11. Chapter 11 #2
They spent the next little while going over the various options he’d researched for her.
She asked questions about the associated risks of each one and was impressed with how thorough he was in answering them.
Even when she was certain her questions weren’t particularly sophisticated, he didn’t make her feel like a fool for asking.
In the end, they decided to leave half in their shared account.
The other half would be split between a high-risk, high-reward investment and a more moderate return option, which was a safer speculation.
They would set it to pay her a monthly income.
It wasn’t extravagant, but it was much more than the allowance Mr. Hathaway had settled on them and she was only one person.
It was enough to keep her very comfortable.
“Thank you,” she said, as he wrote notes on their decision so he could carry them out back in London. “I suppose when the time comes, we can determine a fair way to divide the profits.”
“I think we’ll be able to come to a favorable agreement,” he said, without looking up.
She couldn’t help but take a moment to study him in profile.
His strong nose and jaw, the way his eyes had gone from lazy and cool to sharp and focused.
She was a very lucky woman in many ways.
Singing had come easily to her. Sure, she’d spent the last five years of her life honing her voice and skills, but it had never been particularly difficult to make people cry or laugh when she sang.
She’d always had a knack for finding the emotion the song required and infusing it into her voice.
Her looks had always seemed to garner attention and that worked in her favor when it came to her profession.
And, yes, it wasn’t exactly convenient to be illegitimate, but she’d always had a name, and the inheritance from her grandmother—doled out by Mr. Hathaway—had gone a long way to helping ease that burden.
But she was afraid that her luck had run out when it came to him.
Her husband. Jenny had always intended to marry.
Some of her favorite memories were singing around the piano as a child with her mother and sisters.
She wanted her own family one day. She had planned to sing until she was thirty or so and then marry a professional of some sort.
He would not be a musician, but he’d appreciate the art form.
He’d probably be a little older than her and settled in his career.
He’d likely worship her a little, but that would be fine because he would be so happy that she noticed him that he would be kind to her and their children.
She might not feel any great passion for him but she would feel affection for him and they could have a nice and stable life together.
The truth was that she could still have that and she still meant to have that.
But first she had to make it through this marriage and that’s where she was afraid her luck had run out.
No matter how she told herself that David was bad for her; that he was a notorious rake who could not commit to one woman if his life depended upon it; that he was faithless and shallow and not good for her…
well, sometimes she found herself staring at him like now and wondering if maybe she was wrong.
Maybe he could commit to her if she just gave him the chance.
His pen paused and his blue eyes flashed to hers. A bolt of longing shot right through her stomach and straightened her spine.
“Do you have your address in Paris?” he asked.
She tried to make her brain form words but she couldn’t look away from him to form a thought.
“Didn’t your mother mention something about a Mrs. Wilson? A friend of hers with whom you’ll be staying?”
“Yes.” She rattled off the address and he copied it down. “It’s in the eighteenth arrondissement.”
That gave him pause. “Montmartre?”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have elaborated. “Not quite but near.”
The Montmartre District of Paris was a bit of an artist’s enclave.
It wasn’t the most proper area but neither was it worrisome, at least not to her.
Mama had known Mrs. Wilson from their days in the theater.
The woman had married and moved to Paris and had been a lonely widow, when several years ago she’d offered Jenny the chance to come live with her.
Jenny had moved to Paris to be her companion and do light housekeeping in exchange for singing and acting lessons.
She’d lived there until the family had decided to claim their fortune and her sisters had looked for husbands in London.
“I trust you’ll be taken care of.” His brow knitted in concern.
She wasn’t certain that was a question but answered as if it was. “Of course. I’ve lived with her for several years now.”
“Do you have an account with a bank set up there? I could wire some funds for easier access.”
It was a reasonable concern, but she’d never set up an account. She’d never had much cash to deposit into an account. “No…” She felt inadequate. The way his eyes narrowed didn’t help matters.
He stood abruptly and walked to the bookcase.
There was a chest on one of the shelves, which she had assumed was decorative, but he fiddled with the latch and opened it.
Withdrawing some money, he closed the lid and came back to the desk, where he retrieved an envelope from a desk drawer.
He put the money inside and pushed the envelope across the desk to her.
“Here are some francs along with a hundred pounds. That should last you until we get an account set up for you and your regular income payments begin.”
“That’s too much.”
“Is it?” He seemed skeptical.
“Well, at least reimburse yourself from the account.” She indicated the ledger. “I don’t feel right taking your money.”
“I am your husband. I understand this is an arrangement, but I’ve a responsibility to keep you safe and to make certain you have the things that you need.” He was offended.
“I only meant that you really don’t have any responsibility outside of our agreement. I’d prefer it if you reimburse yourself. I don’t want your money or anything else from you. ”
He turned his head, debating what he might say to that, but before he could speak, the clock on the mantel struck three o’clock, later than she had realized.
The moment was gone and he nodded. Then he smiled and it wasn’t practiced.
It was real and kind. Her eyes caught on the white of it and how he had a lateral incisor that was slightly crooked.
Not enough that anyone would really notice, but enough that the tiny imperfection made him seem more perfect somehow, because it made him seem human.
She’d noticed it the very first time he had ever smiled at her and it never failed to give her heart a start.
“Would you like to rest in your room until supper?” he asked. The question was plainly asked with no inflection in his tone, but his eyes had gone dark and that subtle heat was back. He wanted her now.
She nodded like it was a lifeline, already standing. “Yes. Will your brother and Kit join us? What time will we eat?”
“We’ll be dining alone.” He followed to his feet at a slower pace. “They left for London this morning.”
“Oh…” She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. She’d be alone with David. Both seemed equally wrong. Equally bad.
“Is something wrong?” He’d been walking toward her this whole time so now he came to a stop before her.
She shook her head and tried to look confident. “No, nothing’s wrong.” But she knew she failed when his frown deepened.
“Are you afraid?” The question was almost a whisper. He was asking if she was afraid of tonight.
“Very much so.” She admitted but then realized what she was doing.
The very worst thing she could do when it came to him was to let him know how badly he affected her.
He’d use it against her, or worse, get a very unnecessary stroke to his vanity.
Digging deep, she reached for the familiar coyness, a mask she used when she was feeling too vulnerable.
With a wicked glint in her eyes, she added, “I fear your confidence may far exceed your capabilities.”
Probably relieved, he threw back his head and laughed. The pleasure in the sound added to the riot of emotion inside her. “You’ll be well pleased, I assure you.”
She raised a brow but didn’t reply except to give him a mock curtsy and then turn and leave him in the room alone.
“We shall dine at seven,” he called after her.
Dining room at seven, his bed by nine. She had six hours to figure out how to make it through the night without succumbing to every charm he threw at her. The fear she couldn’t confess to him was that she was afraid she’d be so well pleased that she’d ruin her life.