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He shut his eyes, but the only thing he saw was the set of his wife’s mouth, the fire in her eyes as she crossed to him, the stain of color across her cheeks as she pulled away from the kiss. The nightdress she wore was infuriatingly high-necked, so he hadn’t been able to see how far down that color had gone. But he could imagine…
He threw off the covers before temptation curled its claws into him. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. After drawing on his breeches again, he slipped out of his bedchamber and made his way to the private room he always kept locked. He carried the candle with him and used it to light several others around the room when he reached it. For some reason, he had his best strokes of inspiration in the middle of the night, and always had a few candles handy in this private abode. It was the one thing he kept for himself, and only he and Cleopatra were privy to it.
Tonight, each candle illuminated another painting he’d made of his wife, irritating him with the depth of his obsession. He stood, canting his head, and observing the paintings he made of her, each different and capturing her doing different things. Here was one with her sitting on the lawn reading. Another with her lying in her secret gardens that she lovingly tended in the country, a beautiful array of flowers surrounding her. Oscar sucked in a harsh breath when he realized with each painting of his countess, the shape of her body had shifted from a slender beauty to a subtle voluptuous form.
His heart started to stutter inside his chest.
Not yet; she was far from ready for his passionate brand of loving. He should go back to bed and get a good night’s rest. He had estate matters to attend. Still, he found himself seated in front of his easel with a fresh canvas and a stick of charcoal to begin marking the lines. He could see her face altogether too clearly. The shape of her eyes, the set of her soft mouth and just the barest hint of one of her dimples. Before he knew it, the image was laid out in front of him, as fresh as it had been when she’d stood in his bedchamber.
He thought of sleeping then, and returning to it with fresh eyes, but instead he reached for his paints to mix just the right shade of pink to splash along the bridge of her pert nose. If he couldn’t share his admiration with her, at least he could immortalize it here, just for himself.
Chapter Three
Hours after storming her husband’s bedchamber, Pruewas still mortified. Quite simply and completely mortified as well as uncertain. A state of existence she deplored. Lady Charity Rutherford, one of Prue’s dearest friends, pinned her with a gimlet stare.
“Out with it,” Charity said, sinking into the chaise longue by the window.
“Out with what?” Prue said distractedly, watching the carriage that had just collected Theodosia from 48 Berkeley Square rattle down the cobbled streets. Theo had gone off with a duke who had kissed her senseless the evening before. Prue hoped Theo would accept Charity’s dare and indulge in an affair with the man. Theo’s eyes had been quite saddened of late, and the sparkle of excitement she displayed just now had been a rare delight to witness. A delight inspired by the Duke of Hartford.
Oh, Theo, I hope you find some happiness. Prue dearly hoped they would also find Lady Perdie who had ran away. “Do you believe Theo will be well, travelling God knows where, with that arrogant duke for who knows how long? I do hope she acts on your dare and ravishes the man.”
Charity’s gaze narrowed. “Theo is gone, and our fearless leader is smart and can very well handle the duke. Now, Theo did not see it because she was all atwitter with Lady Perdita being missing and the duke blaming her for it, but I can see the circles under your eyes and hear the strain in your voice, Prue. What happened?”
Prue closed her eyes as emotions tightened her throat. It had been so very hard facing Oscar this morning over breakfast, pretending the humiliating night before had not happened. Their conversation had once again been polite and proper. The man had not brought up anything about her unexpected actions, and while she had watched him drink his coffee and read the freshly pressed newspaper, Prue had wondered if today he would take this Clarice to be his mistress. She had wanted to slam her hands on the table and demand answers. But that of course would not do. She was his countess. A lady. How she loathed polite and proper when she wanted to show her emotions.
Taking a deep breath, Prue faced Charity and smiled. Her friend had already taken off the hat she wore to protect her fair skin from the sun, unpinned her lovely auburn hair to tumble to her shoulders, and removed her shoes and stockings.
Thinking about how much to share with Charity, Prue took her time removing her shoes and stockings. This was one of the things she loved most about being a part of this secret lady’s club. The freedom of just being oneself without any judgement.
The door to the drawing-room opened and Lady Lucinda, a young widow and another great friend barreled inside the room. Miss Harriet Thompson and Lady Agatha Barrett hurried right on Lucinda’s heels. Harriet and Agatha wore fencing gear, clearly preparing for a lesson with Monsieur Jean-Phillipe Lambert. They were at least an hour early.
“Are you well, Prue? You seem out of sorts,” Agatha said, sitting on a single sofa with a sigh.
“I did not sleep well last night,” she admitted with a small smile.
Harriet cast her a probing stare. “You do know you can confide anything with us.”
A rush of gratitude filled her, and for the hundredth time Prue wondered how she would have survived her loneliness without these ladies. She sauntered over to the sofa opposite Charity and sat, reclining against the padded cushions.
“What I am about to confess will be shocking.”
The ladies showed great interest at that, always the ones to love gossiping. Prue laughed. “It is not any gossips; it is very personal and what I am about to say must not leave this room.”
“You have our confidence,” Charity said warmly. “Please never doubt it. We are not just friends here, but we are a sisterhood.”
The other three nodded in agreement. Another lump formed in Prue’s throat. “Thank you, ladies. Wycliffe and I…we are not as close as husbands and wives ought to be,” she said, hating that her cheeks burned. “We…we are not intimate, and I so desperately want a normal marriage.”
“Oh, Prue,” Lucinda said, scooting closer to her on the sofa. “We had no notion of it. You must be very unhappy.”
How those sympathetic words pierced her. “I have been unhappy, frustrated, and angry. I have been his wife and countess for three years and…we have never kissed.”
“It cannot be so!” Charity cried. “That man looks at you as if he wants to devour you. It is embarrassing, really.”
Prue flushed. “I have seen him staring at me several times and there is this intensity in his eyes, but he never approaches me. Never opens that connecting door, and I do not know how to breach his wall of reserve.”
Agatha frowned. “Please, Prue, do not hate me for suggesting this. Perhaps he…he has a mistress?”
Everyone winced.
