“I have already dismissed the idea of doing so.”
“In spite of that…would it not be best to actuallyseewhat people are unhappy about for ourselves? My mother always said we should observe circumstances with our own eyes if we wish to understand them. I could go?—”
“No,” he snapped so harshly she stiffened. He tightened his arm about her waist, guiding her flawlessly in the dance. “Forgive me for being strident,” he said, “but considering thecurrent climate on the streets, it would be unwise for you to visit such a place.”
“Surely I can spend an hour there.”
“With the threats I have received? And what happened at our wedding? No.” Her resistance must have shone on her face, for his voice gentled. “I am much occupied with state business at present, but I will try to make time in the future.”
Would he? Or would more pressing matters distract?
One thing she knew for certain was this.
She would not wait to go to the factory forever.
CHAPTER 26
Rain was dampening the October evening as Lucien strode into the townhouse, feeling a trifle sheepish. He’d had an engagement scheduled at Whites but canceled it. How Grace would laugh if she knew he had turned down meeting men at his club so he could spend the evening with his wife. Not only because he enjoyed her company—which he did to an increasingly alarming degree—but because of that damnable novel she was reading to him. It was a bit like the opium dens he had heard of, luring a man in, weaving a dreamworld so real one did not want to leave it. Last night they had broken off just at the most exciting part, and he needed to find out what happened next to Little Nell, and whether that scheming bastard Quilp would be crushed at last. But as Lucien handed his cloak and hat to a footman, a strange hush blanketed the house, reminding him of the days when he had lived alone.
He frowned. He would never be the kind of man who lived in his wife’s pocket, but in the months since their wedding, he had become accustomed to her smile, the swish of her skirts, the soft, feminine touches about surroundings that had once been bachelor quarters.
Perhaps she had gone out. Women had been seeking her friendship of late. Lady Alice Pinchbeck had even sent an invitation to the theater in two weeks’ time. Lucien grimaced at the prospect. He would have to be sure not to accidentally look at the girl, lest she leap out of the box like a frightened hare.
Confound it, where was his wife? He searched the library and drawing room before encountering a maid, the startled girl all but dropping a tray of prism-decked candelabrum candlesticks she’d polished, the crystal teardrops jangling.
“Your pardon, sir. Wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here. Graves said you were to be dining at your club.”
“A change in plans. Has Lady Everdene gone out?”
“Oh, no, my lord. Her ladyship has kept to her room since this afternoon. Had her meal brought up on a tray and everything.”
What the devil? Lucien felt a surge of protectiveness that startled him. If one of those society women was plaguing her, they’d deal with him.
“I fear she is not feeling well,” the maid continued.
But Lucien was already halfway up the steps. When he was ill, he wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. But this was his wife who’d seemed perfectly fine that very morning. When he opened the door, saw her curled up on her side with a pillow held against her belly, he rushed to her side, alarmed. “I shall summon a physician at once.”
“No. You mustn’t!” Her cheeks turned pink.
He put his hand on her forehead, grateful when he found it cool to the touch. Still, her face was somewhat pale. “You don’t look well.”
“At the risk of sounding indelicate, I am…having my monthly courses.”
“…Oh.”
He couldn’t quell a jab of disappointment—not about fact that she hadn’t fallen pregnant exactly. He wasn’t even sure if he’d been hoping she was with child or relieved she was not. He couldn’t quite fathom why he felt this sinking sensation, nor did he want to. It wasn’t just that he would not be enjoying her body tonight. Nor that they would not sit cozily by the fire while she read from Dickens, which was even more disappointing. No. It was something far more disconcerting. “You won’t want to read this evening,” he said, seizing on the least dangerous option.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite up to it right now.”
“No. Of course not…” At a loss, both from seeing her in this state, and the jumble of his own thoughts, he felt an irresistible urge to help. “I could…read to you,” he said. “If you wish…?”
It was several seconds before she answered, and the smile she gave him did something strange to his heart. “I would like that very much, a welcome distraction, perhaps.”
Lucien went to fetch the book and shed his jacket, cravat, waistcoat and boots.
He rolled up his cuffs, then lay down atop the coverlet beside her, his back propped up on pillows. “Would you like to rest your head on my shoulder?” he asked, and she scooted her body closer, nestling against him. He could feel the sweet weight of her cheek through the fabric of his shirt, her breath warm. That languor came over him, a melting sensation as the tightness in his muscles relaxed, the guard he kept up softening just a little.
Opening the book, he cleared his throat and began to read, not one chapter, but two…three…At last, he stopped to pour himself a glass of wine.
