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She rolled her eyes briefly heavenward. “This is your life now—our life. Don’t you want to be present for it? To enjoy what will come our way?”
Damn her eyes. Why was she so wise? “Perhaps.” The urge to come up to the mark she’d set took hold. “What would you like for our life to entail?” It was past time for them to have a serious talk.
Her expression softened. “I’d like for us to come to an understanding or at least a friendship.” She stretched out a hand to him, and after a few seconds, he clasped it. The sunlight caught on the tiny ruby in his signet ring that rested on the fourth finger of her left hand. Shame filled his chest that he hadn’t respected her enough to give her a ring of her own to commemorate their union. “I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives fighting and bickering.”
The fact that truth rang in those tones to echo with what he’d been feeling of late brought him low again. “Beyond what we used to share?”
“Yes.” She nodded. Thin tendrils of hair had come loose from her chignon to fall in perfect curls at her temples. “I’m not a whore any longer, Percival. There must be more between us now that we’ve wed.”
Life had been much simpler when she’d been his mistress. But those times had passed. “We enjoyed more bed sport when you were,” he shot off without thinking. The absence of physical relations annoyed him even more, for despite everything, his body still craved that carnal release he’d found in hers, and he’d become all too accustomed at having her in his bed.
“Whose fault is that?” Lavinia narrowed her eyes. He didn’t much care for being on the receiving end of her ire. “If you wish a physical relationship within our marriage, then treat me with the respect my new position as your wife affords. It’s truly that simple.”
What she said had merit, damn it. “My apologies for being a prick before.” Percival rubbed a hand along his cheek and jaw. The stubble there served as a testament that he hadn’t bothered to shave today, and in the oversight, it was merely one of the things she’d spoken about. The lack of respect. The continued drinking. The keeping her at arm’s length. He heaved a sigh. Would he always prove a disappointment? “Very well. I shall work on being a true husband to you.”
“Excellent.” Her expression brightened. Happiness mixed with wariness in her eyes, and suddenly he wanted to keep in her good graces more often. “Shall I order you tea? You look like you could use a repast. Or would you rather have a light luncheon?”
“I’d rather have coffee, actually. It helps a little with the inebriation and wards off megrims.”
She nodded. “Would you like food with it?”
“Not particularly, unless you wish to nosh.”
Lavinia rose. As she crossed the room to the blue velvet bell pull, he missed her comforting presence. Once the butler arrived, she quietly ordered a tea service as well as a pot of strong coffee. “And Stanton, I’d like for you to go over the house once more and rid it of any outstanding bottles of liquor you might find. Please double secure the bottles in your pantry. By hell or high water, we will have Laughton free of this vice.”
“I will, of course, my lady.” Then he was gone, as silent as he’d arrived.
It was astonishing how quickly some of his staff had changed their attitudes regarding Lavinia’s reign within the household. “They have come to respect you,” he mentioned as she came toward him.
“Hardly.” Her laugh was small and forced. “They respect you, wish to see you halt destroying yourself, so if my mission aligns with theirs, of course they will comply.” A trace of sadness shadowed her face. “I rather think it will take much more than that for your staff to truly become fond of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He truly meant it. Where people from servants upward throughout the ton would forgive him for being a drunk—to a point—none of them would ever forgive Lavinia for being a member of the demimonde or for daring to rise above her given station. “If you’d like, I can talk to the staff—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I want their respect—their affection—on my own merits, not because you ordered it.”
Damn. The woman was so fucking brave. He admired the hell out of her for that, wished she would teach him that secret. “I can understand that.” Didn’t he want the same from society? Needing to open more of a dialogue with her, he said, “Did you enjoy the outing yesterday?” When she’d waded into the water with her hem raised and those giggles of abandon on her lips, it was as if he’d truly seen her as a woman of substance for the first time.
“I did.” Though she drifted close, she didn’t resume her previous position in the chair. “Your daughter is delightful, and certainly what I need at this time in my life.” Shadows clouded her eyes, but why? “I would like to spend more time with her if you don’t mind.”
Cold worry snaked through his gut, but aloud he said, “That can be arranged.” Surely, she wouldn’t corrupt Deborah if they spent time alone together…
“Thank you. I cannot replace her mother, of course, but I can provide a female figure for her to look up to or answer questions she might have.”
“I wonder.” Was it folly to let this woman assume such a role? Percival had to protect his daughter at all costs, but he was married. He needed to know more about Lavinia to make a better assessment of the risks. “When we were out yesterday, I saw the way you looked at Deborah. There are secrets in your eyes even now. Why?”
“It is… complicated, and a sad tale besides.” Though she frowned, she didn’t drop her gaze from his. He liked her confidence and courage. “How did I appear to you?”
“Sorrowful. Beset with unhealed grief.” The fact he recognized it about her but couldn’t within himself spoke volumes. Perhaps they were more well-matched than he wanted to believe. All of it intrigued him, and exploring it would occupy his mind, distract him from wanting a drink. “Did you once have a child, Lavinia?” If she did, he didn’t remember her talking about it, but then, some portions of his memories were blank and clouded from excessive brandy consumption.
Emotions flitted across her face while she attempted to conquer them. Grief, shame, wistfulness, they were all visible despite her fight with them. Before she could speak, Stanton returned with the tea service. She nodded at him, gave the butler a tight smile, and once he’d left the room, she sighed. Some of the strength began to crumble. The tendons in her slender neck worked with a hard swallow. “I was with child once.”
“Oh?” His hand shook as he poured the strong, fragrant coffee into a delicate china cup. “You never told me.”
“I never told anyone except the father,” she admitted in a barely audible whisper.
A sudden wave of jealousy went through him at the thought of her with someone else, but he dismissed it and waited while enjoying those first few life-giving sips of coffee.
“The child belonged to an earl—no, you needn’t know his name—a few years before I met you.” One of her hands drifted to her throat, rested there as if that alone could guard against being so vulnerable. “He didn’t want the babe and in turn me since I was of no use. So he turned me out and withdrew his protection.”
