embrace Lady Tremaine in friendship.
“My wife does not like to make her sentiments public,” he said at last. “What she feels, only she and I know.”
Lady Tremaine snorted at his answer. “So I’m right, then. Don’t worry; I won’t demand to know the why and wherefore of her sentiments. Or yours. I am interested only in what you can do to help me sleep better.”
Louisa found it difficult to remain quiet. She seemed to be able to take in air only in huge gulps. Even with her hands over her mouth, her trembling inhalations echoed in her hiding space.
“Since we are both awake in the middle of the night,” continued Lady Tremaine, “come and make love to me instead. At least you know I like you. In fact, sometimes I adore you.”
“Hmm, a tempting offer,” he said.
“One that you’d regret declining.”
“Would I?” His words were low and soft.
“You remember what it was like.” Lady Tremaine’s voice was all willful seduction. “We were magnificent together.”
“I remember.”
“Midnight, then.”
“I haven’t said I’d come.”
“You’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t you?”
And she departed on that triumphant note, walking out of the library. The closing of the door echoed in the silence.
Louisa gasped when the bookshelf was pushed aside.
“I thought you might be here,” her husband said coolly, as if he hadn’t just failed to turn down an invitation to adultery.
And what should she say in return? Sleep with her and I will give you a concussion with my telescope stand?
“Yes,” she said, “it’s a comfortable spot. Pretty view, too.”
“I will leave you to your reading, then.”
“Thank you,” she said politely.
Then she bent her face to her book, indicating that she had nothing else to say to him.
A few seconds later, the bookshelf slid back into place, shutting her in.
• • •
Felix remained where he was.
He wanted to leave, but his feet were rooted in place, and his hands kep
t reaching out to push the bookshelf aside again. Madly enough, he didn’t want to shove her against the wall and claim her with the force of an asteroid strike. In his mind, he sat down next to her and together they watched the clouds depart in the wake of the rain, revealing a clear, spotless afternoon sky.
He left only when he must, to supervise the preparation of the fire pit, with an emptiness in his heart that felt, unhappily, all too familiar.
Along with a strange anxiety.
He wasn’t worried about what Lady Tremaine might or might not do. He knew her very well: If she wanted him, it was only as a distraction—something about her Scandinavian trip had upset her.
His wife, on the other hand . . .
On bonfire nights, no formal dinners were laid out. Instead, a buffet supper was served on the grand terrace, which had been lit with dozens of lanterns suspended from a pergola set up specifically for the occasion.
His sense of misgiving doubled when she appeared on the terrace clad in the same dinner gown she’d worn on their wedding night. Without looking left or right, she went directly to Drummond, who bowed and kissed her hand.
They stood by the balustrade and chatted, ignoring the buffet supper altogether. As they spoke, with only the barest nod at subtlety, Drummond inched toward her. She seemed perfectly conversant with the game. From time to time, she would rest the tip of her closed fan against his chest, to slow his inexorable progress. And once in a while, she would slide a foot to the left, to keep a respectable distance between them.
Then, all of a sudden, not only did she stop moving away, she leaned toward Drummond. And when he lowered his head to say something in her ear, she tilted her face and gave him a sideways smile.
A smile that spoke of a Greek folly lit by torches, of slender columns that could barely conceal a grown woman, and of hot, frantic coupling in the shadows, perhaps only a few yards from those who oohed and ahhed over the display of fireworks.
In the wake of the smile, she whispered to Drummond and pointed to the very pavilion across the water, the one Felix could not look at without an echoing sense of loss.
She left Drummond with a flirtatious caress of her fan down his arm, to mix with the other guests. Felix felt as if there were a hand at his throat, choking him. He had not agreed to an adulterous affair; surely she could recall that. He had not turned down Lady Tremaine flat because he had not wanted to interrogate her on why she was propositioning him out of the blue, knowing that they were not truly alone.
The Luckiest Lady in London Page 16
