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“Arabella, Lady Hardbury?”
“That’s the one.”
“She has offered, but she hinted that she might be, ah, in a delicate condition.”
His legs froze, his heart raced with the fear that she might broach a conversation about delicate conditions. He risked a glance at her. Their eyes met briefly and then she hastily took to lining up the objects on his desk: a polished lump of iron ore, the bowl of candied lemon, a green glass paperweight filled with bubbles shaped like tears.
But all she said was, “Besides, it’s the principle. The duchess is family.”
“So you’ll grovel to her.”
“If that’s what I must do for Lucy. I’d do anything for my mother and sisters and children. Oh—”
She pressed her lips tight shut, her hand frozen around the paperweight, but the word had snuck out. It wafted through the air with a stench more ripe than the Thames in summer. No doubt she was cursing her wayward tongue. He certainly was.
He breathed through the yawning ache of emptiness and the phantom sensation of his son’s head on his arm. If she wanted children…
“There are plenty of children running around the streets of London,” he snapped. “Help yourself.”
“Of course, children would be too much of a nuisance for you, wouldn’t they?” She dropped the paperweight with a clunk. “No wonder you didn’t have any in your first marriage.”
“Right,” he said, not bothering to correct her. “A nuisance.”
“And I hear your brother Isaac has called, but he’s a nuisance too.”
“You’re all bloody nuisances. So if that’s all you wanted to say, you can stuff your self-righteousness into your trunk and take it with you to hell.” He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Now get out. I’m busy.”
“Fine!” She marched two steps toward him, chin high, eyes fierce, but stopped. “Except…”
“What? What?”
“I’m afraid I got a little distracted,” she said, sheepishly. “I meant to inform you that we are attending a rout at Lord and Lady Morecambe’s house this evening.”
He flung the door shut and leaned against it. “Weare?”
“Yes. You and I.”
“Lady Morecambe invitedus?”
“She is my aunt by marriage. Of course she invited us.”
That couldn’t be right. Invite Cassandra, certainly. But Joshua too? Cassandra’s uncle and grandfather—the Marquess of Morecambe and the Duke of Sherbourne—both received Joshua, but not to the more refined events, especially if Treyford would be there; society took care to avoid having Joshua and his father in the same room.
“Mr. Das and Mr. Newell have freed up your schedule tonight,” she went on, cheerfully oblivious to her looming social faux pas.
He was too amused to mind that she had taken over his schedule too. He pushed off the door and paced back around the room, trying to hide his grin.
“I should bedelightedto attend,” he said.
“Good. It will be our first outing together as a married couple.” She smiled. No wonder she was welcome everywhere, with a smile like that. “Mr. Newell has had a word with your valet, a Mr. Vickers, I believe, who will select an appropriate outfit and shave you. Please remove the earring and do try to sit still long enough for him to tie your cravat properly. And if you could submit to a more fashionable haircut…”
She eyed his hair, which was, admittedly, getting too long. He wondered how long her hair was, when she let it out, all those thick chocolate tresses tumbling down her back. He did not have a chance to wonder too long before she turned to leave, saying, “Just…make an effort.”
Her skirts swayed about her as she marched to the door, graciously and purposefully, and he could almost make out the shape of her bottom and thighs beneath the layers of fabric.
“Is my hair so very terrible?” he called.
She stopped and turned back.
