Chapter Twenty-nine
It was nearly inconceivable to Sylvie that kissing and touching in such a way with Angus could change her entire world.
Yes, she had always been sweet on him, found him handsome and kind, but now!
Now her whole being seemed drawn to him, as if some invisible thread bound them, body and soul, and her heart had finally found its home.
She couldn’t stop smiling. Lying in bed, enveloped by darkness, she felt shrouded in love and happiness.
It was as if he had awakened something inside her, a magical energy that had long lain dormant.
“Oh, Angus,” she breathed into the stillness, “fight it all you like, but it was my name on your lips, however sleepy you were.” With a soft, foolish smile, she finally drifted off to sleep.
The following morning found her just as happy, though her new husband was conspicuous in his absence throughout the day and again that evening.
Her smile, however, did not fade. Nor did her determination to make him as happy as she was, and had gone about her tasks with a joyful heart.
Finding the door to his bedchamber locked that night only deepened her resolve to win him over and enlisted Betsy with the task of finding a spare key.
On the third morning, far earlier than usual and dressed in cornflower blue, Sylvie near skipped into the breakfast room.
“Oh, husband,” she sang, delighted to see him at last, “you have no idea how it pleases me that you are still here.”
Angus, startled to find her up so early, and somewhat disconcerted by her cheerful intrusion, grunted, “Hmm. Good morning,” and immediately resumed reading his paper.
Before he registered what was happening, her lips were pressed to his, soft and eager. Her slender arms looped around his shoulders, fingers at the nape of his neck, her weight light and warm settling across his lap. His hands, acting on instinct, started to slide up her thigh. Then he froze.
“Damn it, Sylvie,” he hissed as his hands flew to her waist, lifting her from his lap and plonking her unceremoniously to her feet beside him.
“Oh,” she said primly, though he could see from the sparkle in her eyes, before trying to resume reading his now crumpled paper, that she was delighted. “Is one not permitted to greet her husband with a little kiss?”
“No.”
“Is it because you are afraid the staff might gossip?” she whispered, her eyes wide with innocence.
“My staff do not gossip.”
“Oh, are you still embarrassed about our wedding night?” she whispered again. “Because truly, I see nothing shameful in enjoying my husband’s kisses. I would happily sing from the highest rooftops about how I delight in my husband’s kisses.”
“Sylvie,” he growled in warning.
Perching demurely on the edge of the chair beside him, she waved her hand airily. “Yes, yes, I know, ours is not that kind of marriage. Although… ” she leaned closer, lowering her voice, “I understand some couples do rather enjoy the bedchamber… once they get the hang of it.”
“The… the hang of it!” he spluttered, slamming his paper down. After several very deep, long breaths, he looked as if he might say more, but simply shook his head and gave up.
Deciding it was probably not a good idea to put him in a fluster so early in the day, as it would not be good for his digestion, Sylvie sat back and placed a napkin daintily in her lap.
“I was wondering,” she began brightly, “with your permission, of course, if you’d mind awfully if I brightened up the little green sitting room.
I understand you have no particular use or fondness for the space, and I think it would make a lovely space, to umm, to receive visitors.
Not that I am expecting a legion of callers, but there will be mama, of course, and the girls, and…
” faltering slightly under the intensity of the look he was giving her, she swallowed before she continued.
“We’d be safely tucked out of your way so as not to disturb.
I’ve spoken to our housekeeper, Mrs Robins, and we could start right away if you approve.
I’ll use my own funds, of course… to buy furnishings or drapes… ”
“Your… your own funds?” he spluttered in consternation. “Sylvie, there will never be a need for you to dip into your personal funds to decorate your home… to your liking. You are my wife, and as such have unlimited access to the Westland accounts… within reason. And once in W…”
“Oh, Angus!” she gasped, cutting him off.
“Your wife. My home.” Her hands flew to her chest in dreamy excitement as she bounced up from her chair and planted a kiss on his forehead, “You really are the sweetest, most thoughtful of husbands. Is there any wonder I’m already utterly and hopelessly in love with you? I must find Mrs Robins right away …”
“You… what… but …” so stunned his words stuttered out too slowly to stop her, and he was left watching, dumbstruck, as his little wife hurried from the room.
* * *
Angus pounded the pavement with little thought or care as to where he was going.
What the devil had she been thinking, kissing him like that — at the breakfast table — catching him entirely unawares!
Again! He would have to be on full guard from now on, in every room of the damned house.
The woman was completely cuckoo. And, and, get the hang of it indeed!
Had she not comprehended one word of his terms?
The meaning of no husbandly duties! And how could he have been so stupid as to plant a seed of hope by uttering wife and home in the same breath — without the attachment of WALES in two months!
He stopped dead in his tracks, causing the gentleman behind him to swerve abruptly to avoid a collision. “Really, sir, have a mind as to where you are going,” scolded the man as he scurried past, half chasing his umbrella as a gust of wind propelled it forward.
“Er… my apologies,” Angus muttered absently, tugging his coat collar higher. He hadn’t even realised it was raining. He’d been too busy ranting, trying to unravel the conundrum that was his wife… his life.
He scoffed, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
Yet really, apart from having to sidestep her rather enthusiastic advances, she was a bright, happy creature and easy enough company.
She wasn’t clingy or demanding of his time.
He may not be able to be a true husband to her, but they did have…
what… fifty-seven days left together? Cowardly as it may be, he didn’t want to live under a gloomy cloud of upset and tears until her departure.
Still, the damn woman was confounding. If only he knew what was truly going on in that pretty little head of hers.
Understand her a little more. If he did, perhaps he could better navigate the next few weeks.
“Ah,” he murmured cunningly into the biting wind. “Of course.” And with that, he abruptly turned on his heels and strode off purposefully in the opposite direction.
* * *
“Southerby?” Angus barked, tossing his sodden coat at the startled footman, who barely managed to catch it.
“My dear fellow,” Southerby drawled, appearing on the landing, eyeing his friend from the top of the stairs. “Whatever has you so agitated on this wet and miserable day?”
“I need your help.”
“Oh?”
“I need a name,” Angus said, a ghost of a smile tugging his lips as he took the stairs two at a time.
Southerby watched him with interest. “A name? Though from the glint in your eye, it is not the name of someone you wish to impale upon the end of a spike.”
“That, my dear friend, is yet to be decided.”
“Really,” Southerby mused, leading them into his study and quietly closing the door. “How very interesting. So, whom do we seek?”
Pouring himself a large whisky, Angus took a moment to swirl the amber liquid around the crystal tumbler before turning to his friend with a calculating smile. “I need the name of the person who best knows my wife — intimately.”
Southerby blinked in surprise. “You want to know…”
“Every damn thing there is to know about her.”
“You… you think she has a lover?”
“Hell no!” Angus choked out a cynical laugh.
“If she had, I doubt she would be utterly and hopelessly in love with me… her words, not mine. No, I need to understand her… to know what goes on in that head of hers, so I can manage my own words better. Manage her better. She twists everything I say, or misunderstands, or completely skips the parts she does not want to hear. I’m… I’m not entirely sure which it is.”
Unable to hold back his laughter, Southerby shook his head. “Forgive me, my friend, but I believe the unfathomable realms of a young woman’s head and what goes on in there is far beyond any man’s understanding.”
“Ha, funny. So? Will you help me?”
“Of course. Come, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Though I am a little perplexed, umm, no, intrigued, as to why you would need my help. Surely you, of all people, could find out who her most trusted confidant is.”
“Ah,” said Angus, leaning forward in his chair, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Well, my dear friend, therein lies the rub… and why I require your expertise in uncovering secrets that have been well hidden.”
Southerby listened without interruption, his brow rising in genuine astonishment — a rarity for a man who usually knew everything that went on well before anyone else. At last, he leaned back, exhaling slowly, a broad, devilish smile creeping to his lips.
“Well, well, well. Who would have thought?”
“Who indeed.”
“Mm, leave it with me. You shall have your answer by this evening.”
“Good man. And not a word to anyone.”
Southerby smirked. “I trade in secrets and intrigue, my friend. I would hardly be a very good influencer if I had loose lips, now would I?”