Page 108 of The Marriage Method

Or rather, she kissed him.

Slow, languorous kisses in the dining room, the drawing room, and in front of the fire in Nell’s bedchamber. Miles let her set the pace of them. He never pressed or demanded, or crushed her to him in that fierce way he had that night in the library. But Nell was in no doubt of how much he wanted her—or of how much control he exerted not to take their embraces further.

Indeed, as she clung to him in the evenings, feeling his muscles taut under her questing hands, she had the sense that she was kissing a dangerous beast that could, at any moment, seize her in its grip and—

Well.

It was excessively exciting. A little frightening, too. Despite the warm feelings he kindled within her, she wasn’t ready for further intimacies. Her body was still too much her own. To share it—truly share it—would mean making herself vulnerable in a way she’d never been vulnerable before.

And she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not when there was a chance it might ruin everything.

None of the servants seemed to notice that their master and mistress’s marriage was still unconsummated. They treated Nell as if she was in every way Miles’s wife. She was consulted on household matters—the lighting of fires, the order of candles, and the schedule for changing the linens, to name but a few. On Thursday morning, Mrs. Bright even went so far as presenting Nell with menus for the following week and broaching the subject of dinner parties.

“Does Mr. Quincey often entertain?” Nell asked in bewilderment as she perused the proposed courses for next week’s meals. She was seated on the drawing room sofa, absent her sling for the first time since her shoulder injury.

Mrs. Bright stood across from her. “Not as yet, ma’am, but the wives of the married editors do often give dinners. With Mr. Quincey being the most senior gentleman at the paper, I did presume he would do the same now he’s wed.”

Nell doubted Miles would want to. He wasn’t the most socially inclined of gentlemen. Then again, he did value his reputation. And if a formal dinner would help to burnish it, Nell would be a poor wife indeed not to host one for him.

How difficult could it be? She’d practically run the Academy. Planning a dinner party could surely be nothing in comparison. If she was strategic, she might even turn the chore to the Academy’s advantage. She could invite the school’s largest benefactors, Lady Summers, Mrs. Crookshanks, and Mrs. Weaving. Reverend Pettiman, too, since having him for tea was no longer an option.

Nell had received the man’s response to her invitation only yesterday. A patronizing refusal, referencing fallen women, Christian forbearance, and some self-important nonsense about “treating with sinners.” Tea, it seemed, was too private an affair to suit his elevated opinion of himself. He wanted his good opinion to be courted in front of witnesses.

“Of course,” she said decisively. “We must plan something for when we return from Hertfordshire.”

Mrs. Bright beamed her approval. “Very good, Mrs. Quincey.”

• • • • •

The next day, Nell’s dress order was delivered from Mr. Malik’s shop. The elegant merino and muslin delaine blouses, colorful poplin skirts, and silk and velvet gowns were carefully folded within more than a dozen tissue paper–lined dress boxes. She was upstairs unpacking them, with Gladys’s assistance, when Albert, the footman, materialized at the door of her bedchamber.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Quincey,” he said, “but there’s an Inspector Garrick to see you.”

Nell straightened to attention. Inspector Garrick had come? He must have news about the investigation. “You may put him in the library, Albert,” she said. “I’ll be down directly.”

Straightening her woolen day dress and smoothing her hair back into its chignon, Nell made her way downstairs. She was entering the hall when Miles walked through the front door.

She came to a surprised halt. Her mouth curved into a smile. “You’re home early.”

Miles’s dark eyes gleamed to find her standing there. Removing his hat, he shut the door behind him and, without faltering, crossed the marble-tiled floor to take her in his arms. “I thought I’d better. We’ve an early train to catch tomorrow.”

Nell set her hand on his chest as he bent his head to kiss her. His lips were warm and firm, making her pulse flutter madly.

And she wondered if she’d ever get used to it. The strength of his embrace. The way he held her, kissed her, made her feel wanted and protected, even as her knees quivered and her blood heated to a dangerous simmer.

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his black waistcoat. “Miles,” she murmured against his mouth.

“Yes, love?”

“Inspector Garrick is in the library.”

Miles went still. He drew back a fraction to meet her gaze. There was a question in his own.

“I was just going to see him,” she said. “If you’d like to accompany me? I’m sure he’d prefer to speak to us both.”

Miles composed himself before her eyes—reverting all at once from an affectionate husband into a single-minded reporter determined to get his story. He was still in his black wool overcoat and gloves. He made no move to divest himself of them. Wordlessly, he offered her his arm.

She took it gratefully.