by Mia Vincy
“Listen, Dammerton. I heard the most thrilling news in Bristol,” the man went on. “My man in Somerset, working with new science out of Denmark—electrical power, I tell you! They are getting closer all the time.”
The duke cleared his throat pointedly and gestured at the ladies. “Perhaps, given the company…?”
“The company?” The man frowned and looked around vaguely, as if seeking evidence of this mysterious company, until his gaze followed the length of Dammerton’s arm and landed on the three ladies.
“And?” He sounded genuinely confused, but then he said “Sod the company!”, which shocking language caused Miss Seaton to gasp.
Arabella nudged Cassandra with her elbow, but Cassandra didn’t dare look at her friend; watching other people behave badly was one of Arabella’s favorite sports. Cassandra could only stare at this oddly magnetic man, whose astonishing rudeness made him as repellent as his energy made him attractive.
“There is not a minute to waste! Steam is great, gas is grand, but to harness electricity? It will alter civilization for all time!”
The man’s dark eyes were bright with excitement, and he waved his hands so emphatically he almost hit Miss Seaton with his roll of paper.
Again, Arabella nudged Cassandra, more sharply this time. Again, she ignored her.
“I don’t doubt it,” Dammerton said. “But the company…You might want to…”
“What? What?”
“Be more polite,” Cassandra said, without thinking. Oh dear: She was so used to managing her sisters that she had become impolite too.
But the stranger merely gave his head a little shake and started up again, as if Cassandra had not spoken.
“Devil take you, Dammerton. The most exciting period in history and you want me to chatter with ladies for the sake of being polite? Time is short enough as it is without wasting more on nonsense like that.”
Well, this was too much!
“If you spent less time complaining about how little time you have, sir, perhaps you would have more time to be polite,” Cassandra said, in the amiable, cajoling tone she used on Lucy.
His frown deepened and he whipped his head around to look at her, his eyes roaming wildly over her face. She endured the insolent examination stubbornly, dimly astonished that she was embarking on a public squabble with an ill-mannered, disheveled stranger.
“Did you scold me?” he said.
“I wish only to point out that being polite takes less time than complaining about being polite.”
Arabella now gripped her arm, in a most unlikely fashion, but Cassandra could not turn away from that intense, dark gaze.
His Grace chuckled. “She’s got you there,” he said.
“It is a matter of efficiency,” the man said. “Already you have wasted more of my time.”
“Had you greeted us politely, neither of us would be wasting this time.”
“Had I greeted you politely, you would have taken that as an invitation to blather on about balls and bonnets and I don’t know what. And what are you laughing at now, Dammerton?”
He swung back around and glared at the duke, who grinned amiably. A horrid suspicion began to dawn, what with the duke’s sly amusement, and Arabella’s sharp-fingered grip, and Miss Seaton’s wide eyes, and that strange fizzing sensation under Cassandra’s skin.
No, it was not possible.
“You two make an adorable couple,” the duke said.
The man snorted. “Spare me your matchmaking. I’m already married.”
“As am I,” Cassandra said automatically, her head beginning to float away, her eyes fixed on His Grace’s cravat pin so she wouldn’t have to look at the man. The dark, abrupt, ill-mannered man.
No. No. No.
“I realize you are both married.” The duke looked from one to the other. “But do you realize you are married to each other?”
No.
Cassandra closed her eyes. The clamor of the crowd withdrew to a great distance. Somewhere, someone played a French horn. It was too hot in here. Her gown was too small. But she was not inside, and she could not shut out the world, or the sunlight on her eyelids, or the man vibrating beside her.
Her husband.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, and found him studying her with a frown.
So. This was her husband. Mr. Joshua DeWitt. Of course it was. In hindsight, it was obvious, although she never imagined he would be in London, and he had been clean-shaven at their wedding, and hatless, and if he had worn that dreadful earring then, she had not looked at him long enough to notice. But even if she had forgotten his strong, bold features, she ought not have forgotten his manner, as dynamic as if lightning bounced around inside him.
Both having conducted their inspections, their eyes met briefly with a jolt of that lightning, and then he looked heavenward with a heavy sigh.
Cassandra became aware again of their audience, which had swelled markedly: Passersby were clearly fascinated by a group that included a scandalous duke, an intimidating marchioness, and a married couple who had never been seen together—and who had not even recognized each other.
Her quota of gossip may have doubled—but not in a way that she wanted.
She summoned up an amiable smile. “Of course we realize it, Your Grace,” she said. “One cannot be married for two years without being aware of it.” She flicked a pointed glance somewhere near her husband’s profile and leaned in confidentially. “Especially to a man such as this. One does tend to notice him.”
The duke looked back and forth between them. “You did not even acknowledge each other,” he pointed out.
Cassandra slipped her fingers into the crook of her husband’s elbow. He jerked, as if bitten, but she held on and he settled. She risked a glance at him: He was frowning at her hand on his sleeve as though it were some odd creature. She ignored him. Ignored the feel of his body beside hers. All that lightning. Oh dear, this man had bedded her. Briefly and uncomfortably, but his body and hers had…Oh dear. How did couples face each other over the breakfast table?
“We have already seen each other today,” Cassandra explained, lying with shocking ease. “We do not need to greet each other afresh every time. That, Your Grace, would be inefficient and we’re all aware of Mr. DeWitt’s love of efficiency.”
She gave his arm a little pat, smiled hard, and waited, breath held, for him to cooperate.
Then, to her relief, he patted her hand in turn.
“Well said, Mrs. DeWitt.” He punctuated his words with jabs of the roll of papers in his free hand. “I know who she is, she knows who I am, and we hardly need to remind each other of that at every point during the day.”
“You see, we are completely in tune with each other,” Cassandra lied. “The less time we waste on redundant greetings, the more time we have to argue about manners. My husband’s lack of them, particularly.”
“I wish you luck, Mrs. DeWitt,” the duke said wryly.
Cassandra glanced at Arabella, whose face was alive with repressed laughter. Arabella made a little moue with her mouth—“I did try to warn you,” she might have been saying.
“This is all very charming,” Mr. DeWitt said briskly. “But my, ah, wife, ha ha, and I need a private chat. Say your farewells, my dear. She will return to Warwickshire tomorrow.”
But before she could say those farewells—or anything more at all—he was moving away, sweeping her along with him in a current that she could not resist.
Chapter 3
Joshua tried to reconcile this bright, amiable-looking woman with Lord Charles Lightwell’s daughter, the plain, subdued girl he had married two years earlier. He could see something of her father in her, not necessarily in her features but in her air of open warmth, the sense that she welcomed everyone. That made her appealing, beyond her looks, which were pleasant if not beautiful.
Her hair was brown and her eyes were green, unless they were brown too; he couldn’t tell and didn’t much care either way. S
he had a stupid parasol and a stupider bonnet, but her green outfit at least was clever: Its bodice was cut in a way that showed she had a superb bosom, but not in such a way that anyone could accuse her of drawing attention to said bosom.
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 least someone was 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.”
She must not say things like that. Bad enough that she had shown up here at all, as a real person. Even worse that she was attractive. If she proved likable also, that would be disastrous.
No, not disastrous. He was not a man who tolerated disaster. He was a man who punched disaster on the nose, then checked its pockets for coins and bonbons. But disruptive. Yes. Disruptive. A wife did not fit into his life, and the fact that he had a wife was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Never mind: She might be likable, but he was not, and as soon as she discovered that, she would leave of her own accord and everything could go back to normal.
“You seem puzzled,” said his disruptive wife, as they reached the gate. “Have I said something to puzzle you?”
“Most of what you say puzzles me. It’s almost as though you have a mind of your own.”
“Please don’t vex yourself. I’ll try not to use it too often.”
He ignored her look as he searched for Das and the hackney amid the furious tangle of London traffic. In front of them, a pair of enterprising lads inserted a dog into the traffic to worsen the snarl, and then charged a coin or two to relieve it.
“Who is Bram?” she asked.
“What?”
“You mentioned that Mr. Das knew someone called Bram.”
“One of my brothers. He lives in India.”
“You have brothers,” she said. “And now we are getting to know each other. Isn’t that lovely?”
“No. Here’s Das now.” He pointed with his papers. “Stop dawdling, woman.”
In the carriage, Joshua threw himself into the seat opposite his wife and glared at her. She had to sit forward a bit because of her stupid bonnet, and she used the parasol, closed now in a froth of ruffles, to steady herself as the hackney lurched into motion.
“I had forgotten how exciting London is,” she said.
“Enjoy it while you can. You’re going home tomorrow.” He drummed his fingers on the roll of paper on his lap. “Now what are you smiling at?”
“Mr. Newell warned me that you are not restful.”
“Restful?” He snorted. “I have no need of rest. I never get tired.”
“You are fortunate. Sometimes I get very tired indeed.”
She spoke so quietly he almost didn’t hear the words. A question rose to his lips but he bit it back. Go around asking people why they were sad and the next thing you knew, your life would be all tangled up in theirs, and that never went well for anyone.
“Then go home to your cottage and get some rest, and leave me in peace.”
“Oh, Mr. DeWitt, if only it were that simple.”
She returned her attention to the window.
Joshua stared at her profile, his thoughts leaping and bouncing. That was nothing unusual. He always had thoughts bouncing around in his head, but usually they were like two dozen couples in a country dance, moving together, taking turns to hop or leap or clap or turn. Now they were stumbling, getting out of time, falling over each other. He would not ask what made her sad and weary.
He would not.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and pulled his wayward thoughts into order. Electrical power—Patents—Investors—Potential—Excitement—Lust—Wife—
Damn.
Ah but—Lady Yardley had signaled her interest—Lord Yardley had signaled his lack of interest—He could find Lady Yardley and—Wife.
His eyes flew open and he sat upright.
No. Not now. He couldn’t start an affair with another woman when his wife was nearby. And he definitely couldn’t bed his wife. Ah well, never mind. He didn’t have time for an affair anyway. Celibacy had not killed him yet.
“You’re prettier than I remember,” he said.
She turned her bright eyes back to him, looking amused and amiable. In truth, he hardly remembered much a
bout her at all. She’d kept her head bowed throughout their short wedding ceremony, and he’d avoided looking at her anyway. And the other part had taken place in the shadows, both of them with eyes shut and thinking of something else.
“How charming of you to say so,” she said. “I recall you expressed some disappointment on our wedding day, that you had heard the Lightwell sisters were beauties when I am not.”
“I can’t see anyone going to war over you, but you’re not completely embarrassing. How old are you anyway? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“That old.”
He tried to remember twenty-two. It was only six years ago but it felt like a lifetime. Samuel had been two then, and Rachel brought him into the offices, saying it was never too soon for him to learn. That was the year they risked everything by purchasing and outfitting new factories, and ended up tripling their fortune. That was the year they watched Samuel discovering the world, and they vowed never to employ children in a way that might snuff out that spark. And Rachel must have been twenty-two when he first came to work in her father’s office. But she had been the boss’s daughter, and he was only fourteen then and too scared and angry to notice her, let alone imagine that, five years after he arrived, she’d marry him, and another five years after that, she’d be dead.
“Mr. DeWitt?” His wife wore a concerned expression. “Are you all right? I hope I did not upset you.”
“Of course you upset me. You’ve upset everything. Go home.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t do that. You see, I have…”
“What? What?”
“Sisters.”
“Sisters.”
Ah. Yes. Lord Charles had mentioned daughters. Joshua couldn’t remember how many, only that it was a lot, and that they all risked being destitute if Joshua didn’t marry one of them, since Charlie was dead and daughters had to be married to inherit, and the one that was already married was a stepdaughter, and the one that was nearly married had been jilted, and all the others were too young.