A door connected to the chamber that housed the countess. He’d often visited his mother in that room, once his father had left the house. She liked the company of her children in the morning, after she had risen. How eagerly he and Amelia had awaited the summons that gave them a welcome respite from their studies and plunged them into the enchanted, scented world of Anthea, Lady Windermere. For a moment he was ten years old again, showering his twin with hair powder under their mother’s amused gaze. He ached to step through that door and discover that the two females who’d dominated his childhood were still alive and still laughing.
Instead he would find his unwanted wife.
He had to admit that under other circumstances she would no longer be “unwanted.” Her looks had improved, greatly, since their marriage. In her personal appearance she showed signs of the good taste so lamentably lacking in her additions to the decoration of the house. He hated to think what she might have done with his mother’s chamber.
He’d looked into her eyes that afternoon and had the oddest desire to kiss her lying mouth. If not for Julian, damn him, he’d be quite eager to join her in bed, but his intention of resuming marital congress with his wife had been complicated by the discovery of her infidelity. His immediate reaction was to cast her off, but things weren’t as simple as that. Only by siring an heir were the greatest financial advantages of his marriage to be reaped; he needed to maintain relations with Denford, at least for now; and a divorce was unthinkable if he was to have any future success in his career. It was highly unlikely that such a scandal would allow him to achieve the post of foreign secretary.
Clearly he was never going to enjoy the kind of love that his oddly matched parents had enjoyed, but when he wed Chorley’s niece to gain back Beaulieu he’d given up that chance. He ought, at least in theory, to be able to live with a faithless bride, as long as discretion could be maintained. Such a marriage was hardly unheard of in the higher levels of society. In one area, however, he’d discovered a sticking point: His children must be his own.
Until he was certain that Cynthia was not with child by her lover, he would not share her bed. In the meantime, he’d pretend to resume his friendship with Julian and get him to sell the pictures to the Prince of Alt-Brandenburg. After that he would decide what to do. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pleasant for the dastardly duke, and Lady Windermere would need to atone before she was (perhaps) magnanimously forgiven on a promise of future good behavior.
Pacing around the room he was drawn to that door. Placing his ear against it he heard nothing. His wife must have dismissed her maid some time ago, as he had his valet. Then he heard a latch, and soft footsteps in the passage outside their rooms. He sped over to his own exit and discovered her holding a candlestick and headed for the stairs.
“My lady.” He bowed ironically.
“My lord.” Her free hand clutched at her pale blue satin wrapper, liberally trimmed with lace. With golden hair streaming over her shoulders, she looked more like an angel than an adulteress.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I was going down to fetch my book.”
“Why not ring for a servant?”
“They have retired and it’s no trouble for me to go. I am not ready to sleep.”
She blushed, as well she might if she intended to slip out into the garden and meet her conveniently located lover. Damian made one immediate decision. If he was to be cuckolded again, it would not be by Denford. His wife had enjoyed Julian’s attentions for the last time and he would make sure of it, even if he had to personally stand guard.
“Go back to bed, my dear,” he said. “If you will tell me the title, I will find your book.”
“Thank you,” she said. What else could she say? “It’s on the table next to the chaise in the small parlor. It’s only a novel.”
“I shall bring it to you tout de suite.”
He had called her “my dear” and he was coming to her room. Expecting him to be eager to start siring an heir, she’d been relieved when he’d failed to appear at the connecting door earlier. Perhaps he was too tired after his night with Lady Belinda. For all she knew, he’d been with his mistress that evening. Although she had little practical knowledge of the sensual habits of men, she’d picked up a good deal of gossip from Caro’s circle and knew that some men weren’t capable of performing more than once a night. Certainly Windermere had never repeated the act with her: into the room, into the bed, into her. In and out a few times, then out, out, out.
She couldn’t help wondering if she was so unappealing that his lack of interest was somehow her fault. She had gathered that both men and women had different levels of skill and attractiveness in these matters. Perhaps she should have taken the opportunity to find out with Julian, who had quite the reputation. If she couldn’t take and give pleasure with him, it probably was her fault.
On second thought, it might be better not to know. In the absence of any certainty, she could keep up her well-deserved anger against Windermere for his indifference and his betrayal.
She sat at her dressing table and fiddled with her brushes. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left her emotionally wrung out and too agitated to sleep. She hoped reading would calm her and let her sink into blessed forgetfulness for a few hours, before she had to wake up and deal with her erring husband. She now feared that she wouldn’t gain that respite.
He didn’t bother to knock, merely slipped in and closed the door behind him. He stood and looked at her, without saying a word. Remaining on the padded stool of her dressing table, she stared back defiantly. He’d always seemed the epitome of the English gentleman with his blue-gray eyes and neat brown hair. But a full-length banyan made from richly embroidered silk lent an exoticism to the regularity of his features and figure. She felt a stirring deep inside her that signaled a greater danger to the peace of mind he’d already rocked.
“Miss Burney’s Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress,” he said. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Not as much as Evelina. Have you read it?”
“I liked Evelina better too. Mortimer Delvile seemed excessively proud, making Cecilia relinquish her fortune rather than marry her and take her name. You cannot accuse me of such behavior.”
The marriage settlement included a provision that their children would take on her name. The family name of the Earls of Windermere would henceforth be Chorley-Lewis. Having lost his only son and the chance of establishing a dynasty, her uncle wished to immortalize his name through her. To Cynthia it had made her uncle seem rather pathetic, not a word she would normally apply to the great bully.
“I acquit you of pride, my lord,” she said. “Mortimer Delvile is a tiresome creature and Cecilia deserves better. Our cases are not comparable, however. Delvile wishes to marry Cecilia for love, not for her great fortune.”
Whatever reaction she expected from him wasn’t forthcoming. She picked up a powder puff for something to do in the ensuing silence and waited for him to leave. When she dabbed at her neck, a sound came out of his throat, though what it signified she couldn’t guess. “Thank you for fetching the book, my lord. You may leave it on the bed.” Mentioning the word bed made her blush and she powdered furiously to cover it up.
Peering past her reflection in the mirror, she saw him lay the volume on the mattress, but he did not leave. Her eyes widened as he removed a pair of leather slippers with turned-up toes, and placed them neatly next to the bedside table. Next to go, drawing a shocked gasp, was the robe, sliding off and revealing his back and buttocks. Never having seen such a sight in the flesh, she was fascinated and unwillingly impressed. He turned, and before she could see any more, she closed her eyes. Never once during their marriage had he revealed his body to her in the light. Neither would she expect it. The very notion of sleeping—or doing anything else—naked was contrary to the precepts of her upbringing. By the time she dared look he had climbed onto the mattress and settled himself under the covers, half re
clining against the pillows, displaying surprisingly broad shoulders and a muscular chest sprinkled with light brown hair. A surge of indignation drove out appreciative curiosity.
What right did the man have to invade her room without so much as a by-your-leave and occupy her bed? He had the right of a husband, of course, to her body. But something about the cool way he’d taken possession of her private apartment, like a storming army, roused her fury. His action wasn’t motivated by desire—he wasn’t even looking at her. It was pure arrogance.
“What are you doing?” She marched over, almost tripping on her billowing robe, and glared down at him with her arms folded.
“Lying in my wife’s bed,” he said, quirking his brows as though the question were a foolish one.
“I am not accustomed to sharing this bed.”
“I would hope not, since your husband has been absent.”
“It’s not big enough for two.” It was in fact the widest bed she’d ever occupied, even bigger than that at Beaulieu.
“I think we can manage without being crushed.” He generously shifted about an inch nearer to the edge and smiled blandly. He looked ridiculously handsome without his shirt, but she was not in the mood to admire.
She cleared her throat. “My lord.”
“Yes?”
“We have lived apart for more than a year.”
“True.”
“And before that we weren’t married for long.”
“Also true.”
“We don’t know each other very well.”
“That dearth can be remedied by spending more time together.” He settled deeper into the bedclothes. “Starting now.”
She stilled her nervous fingers that were plucking at the lace edging on her favorite wrapper. “What I mean to say is that . . . about marital relations . . . I don’t wish.” She almost swallowed her tongue in her feeble efforts to articulate this awkward request. “I would ask that until we know each other better that we should . . . not.”
“Not?” She wasn’t sure if he understood her confused mumbling. Raising his arms behind his neck, which flexed the muscles of his shoulders and chest, he regarded her in a silence that increased her disquiet. Her tongue swept convulsively over her lips and her mouth felt dry. He didn’t seem eager to fall on her and demand his rights, but neither did he make any move to depart.
To encourage him to go away and stop disturbing her peace, she offered him the robe that he’d draped neatly over a chair. “No, thank you. I prefer to sleep naked.” His lips stretched into that humorless smile she’d got to know so well at Beaulieu.
“And I would prefer you to sleep elsewhere,” she said, betraying her frayed nerves.
“I regret, my lady, that I cannot accommodate you. The mattress in my bedchamber is not to my taste. The feathers are too tightly packed and full of lumps.”
This seemed highly unlikely in her well-run household, though she hadn’t inspected the thing herself. She wavered, torn between arguing and sleeping in the other bed herself, lumpy or not.
“Come,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “No need for either of us to suffer. There’s plenty of room for both and I promise not to lay a finger on you. There is nothing unusual about a husband and wife sharing a bed, is there?”
“Nothing at all, in the normal course of things,” she said cautiously. “We, however, have not been in the habit of excessive intimacy in our living arrangements.”
“That will change now that I am home.”
Against her better judgment she decided to remain. She didn’t see why she should be driven from her own comfortable chamber into the earl’s gloomy lair. She’d embellished the already elegant and pleasing room with personal touches: her brushes and dressing set; a shelf of favorite novels; a delicate inlaid round table on which were arranged the fashion journals and other periodicals she subscribed to; a silver bowl containing potpourri; and the miniature portraits of her father and mother.
“It is my understanding that aristocratic couples occupy separate chambers. Not that I have special knowledge, being from a lower station.”
“My mother and father always shared a bed.”
“You surprise me.” Not least by imparting a private family detail. She couldn’t remember another instance of him volunteering such personal information.
She let her wrapper slide to the floor and climbed gingerly into bed, not on the side she usually favored, but she wasn’t up to demanding a rearrangement tonight. Unlike him she dressed decently for bed in fine but sturdy linen, buttoned to the neck. “Aren’t you cold without a nightgown?”
His shrug sent his muscles rippling. “The room is well heated for winter.”
“If you are to sleep in my bed I request that you dress properly.”
“Your preference is noted—for the future.”
Did that mean he intended to sleep with her all the time? Utterly confounded, she adjusted the position of the candelabrum on the bedside table and opened her book. “I am going to read Miss Burney. I’m sorry if the light troubles you.”
She might as well have saved her breath. “I’m used to sleeping through all manner of disturbances in foreign cities.” Then the wretched man had the gall to turn on his side, punch his pillow, pull more than his share of blankets over his broad shoulders, and close his eyes.
Rigid with tension, she stared at the pages, but the English language had ceased to have any meaning for her. She kept stealing sideways glances at him, half expecting him to pounce. Why else was he there, if not to get himself an heir? It made no sense. To her indignation he began to emit a light snore, more of a loud breathing really. She was supposed to sleep through this? Unlike him, she was not accustomed to the disturbances of foreign parts. Though if she were being honest she’d admit that some of the girls at school had been noisier sleepers.
Giving up on Cecilia and on trying to understand her husband as well, she blew out her candles and settled down to sleep herself, trying to ignore the way his unclothed flesh radiated heat.
Chapter 6
The servants knew that His Lordship had spent the entire night in her bed. It wouldn’t bother Caro, Cynthia told herself firmly, and she had no reason to feel self-conscious about it. Her husband certainly hadn’t. When her maid brought in her early morning chocolate, he’d descended from the bed in all his naked glory, shrugged into his robe, and asked the woman to send up his valet, all without a hint of embarrassment. Meanwhile Cynthia clutched the sheet up to her chin and avoided looking at him. She couldn’t summon more than a muttered croak in reply to his cheerful “Good morning” and a reminder that they were expecting company for dinner.
The housekeeper was most indignant at the suggestion that any bed under her command should be in anything less than prime condition. Nevertheless, Cynthia ordered her to have His Lordship’s mattress restuffed to eliminate the chance that her husband’s excuse for his strange visit to her bedchamber was actually the true one. The woman returned a quarter of an hour later considerably chastened. Moth holes had been discovered in the curtains of His Lordship’s bed. The room would need to be cleaned and the velvet replaced.
“Never mind,” Cynthia said. She always found it hard to be angry with servants who worked so hard. “Perhaps last year’s tenants damaged the hangings. Can they not be mended?”
“You’re very good, my lady, but I know moth when I see it. If we are lucky we’ll be able to replace sections only, if we can match the cloth.”
A lengthy discussion of the problem led to the decision that the proprietress of Bow’s Silk Warehouse should be asked to assemble samples of velvet in different shades of red. The interview had barely concluded when the footman announced that Mr. Oliver Bream had come to call.
“Oliver!” Cynthia cried. “Thank goodness you are here. You must come to dinner tonight.”
The cherub-faced artist shook his mop of curly hair and grinned. “Glad you asked, Cynthia. Saves me having to angle for an invitation. I came as soon a
s I heard you were back in town.”
“Why else would you be here if not to find a meal?”
Oliver pretended to look offended. “To see you, of course.” His eyes roamed around the parlor. “Did you breakfast already?”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. Months ago, when they first met at Caro Townsend’s house, Oliver had fallen madly in love with her, just as Caro had predicted. His feelings had lasted all of a week before moving on to another object, and then another. His passion for his latest paramour always came second to his devotion to free meals, and a distant third to his true obsession, which was his art. In the view of Cynthia and his friends, he had real talent as a painter. Since this opinion was not shared by the rest of the world, he lived rent-free in Caro’s carriage house and cadged meals wherever he could.
Having sent the servant for tea and cakes, she patted the sofa beside her. “It’s good to see you, Oliver. Tell me your news.”
It was soothing to listen to him ramble on about the lamentable lack of skill in a couple of pupils who came to him for lessons in watercolors, the latest iniquity perpetrated by artists more successful than he, and the matchless beauty of Mrs. Langton, wife of a purveyor of canvas in High Holborn.
“Does she return your regard? Will she run away with you?” Cynthia asked, knowing that Oliver chose the most unattainable objects of his pursuit and would be disconcerted if not appalled should he actually catch one.
Oliver swallowed a mouthful of plum cake and shook his head. “Langton is a brute of a man. Very strong. She wouldn’t dare leave him. Besides, his canvas is the best in town and I shouldn’t like to upset him. He might refuse to extend me credit. I wish she had a different husband.”
“You will be able to judge mine this evening.”
“Windermere is in London?”
“He arrived at Windermere House yesterday. And he invited Julian to dinner.”
“Really?” Oliver said with mild surprise. “I thought they disliked each other.” As a longtime intimate of Caro and her set, he was well acquainted with the history. But Oliver was never overly concerned with matters that weren’t of personal or artistic interest. It made him a safe confidant. Anything she said would likely be forgotten by tomorrow.
Lady Windermere's Lover Page 6