Page 73 of The Marriage Method

The way she looked at him, so tender and sincere. It had a perilous effect on his heartbeat. Indeed, since entering the library, it was beginning to seem to Miles as though he’d lost control over the basic rhythms of his own body. His pulse was too heavy. His temperature too hot. And his muscles in a perpetual taut state of readiness.

His gaze fell to the lush curve of her lips. He wanted to kiss her again. But the timing wasn’t right. Not now when she was upset, and when they were both talking about their mothers, for God’s sake.

He stood. Plucking the half-empty snifter of brandy from her fingers, he returned it to the sideboard. “Lady Belwood is attending Lord Amstead’s shooting party?”

“She is.”

“If we attend—”

“When we attend,” Nell corrected him.

He came back to her. “You’ll be in company with her for three days.”

“I’m aware.”

“What do you propose to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Nell said. “Perhaps nothing. It’s only three days as you said. My attentions will be focused on discovering the link between Lord Amstead and Mr. Cowgill’s death. I doubt there’ll be time to spare for any personal concerns.”

Miles nodded, resigning himself to their course. She was right. However dangerous, it was the best way to find out whatever it was that had led to Cowgill’s death. They’d be foolish not to seize the opportunity.

“The third of September is right around the corner,” he said. “I’ll have to arrange for my absence at the Courant. And you—”

“I shall need some new gowns if I’m to play my part,” Nell told him. “If you wouldn’t mind standing the expense?”

It wasn’t the most passionate of marital intimacies. But it was an intimacy all the same. At the moment, Miles would take it.

“Naturally,” he said. “You’re my wife.”

19

Nell followed Effie into the gaslit shop in Conduit Street. The door opened into an elegant showroom furnished with several comfortable chairs, a gleaming trifold mirror, and luxuriant displays of colorful fabrics and trimmings. A tall counter of polished mahogany stood at the back. There was a curtained door behind, presumably leading to the workrooms.

Nell’s gaze drifted over the shimmering silks, rich velvets, and exquisitely printed muslins. She had never been to a dressmaker’s establishment before. From the earliest age she was able, she’d been making her own clothes. An easy enough task for one skilled in needlework. Especially one who wasn’t obliged to design anything more intricate than the plain dresses that made up a schoolmistress’s wardrobe.

“Mr. Malik was recommended to me shortly after Mr. Royce and I married,” Effie said. “His designs are much lauded at the moment. The best one can get outside of Paris. He’s even made dresses for the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”

Nell lowered her voice. “He must be dreadfully expensive.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself on that account,” Effie said. “Not if Mr. Quincey is paying the bill.”

Nell frowned. She had no intention of taking advantage of Miles’s generosity. The two of them were only just beginning to grow closer. And last night…

Well.

They had kissed, of course. And embraced each other passionately. But it wasn’t that which made the thought of him settle so warmly inside her heart this morning. Her growing feelings couldn’t be reduced to mere physical attraction.

No.

Miles had been kind. Caring. He’d looked after her at her lowest point.

One of her many lowest points these past several days.

And he’d done so with no discernable gain in sight. He hadn’t used the opportunity to wrest information out of her about the Academy. He hadn’t even demanded another kiss—or more. Before leaving the library, he’d summoned the maid to make up a hot brick for Nell’s leg, and then gently, but firmly, commanded that she retire.

Nell hadn’t seen him since. He’d gone to his chamber and she’d gone to hers. By the time she’d come down to breakfast this morning, he’d already left for the paper. And on a Saturday, no less.

“The master always goes in on Saturdays,” Mrs. Bright had explained as she’d poured Nell’s tea. “Sundays, too, since that business with Viscount Compton. He’s keen to find a story that will restore the Courant’s fortunes.” The housekeeper had given Nell a sympathetic look. “I confess, I did hope he’d adjust his habits now he’s a married gentleman, but you know what the paper means to him.”