Page 41 of Charity

His gaze settled on Penelope and Lady Prewitt again. For all Penelope’s languid fanning, Lady Prewitt was a stark contrast. She appeared blindingly happy at his return. He returned her smile and shuffled to get comfortable in his chair for the endless night that was the theater. Given that the chairs were drawn uncomfortably close together for his long legs, he stretched one out in front of him, to the side of Lady Prewitt’s, and turned his attention to the stage.

Something touched his leg. He glanced down at his limb, peering into the shadows. Another touch—and then he realized that Lady Prewitt was strumming her fingers along his limb.

Shocked, Oscar withdrew his leg. The lady returned her hand to her lap. How odd!

How bizarre.

How utterly disgusting!

What the hell kind of family was he marrying into?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Oscar stood as the ladies entered Lord Daventry’s drawing room. His breath caught as he took in Agatha’s stiff-backed posture. Today she looked elegant in plum muslin, no insipid prints for her, and her eyes flashed with guarded warmth that he soaked in quickly.

Lillian swept past him in a rustle of green silk and let Daventry gather her in his arms. “Did you have a pleasant morning, sweetheart?” he whispered to his wife as his hands roved over her back and dipped lower.

Oscar looked away, giving them privacy. Unfortunately, his gaze settled on Agatha again. His former lover was looking anywhere but at the newly married couple, too. Oscar crossed the room, keeping the kissing couple hidden behind his back, to stand before her. More than anything he wanted to take her into his arms too. She must have read his intentions because her body swayed back a little.

Rather than embrace her, he glanced over his shoulders at the married couple. “They can be a little inconsiderate in displaying their affections at times, but I do think passion in a marriage must make for a comfortable life.”

“They are happy,” Agatha whispered back.

Their eyes met and held. “That they are. But I’ve never met a couple so prone to forget they have company.” Oscar spoke the last words with greater strength, hoping the kissing couple would hear them and end their embrace.

Lilly giggled. “My apologies again, Lord Carrington. Giles brings out the worst in me.”

Oscar turned and smiled. “From what I’ve seen, you are quite the matched pair. And please, it’s Oscar.”

Lilly quirked her eye at Agatha. “Perhaps we could be informal today. I do find it quite agreeable. Do you mind, Miss Birkenstock?”

“Whatever the countess commands is perfectly agreeable to me.” Agatha laughed as Lilly rushed her, stepping away from the countess’ mock fury. “All right, all right, Lilly it is.”

The two women embraced quickly, but then Lilly linked their arms. “Gentlemen, we are to eat informally today, as well. Luncheon will be served in the rose room in less than half an hour.”

“Of course,” Oscar murmured.

Lilly’s pain returned more quickly if forced to dine formally for every meal. To compensate, and keep her happy, Daventry dined very informally. Society would be shocked if they knew the earl and his wife forced their guests to eat while reclining upon the pillow-strewn floor.

With a saucy wink for her husband, Lilly dragged Agatha from the room.

“They get along well,” Oscar murmured, missing Agatha the minute she disappeared from sight. Their steps disappeared along the hall, and then all grew quiet again.

Daventry clapped a stunning blow to his shoulder. “They are the best of friends. I am happy Lilly has some feminine company from time to time.”

Oscar turned, catching an odd expression on his friend’s face. “I should have thought you’d want her all to yourself. I’ve often felt in the way when I come to call.”

Daventry grimaced. “Believe me, I’m grateful for any distraction.”

“You are? Why? Are you not as happily married as you seem?”

Daventry raked his fingers through his hair. “My wife is impossible to resist.”

Oscar couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. The most debauched rake in London, tamed by a mere slip of a girl. The idea would be absolutely absurd if he wasn’t certain it was true. The Earl of Daventry was a smitten man—deeply devoted to his wife and faithful to a fault.

“Don’t laugh. Lilly wants a child.”

Oscar sank onto the arm of a chair, nonplussed. “And you don’t?”