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Brown hair—Amiable smile—Absurd emphasis on manners—Wife—Not where she was meant to be: That was all he knew about her, and all he needed to know.
To her credit, she came along with him easily enough, her hand tucked into his elbow as though they were fully civilized people. Good: The sooner they got home, the sooner he could send her back to Warwickshire where she belonged.
“Das!” Joshua twisted to find the secretary sauntering a few yards behind them. At leastsomeonewas where he was meant to be. “Get a hackney.”
“Will do.”
His wife turned too. “Is he—”
“Don’t ask. I’m tired of people asking.” Joshua kept them moving toward Hyde Park Corner. “He’s Bengali. He knew Bram somehow and wanted to come over here for some reason.”
“I was going to ask…Oh, never mind. Mr. Das.” She released Joshua’s arm and, to be particularly annoying, walked back to the secretary. Das stopped too, still afflicted by those excellent manners that Joshua had failed to cure him of. “In the absence of a proper introduction, may I say that I’m pleased to meet you,” she said.
Das bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. DeWitt.”
“I assume you are the Mr. Das about whom Mr. Newell has spoken so highly?”
“Mr. Newell is too generous.”
“What are you my husband’s secretary for?”
“Oh for crying out loud! Enough chitchat.” Joshua strode back to them. “He’s Secretary For Doing Whatever The Blazes I Tell Him. And I told you to get me a hackney. Now. Go. Go!”
He waved in the direction of the gate and went to grip his wife’s upper arm. But she simply maneuvered her fingers back into the crook of his elbow and, when he tried to pull away, kept her feet planted firmly under the devious cover of her skirts. He couldn’t march off now without yanking her along behind him. Huh. Clever, that.
“That cannot be the official job title,” she said to Das, as calmly as if they weren’t playing tug-of-war with Joshua’s elbow.
“No, madam,” Das said with great dignity. “I believe the official title is ‘Secretary For Managing Whims and Getting Yelled At A Lot’.”
She laughed and Joshua muttered “Very funny,” and tried not to notice how warming his wife’s laugh was. Reminiscent of Lord Charles but more…feminine.
“You must need a sense of humor in your position, Mr. Das.”
“I think we have that in common, Mrs. DeWitt.”
“Enough,” Joshua said. “You are not Secretary For Making Stupid Jokes and you are not Secretary For Flirting With My Wife. If you must flirt with her, do it later, on your own time. Now. Get that carriage.”
Das complied, but Mrs. DeWitt would not be hurried. Joshua forced himself to slow down, gritting his teeth and slicing the air with his precious papers, while she looked about in apparent delight, her fingers tucked into the crook of his elbow, her shoulder bumping against his arm, her skirts brushing his legs.
He glanced at her profile: that faint rose coloring her cheeks, that hint of a welcoming smile. To make matters worse, she was deploying that feminine floral fragrance that certain women used to create havoc.
“You’re meant to be in Warwickshire,” he said.
“You’re meant to be in Liverpool.”
“I did not give you permission to come to London.”
“I did not ask your permission.”
He stopped so abruptly that it took her a few steps to stop too, and her hand slipped from his arm. She looked back at him questioningly.
“You should,” he said. In a single stride, he drew level with her again. Once more, she took his elbow and they moved on, although he was no longer sure who was leading whom. “Let me explain, Mrs. DeWitt, how marriage works.”
“Oh, please do, Mr. DeWitt, I’m all agog.”
“I am the husband, so I make the rules to suit me.”
“And I am the wife, so I change the rules to suit me.”
