Daxton frowned at the last. “You needn’t think I’m going to stay here just to drink the damned waters.”
“Between you and I, the waters are immaterial,” the doctor said, efficiently binding the wound. “But if you didn’t want to stop here, you shouldn’t have got shot.”
Dax rather liked the doctor, who glanced up from his work with raised eyebrows. “Do you want the magistrate?” he asked bluntly.
Daxton glanced at the pale, anxious young man who’d shot him. “He seems sorry enough already. I believe it was a misunderstanding. My wife’s fault,” he added provokingly.
His wife narrowed her eyes and he smiled at her until a breath of laughter escaped her lips. Making her smile seemed to be becoming an obsession with him.
*
The ache in his arm was less than he’d imagined it would be—thanks, no doubt, to whatever was in the muck Dr. Lampton had slathered over the wound. Coupled with the rare clear-headedness of a morning after a night of very little drinking, Dax felt, on the whole, pretty pleased with his world.
After a light luncheon taken in their own sitting room, Willa asked if he would mind very much practicing some dance steps with her.
“Did you never get to go to parties with the Shelbys, then?” he asked, frowning.
“No, but I didn’t mind.”
“Not even their parties?”
“Occasionally, but not to dance, more to look after Lady Shelby or my cousins.”
He grunted and stood up. Everything he heard about her life with the Shelbys reinforced his dislike of the whole family. On the other hand, he’d never imagined practicing dance steps could be quite so much fun.
Since she wouldn’t let him move his injured arm, they merely walked through the country dances to the sole accompaniment of his voice. He sang nonsense, some of it in rhyme, until she joined in with her own efforts. The result was often hilarious, although he wasn’t sure it improved her dance steps. She seemed to get muddled as to which hand to offer and which way to turn, but she possessed a natural grace that would carry her through.
“You’ll do,” he pronounced, “Though we haven’t waltzed yet.”
For a change, he began to whistle a popular waltz tune, and she instinctively lifted her arms like a mirror image of his. She flushed, withdrawing her hand from his waist before she’d quite touched him. Taking her hand, he placed it on his shoulder, swept his good arm around her waist, and took her other hand in his, keeping it lower than usual to avoid opening his wound.
Having whistled the introductory bars, he moved into the main theme with enthusiasm, and suddenly found himself driven backward, sideways, and turned. It was hard to whistle and laugh at the same time, but he did his best for several moments before the laughter took over.
“Oh dear,” she said, quite prepared to join in. “Am I as bad as all that?”
“No, no, you’re graceful, enthusiastic…decisive! Only it’s customary for the man to lead.”
“Oh.” She flushed, quite adorably. “In the only dancing lessons I’ve had, I usually took the man’s part with Elvira and my younger cousins. I suppose I have to throw off the habit.”
“I don’t mind following you,” he assured her. “Only, I’ll forget and we’ll end up both leading and either falling into each other or pulling in opposite directions. Besides, your other partners might not quite like it.”
“I suspect they wouldn’t,” she agreed.
“This time,” he said, taking her back into his arms. “You follow where I lead. Without looking at your feet.”
“Very well. And maybe I should sing this time? Then you can laugh more easily.”
He grinned. “We’ll both sing and see who laughs first.”
It was still funny, as she fought with her natural inclination to go her own way, but she was happy enough to laugh at herself, and after a few minutes, singing in perfect if breathless harmony with him, she relaxed into the dance.
Dax found it unexpectedly sweet to hold her, this only erratically remembered childhood friend who’d grown into such a lovely young woman. Her eyes smiled in between bouts of endearing concentration, and she felt soft and supple in his arms. Moreover, she was his wife. He could hold her improperly close if he wanted to—and he did, only refraining out of respect for her. For he was a very physical man, and his desire was obvious enough to scare her into a hasty divorce.
More than that, though, his memory of the night they’d bolted to Gretna Green was returning in flashes. And the upsurge of inconvenient lust for his new wife inspired another sudden recollection. Her sweet lips yielding to his, kissing him back with a naive, melting eagerness that had inflamed him then and still did. He could remember the soft curve of her breast under his mouth and the warmth of her smooth skin.
He wasn’t entirely sure she’d told the truth that he’d only gone to sleep. He might well have ravished her in his drunken stupor. He only hoped he hadn’t hurt her. At least she didn’t appear to be afraid of him, although from her heightened color and occasional breathlessness, she wasn’t quite comfortable being so close to him.
Nevertheless, he was reluctant to let her go, and only did so when the tea tray was brought in—not by Carson or even Clara, but by Daniel Doone, the other two following behind.
Dax supposed he should feel embarrassed at being discovered dancing with his own wife in the middle of the day, while singing with her, too. However, his chief emotion was irritation at being interrupted. As a result of which, dropping his hands from Willa, he scowled at Doone.
“You don’t work for me.”
“I don’t know what else to do to apologize,” the man said miserably. “Mr. Carson suggested I carry the tray.”
“Carson’s an idle opportunist. Put it down on the table and go away.”
“What have you got there?” Willa asked Clara, who was clutching a large box.
“It was delivered from Madame Monique,” Clara explained. “So I brought it up with me.”
“Oh goodness, another gown,” Willa said, awed. “Do you suppose it’s the turquoise silk?”
“Yes,” said Dax, who’d sent word to Monique to that effect.
He found it rather fun to look after Willa, and in a novel kind of way. Of course, he’d been known to dance somewhat erratic attendance on his mistresses, but it had always been in return for favors, whether explicit or understood. With Willa, he had nothing to gain but her happiness. Perhaps it had begun as responsibility, because he’d put her in this impossible situation, but he’d discovered he liked it.
*
After tea, Dax left Willa preparing for a bath, with both Carson and Doone vying to carry the hot water for her. Dax suspected it was a ruse on Carson’s part, to get Doone to do most of the work. Nevertheless, for someone who’d spent all her life pandering to other people’s unreasonable whims, Willa did seem to have the knack of inspiring devotion in those around her.
Dax strolled downstairs to the foyer, which was quiet at this hour and, discovering a young man he recognized at reception, he asked him about Shelby’s purse.
“The lady gave it to me for Miss Haines,” the boy said nervously. “Lady Shelby’s maid.”
“Yes, I remember that. And did you give it to Miss Haines?”
“First thing in the morning, sir, just before I went off-duty. Did I do wrong?”
Daxton regarded him. He could have been lying. But he’d have to have been pretty stupid to steal the purse, knowing he’d be the first suspect when it went missing. “No, you did exactly what was asked of you,” Dax said carelessly. “Someone else has mislaid it.”
Deep in thought, Dax sauntered off to explore the seedier parts of town. Here, he became distracted by an elaborately out-of-place building with Greek columns flanking its vast, pink front door. Curtains of fine black velvet hung in the nearest window.
“Might have known I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice, and Dax turned to find Lord Tamar at his side, The down-at-heels artist carri
ed what looked like several canvasses wrapped in cloth under one arm.
“Where is here?” Daxton inquired. “Because if I didn’t know better—”
“You do, dear boy, you do. It’s precisely what you think, and a rather fine example, too. Unexpected in Blackhaven, but there you are. I’ll introduce you, if you like.”
It was tempting, particularly given his recent unrequited lusts, but Dax only grinned and shook his head. “How big a cad do you think I am? I’ve only been married five minutes.”
“Five minutes, five years, don’t see that it makes any difference,” Tamar said, reasonably enough, though he walked on without any further attempts at persuasion. “Your marriage does seem to have taken the world by surprise.”
“None of the world’s business,” Dax said repressively.
“Perfectly true, but you can’t blame it for being interested. The newspapers have followed your exploits for years.”
“Mostly lies,” Dax said, from habit.
“So, what brought the world’s wickedest bachelor to marriage at last?”
Daxton scowled. “I like her.”
“Suspect you liked lots of others before her, too. Didn’t marry any of ’em, did you?”
“They were married already,” Dax admitted. “Apart from the opera dancers.” It had, generally, been part of the attraction, even with the gorgeously adventurous Helena, his last mistress. “And don’t start lecturing me. It would be rich coming from a man so well known in the town’s only brothel!”
“That would be rich indeed,” Tamar agreed. “For anyone in my family. Forgive the nosiness. Are you taking Lady Dax to the ball tonight?”
“I have that honor,”
“Ask her to put me down for a waltz.”
“They’re all taken,” Dax said at once. “Have you been before? What’s it like? Horribly provincial?”
Tamar shrugged. “I suppose so. Don’t go to London much myself, so I’m no judge. There will be cards and dancing and champagne. Pretty women—even beautiful and interesting women. You’ll know some of them. Kate Grant, who used to be Lady Crowmore, and her eccentric vicar husband. Lady Arabella and Captain Alban, if you’re lucky. The Wickendens, of course, and their Spanish stepmother.”
“You like it here,” Dax accused.
“More than I expected, to,” Tamar admitted. “I expected to find only sick and spoiled people, just hoped they’d be self-absorbed enough to want their portraits painted! And have fond enough memories of the place to buy my landscapes. But the place sucks you in. You come for a month and stay for three.”
Dax, who had no intention of staying even three weeks, said nothing.
“This street leads back up to the harbor,” Tamar told him. “And here is the tavern from hell, where one can, nevertheless, buy exquisite brandy. Care to join me?”
Dax considered. “Not now,” he said at last. “After the ball.”
“Deal,” Tamar said, and swerved into the tavern. A miasma of smoke and noise drifted out into the street in the brief moments that the door was opened. It reminded Dax of many a convivial evening, but, curiously, he had no regrets about walking away.
*
A couple of hours later, Dax emerged from his bedchamber in his best black satin breeches and perfectly fitting coat. For once, he’d paid attention to his cravat and thought optimistically, that even Wickenden might approve of it. Not that he cared overmuch. He was still enjoying the novelty of impressing his wife if he could.
God knew that worked both ways. She spilled out of her own bedchamber, resplendent in the turquoise silk gown over the paler lace underdress, her hair dressed higher than usual, leaving a long, shining coil to fall to her creamy right shoulder.
“How do I look?” she asked, twirling for his benefit.
“Stunning,” he managed. For he’d never seen her look more beautiful. It wasn’t the dress, he thought. Or not just that. The new turquoise jewels winked in her ears, at her throat, and around her wrist, emphasizing the fine color of her eyes, but it wasn’t those either. They only reflected her beauty.
She was happy.
The realization made him smile. “You are beautiful and will outshine every woman present.”
She laughed. “I won’t. But I feel almost pretty. And elegant. Thank you, Dax. And I must say, you’re looking very smart yourself.”
It was almost like approaching a stranger. The lust of the afternoon hadn’t gone, it was only enhanced now by something very like awe. It was a heady combination. Perhaps she read something in his eyes, for her cheeks flushed slightly under his gaze, and she began fussing with her bracelet.
“I don’t think it’s properly fastened,” she murmured.
As she bent over her wrist, his gaze fell on the pale curve of her neck. He wanted to press his lips there.
“Let me,” he said.
Almost reluctantly, she let one hand fall away and offered him the other. He unfastened the bracelet, adjusted the clip, and refastened it. “There.”
Because he couldn’t help it, he bent over her wrist and softly kissed the skin by the bracelet. Her pulse galloped under his lips.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his, and for the first time, he read something very like fear. And yet, she didn’t run or even pull away. He straightened, drawing her hand through his arm as though nothing had happened.
But something had. Something huge. He wanted his wife. And not just as he’d wanted various other women throughout his adult life. This was different, wrapped in care and wonder. He wanted to seduce her very badly, and he didn’t doubt that he could. But he wanted it to matter to her. For the first time in his life, he wanted to spend time courting and winning a woman. And he didn’t even know why.
Chapter Seven
Willa was undeniably shaken. Although the delicate caress of his lips on her wrist had caused her skin to tingle, it was the sudden intensity in his eyes that made her heart really race. She didn’t even know why, or what that look signified, just that it tuned her inside out.
Over dinner, taken publicly in the hotel dining room, he told her he’d spoken to the clerk to whom she’d delivered the purse.
“He gave it to Lady Shelby’s maid as you asked, so either the maid stole it or your aunt is simply being mean. I don’t think the clerk’s lying.”
Willa thought about it. “I don’t think my aunt was either. She really thought I’d stolen from her to bribe you into marriage with me.”
Daxton blinked. “If I need to be bribed, it would take a lot more than that paltry sum.”
“It isn’t paltry to her.” Willa frowned. “But I can’t see Haines stealing from them. She’s utterly devoted to my aunt and cousins, especially Ralph—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “She gave it to Ralph! He has engineered this whole thing to hurt us.”
“Well, he can’t, can he?” Dax said reasonably. “Both he and his mother would look incredibly foolish if they accused you of stealing something half of Blackhaven saw me win from him. Even without the clerk’s testimony.”
“That is true,” she said, only partially relieved. “But he is vindictive, Dax, and he never forgets.”
Dax cast her a suddenly perceptive glance, but he didn’t ask, merely offered her more wine.
After dinner, they strolled along High Street to the Assembly Rooms. The street was well-swept for the event, so that ladies were in little danger of dragging their skirts through the usual dirt on the road.
The Assembly building was new and ornate, with several doors leading off a gracious foyer. A group of military officers were escorting several dazzlingly bejeweled ladies through double doors at the end of the hall. Music and happy chatter drifted from inside.
“Change your shoes and do any last-minute primping in the cloakroom over there,” Dax murmured. He knew she had no experience of attending events like these. “I’ll wait for you here.”
In the last few days, Willa had attended a disreputable party full of rogues and courtesans, elope
d with a drunk stranger, and faced an angry gunman. Yet suddenly, nothing in her life had ever seemed quite so frightening as approaching that cloakroom alone.
Worse, as soon as she stepped inside, she came face to face with Lady Shelby. Magnificent in a lavender silk gown and the last diamonds Ralph had not yet sold, she looked down upon Willa with more contempt than surprise.
A lifetime of submission—with only occasional, well-punished revolts—should have sent Willa scurrying out of her path. But surprise seemed to have rooted her feet to the floor. Several other women stopped talking to watch the encounter.
And it was Lady Shelby’s gaze that fell. “Lady Daxton,” she murmured in a repeat of the previous night’s meeting, and stepped aside.
“Aunt,” Willa returned.
“Elvira!” Lady Shelby snapped.
Elvira scurried across the room. She might have been enceinte, but there was no obvious sign of it. She too glittered with jewels, some of which even winked in her diaphanous pale lemon ball gown. The gown was cut exquisitely, obviously by some hideously expensive artist of the needle in London.
For the first time, Willa wondered if she looked merely provincial to London eyes, and not the elegant lady she was imagining herself. But as her cousin looked her up and down, a twinge of envy sparked in Elvira’s eyes.
“Very fine, Cousin,” she tried to sneer.
“Thank you. You look very well yourself,” Willa said generously, and with a slight bow, she passed on to the nearest vacant chair.
As her aunt and cousin left, she hoped no one could see that she was shaking. This was ridiculous, but she’d never felt so uncomfortable in her life. She’d been expecting her aunt to yell “Thief!” at her. But convention and precedence had got in the way. Before she made such an accusation against a peeress of the realm, she would need to see how society welcomed—or did not—the new Viscountess Daxton.
When she was with Dax, she simply enjoyed the fun of it. Here, surrounded by strangers avid for gossip, strangers who must have heard by now of Daxton’s shocking elopement and mésalliance, she felt suddenly very small and alone. And it was a very different kind of loneliness from that she’d grown used to in the Shelby household.
The Wicked Husband (Blackhaven Brides Book 4) Page 8