Chapter 3 #2
It wasn’t her fault, I reminded myself. It was Burnsby’s. That conclusion didn’t assuage my anger.
“Miss Ainsworth has performed at the finest of Europe’s opera houses,” he announced. “Vienna, Florence, Paris . . . She can sing in every language.”
“L’amour is the same, no matter the tongue,” Sophonisba said. And then, more expansively: “As we are in life, while singing I was always grieving, loving, or . . . longing.” She cast Burnsby a languishing glance.
Godric’s revolted response to Sophonisba’s summary of life’s signal emotions suggested he planned to avoid all three.
I felt a faint germ of cheer. “You appear perturbed, Sir Godric. I hope your sour expression doesn’t reflect a broken heart? Perhaps anguish due to a lost love?”
Sophonisba snorted. “Godric is not a man any woman could love.”
Bloody hell, that was rude.
No woman could love him?
In comparison to Burnsby, Godric had been a perfect gentleman, showing sympathy for my distress even as my own husband was acting as if his wife’s life had not taken a right turn into horror.
What’s more, Godric’s chest and shoulders (and hands), if nothing else, might dazzle a lady into thinking him a hero, not a villain.
I cleared my throat, uncertain how to respond. Burnsby—a man who readily spits out unforgiving critiques of vulgarity—was gazing at Sophonisba without reproach, smiling as if her insult was humorous.
“Godric hates women,” she continued. “Even as a boy, he was a snapping turtle. Snap! Snap! Snap! I was always grateful when he and Lancelot returned to Eton. Or was it Harrow? One of those places that warehouses boys.”
“I repent my boyhood sins, Miss Ainsworth,” Godric drawled.
As his hostess, I had a duty to defend my guest, no matter how unbothered he appeared to be. “Any lady would be delighted to be courted by Sir Godric. I have heard of his remarkable triumphs in the courtroom, and he is beloved by the king.”
Godric quirked an eyebrow, perfectly aware that an hour ago I didn’t know him from Adam.
“Since he grew up in my household, I do take credit when His Majesty praises Sir Godric’s barristerial skills,” Burnsby said.
Sophonisba rolled her eyes and burped out a piece of advice for me. “Frankly, I suggest you keep your distance. Snap! Snap! Snap!”
“Lancelot should have joined us for tea,” my husband said fretfully.
I was shocked to the bone by Burnsby’s nonchalance. Did he think he could house the two of us under one roof without an explosion? Or even an explanation?
Sophonisba slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Tish and pish to that frown! Lance only arrived a short time ago. He is surely making his toilette before the evening meal, since he takes after his papa in that respect.” She reached up and tapped his chin.
“Though he’ll never be as elegant as you, sugar lips. ”
Sugar lips? True, my husband favored a slick of lip color, but as I registered Burnsby’s smile, I was only a breath away from screaming, “Hogwash!”
Godric leaned over and murmured, “Don’t take it personally.”
My husband was whispering endearments into Sophonisba’s ear, suggesting he appreciated her patent vulgarity.
“Why on earth wouldn’t I?” I hissed. “Sugar lips?”
“She predates his last two wives,” he reminded me.
Godric’s eyes were a dark gray green, not villainous black. Not that it mattered.
“The Tower of London predates Kensington Palace, but that doesn’t mean the king wants to live there,” I told him.
This felt like a nightmare. To this point, my decision to marry a septuagenarian had been rewarded by Burnsby’s pride in having a beautiful wife. I saw no sign of that now.
I had to grow a thicker skin.
Or get a divorce. Unfortunately, the mere existence of a mistress would never convince the House of Lords to grant a divorce; their wives might get ideas.
Sophonisba caught my eye. “The sun is over the yardarm,” she squealed. “Time for a drinky-poo!” She waved at Crumpsall, as if she were in charge.
Her gesture was baldly challenging, like the dropped kerchief that opens a jousting tournament—except I didn’t care to enter any tournament that offered Burnsby as the prize.
A “drinky-poo” turned out to be a hearty slug of port, a wine I dislike and which, moreover, is offered only at the conclusion of a meal. I took a sip and began coughing. The port was too sweet, with a rancid aftertaste.
“An excellent vintage,” Sophonisba said shrilly. “My favorite.”
Godric put down his glass.
In preparation for the birthday celebration, I had shipped cases of brandy, wine, and cacao nibs for drinking chocolate straight from France.
I glanced at the butler, who seemed to be pretending he was on a different continent.
“Crumpsall, please decant one of the bottles of port I sent ahead. We shall enjoy it after the evening meal.”
A silence fell on our little tea party, until Burnsby began prattling about the prime minister. He never offers an opinion that hasn’t been uttered in his presence at least forty times, and his twittering required no more fuel than the odd coo from Sophonisba.
He monologued for fifteen minutes before announcing that he planned to change into a kilt for the evening meal. That caught my attention.
A kilt?
I managed not to gape. Burnsby may have inherited two Scottish estates, but he is an Englishman through and through.
I have no desire to see his knees unclothed, and I can say with confidence that my opinion is shared by the populace.
My father, for one, described Burnsby as having chicken limbs but no beak.
Unkind but not untrue, given my husband’s favorite yellow pantaloons and lack of chin.
“I would be grateful if you would escort me to my chamber, Lord Burnsby,” I exclaimed, jumping up before Sophonisba could prance off arm in arm with my husband.
For one thing, I wanted to ensure that our chambers were separated by more than a door. One thick wall would do, but several would be better; I have no wish to overhear reunion celebrations.
And for another . . . my spouse and I needed to talk in private.
Obviously.