Chapter 9
Nine
If you ever have the opportunity to dine with members of King Arthur’s Round Table, model yourself on Morgan le Fay: powerful, magical, bad-tempered.
Definitely not Guinevere: powerless and betrayed by her husband.
Burnsby walked to the head of the dining table, and I stalked to the foot. Sophonisba was seated to the left of my husband, and Crumpsall ushered Colette to his right. Godric and Lancelot joined me, with Mima and Ophelia sandwiched in the middle.
Every time I glanced at Burnsby and Sophonisba canoodling, I drank more wine. By the end of the second course, I was drunk—something that never happens to a proper lady.
Supposedly.
Feeling somewhat befuddled, I tried to summon up a sober subject of conversation. “Do you know much about Napoleon’s court?” I asked Lancelot, while we waited for the third course to arrive.
He nodded. “I attend the emperor on a regular basis, and I am familiar with most members of the court.”
“Have you met Pierre-Simon Laplace? I understand that the emperor is considering making him a count of the empire.”
“Are you referring to the mathematician?” Godric inquired with an incredulity that I recognized from earlier in the day.
I flashed him a look and then said, “Laplace is not a mere mathematician. He revised Kant’s nebular hypothesis regarding the evolution of the solar system.”
He gave a crack of laughter. Not exactly a smile, but close.
“I don’t know of Monsieur Laplace, but obviously I should,” Lancelot said.
It abruptly occurred to me that he resembled Rosie’s dream husband, a gentleman with blue eyes and golden locks. My next thought?
I had never had a “dream husband.” Ever since my mother died, I focused solely on Rosie’s well-being. Even during my first Season, I never imagined falling in love; I looked for a man with sufficient wealth to launch Rosie into polite society.
If I had allowed myself that sort of dream?
He wouldn’t have golden hair, but black. Not blue eyes, but—
I ripped my thoughts away. I was married. I probably should have stopped drinking, but I took another gulp of champagne.
“How odd that you’re my son—no, son-in-law—no, stepson!” I said to Lancelot.
He twinkled at me. “I have no memory of my mother, but you are my favorite stepmother. The others were melancholic doormats, albeit with good reason for their gloom.”
I wasn’t used to being anyone’s favorite, although the category—wives of Burnsby—was not a classification I found pleasing.
“You have no memories of your mother? I’m sorry.”
“She died in childbirth. I regret not knowing her, but I am grateful that my father fostered me with Godric’s family.”
I frowned, puzzled. “So you were sent to Godric’s house as a baby, and then when you were boys, Burnsby became Godric’s guardian, after which the two of you came here during school breaks?”
He nodded.
No wonder they were such good friends; they’d grown up like brothers.
“My earliest memory is Lance pummeling me with a toy soldier,” Godric drawled.
Lance grinned at him. “I’m sure you deserved it.” He turned back to me. “Why are you interested in Laplace?”
“I’ve followed his career, and I am pleased that Napoleon has recognized his brilliance.”
“Mathematics?” Ophelia piped up. “That’s the study of calculations and numbers, isn’t it?”
My husband glared from the other end of the table. “A most irregular subject of conversation. Lady Burnsby displays a sad lack of etiquette.”
“Etiquette? I am seated at dinner with my husband’s mistress,” I pointed out. “This is the most scandalous meal of my life. In contrast, discussion of mathematics is veritably prudish.”
His lips thinned; I watched as Burnsby tried and failed to come up with a retort. Finally, he huffed and turned back to Sophonisba.
“Our conversation need not be as vulgar as the company,” Godric commented, once Colette started chattering to Ophelia about mathematics.
I narrowed my eyes. “Hush.”
“Did you hush me?” he said incredulously.
“I’ve had enough of men dictating which subjects of conversation they denote vulgar, when they themselves are—they are—”
“They are vulgar,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Genevieve. You’re right, and I was wrong.”
“You are forgiven,” I said magnanimously, even as I savored the fact he called me by my first name. “Mima believes that port has poisoned your brain, perhaps because the quality of wine in this abbey is extraordinarily poor.”
His eyes were dancing, even though his expression was stern.
“Etiquette is complicated,” I said, lowering my voice. “I don’t want what Sophonisba has—her bosom or her beloved—so why should I care that she and I reside in the same house?”
“Because it’s mortifying,” Godric suggested. “Burnsby shows no more respect for you than he did for his former wives.”
I poked at a piece of beef with my fork, thinking hard.
Since my marriage to Burnsby hadn’t been consummated, I had a hazy idea it wasn’t real. Or wasn’t legal? But if I told people that it wasn’t legal, would Rosie’s dowry be endangered? And what about Ophelia? I couldn’t leave her in the abbey. She needed to be rescued.
My brain was definitely scrambled by champagne.
When footmen began to arrive, carrying the next course, Colette rose and came down to my end of the table, dropped a kiss on her husband’s cheek, and smiled at me. “Are you as tipsy as I am?”
“More so,” Godric said dryly. “I have the impression that the new Lady Burnsby rarely imbibes.”
“Never,” I said, with a hiccup. “Inebriation might lead to imprudent behavior. But that hardly matters now, does it?” I had a sudden idea. “You know, I could take a lover.”
Godric, Lancelot, and Colette appeared stunned by this suggestion. True, one rarely hears about a lady openly considering a cicisbeo.
“I could bring him to Christmas in the Highlands every year, trotting him out like a roast peacock,” I added.
“Like a what?” Godric asked. His expression had darkened, so I gathered he wasn’t a fan of my proposal.
“Like the peacock served up for Christmas dinner,” I explained. “With a gilded beak. I’ve never cared to eat the bird myself, but it is traditional. I could bring a gilded peacock to the Highlands.”
I turned to Lancelot. “Perhaps your tailor could recommend one of his customers. You couldn’t have done better than that coat if you were hoping to irritate your father.”
“Why not take a lover?” Colette said, with French joie de vivre. “I could introduce you to any number of men who would be ecstatic to be welcomed into your bedchamber.”
I was thinking about whether I wanted a man anywhere near my unclothed person when Lancelot drew his wife down to perch on his lap. The gesture struck me as uncomfortably intimate.
“I don’t want a lover,” I said regretfully. I glanced at Ophelia, who seemed to be concentrating on her meal. “Burnsby’s improprieties don’t change the fact that I’d have to actually contemplate intimacies. I’ve been reliably informed that sweating is involved.”
“You, my dear, are a delight. I’m so glad that I left Paris to travel to the wilderness, despite the paucity of ghosts,” Colette said, nestling against her husband’s chest.
“I feel the same about you,” I promised, beaming at her before taking another sip of champagne. “I’ve never met a woman as frank and funny as you are. I plan to emulate you in all respects.”
“I think I can take lessons from you, for example in the candid manner by which you squashed your husband’s pretentions,” Colette said, raising her glass to me.
“Before arriving at the abbey, I would have sworn Burnsby was as proper as I am—or, at least, as proper as I used to be.”
“No one understands their spouse until the jaws of matrimony close around him,” Lance said with mock sorrow.
“You beast!” Colette cried, hopping up and swatting her husband. “Go sit down by your father.” He left for the other end of the table, chortling.
“Lance may be right. I knew nothing about Burnsby’s true nature until those jaws closed around me.” I finished my champagne. “I can’t imagine why he would want to squeeze anyone’s bottom.”
“Especially her bottom,” Colette said, nodding. “I would guess that he’s never put a hand close to your rear end.”
“Nor any other part of me,” I said expansively. “Since we are washing our dirty linen in public.”
I could feel Godric’s gaze burning into me, which was a most peculiar sensation. I wanted to look at him—but I felt too shy. Finally, I took the bull by the horns and turned my head, which I regretted as soon as our eyes caught.
I’ve never thought any man beautiful, one of the reasons why Burnsby’s age spots and thin hair didn’t bother me.
Yet another mistake.
Some men are beautiful, especially men whose eyes aren’t blue and hair isn’t golden. “Growing up with Sophonisba isn’t the reason you’ve never married, is it?” I asked him. “My sister would like your profile, but I’m afraid she demands that her husband have blue eyes.”
“Sophonisba Ainsworth has nothing to do with my unmarried state,” Godric answered.
“She might have put you off the whole proposition, since you spent Christmases here as a boy,” Colette pointed out.
He grinned at her. “Luckily for you, neither Lance nor I had that reaction.”
“Do you have any sisters?” I asked Colette, changing the subject.
“I do not.” She propped her hand on her chin.
No, her chin on her hand. I really was drunk.
“Perhaps you might become my sister,” Colette suggested. “I’ve always wanted one.”
“I love mine, that’s why I got her a dowry.” I blinked. “Oops. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“And . . . the mystery is solved,” Colette said to Godric, confusingly.
“What mystery?”
“There are so many,” Colette replied. “Why would one of the most beautiful women in London marry a man so old he has to shave his ears?”
That question pertained to the two wives who had preceded me as well. Presumably Burnsby had spun a web around them the way he had me, promising civility, kindness, and effortless companionship.