Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The marriage of the Viscount St. Clair to Miss Felicity Taylor, daughter of the late architect Algernon Taylor, took society by surprise. Though rumors had circulated about the two, no one expected such a hasty wedding.
On the third night after her wedding, Felicity sat writing with her new pen at the table in her spacious bedchamber at Chesterley. But her mind soon wandered from her column to her enigmatic husband.
What was she to make of Ian’s behavior? After their Christmas morning confrontation, she’d expected a long and bitter battle, one she would win, of course, but still a battle.
She’d been determined to make him see the advantages of a true marriage where the partners shared everything with each other.
Abstinence from marital relations had seemed the only thing that might make an impression on him.
Now she wasn’t so sure. After she’d spent all of Christmas morning and afternoon girding herself to resist his too tempting kisses and caresses, there’d been none.
He’d given a reason for it the day he’d brought her here, some nonsense about allowing her time to adjust to the marriage, but she didn’t believe that for a moment.
Ian had never allowed her time to adjust to anything before.
Why be so considerate now? Besides, Ian never acted without a purpose. He was up to something.
Very well. Ian might be a master at stratagems, but she’d spent an inordinate amount of time studying the workings of the men and women who populated London society. Surely she could figure out his intentions.
But not tonight, she thought wearily. This wasn’t the time to brood on such matters, not when her courses had just come, with all the attendant discomfort and moodiness.
She should dwell on happy things, on how much she liked Chesterley and its staff, who’d surprised her with their welcome.
But when her courses were upon her, she couldn’t think rationally.
She made mountains out of molehills and cried for no reason, which was not an advantage when dealing with her husband’s cool, tactical mind.
My husband. The thought gave her a little thrill. Oh, why must the thought of his being her husband soften her resolve?
Perhaps because as Lord St. Clair, he’d been the enemy and as Ian, he’d been an irritation, even a temptation, but not someone capable of altering her life substantially.
As her husband, however, he was the most dangerous creature on earth, an incubus rising up from hell and demanding her soul in exchange for satisfaction of her wicked desires ...
her hot, abandoned dreams ... her flagrant fantasies ...
She sighed and took up her pen again. These days she dearly wanted to strip naked and throw herself at the man’s feet. Which was exactly what he hoped for.
A knock at the door between their bedchambers made her jump. “Who is it?” she snapped without thinking.
“Your husband, who else? May I come in?”
“Of course.” Good Lord, how did he do that? Appear like that whenever she thought of him? And even know to use the one word calculated to reduce her to mush? The man truly was the devil.
Especially now, when he entered the room wearing only a half-buttoned shirt that scarcely disguised the breadth of his dark-skinned chest and a pair of pantaloon trousers that fit snugly over strong thighs.
Give him Persian garb and he would be her sultan in the flesh, all rough features and exquisite muscles and splendid economy of motion.
Not that his state of undress should surprise her at this time of the evening.
Still, he seemed to only enter her bedchamber when he could reasonably do so half-dressed, as if to use the casualness of his attire to reinforce the intimacy of their being husband and wife.
Then he roamed the room with familiarity, or worse yet, sprawled on the bed for his discussions about the day’s events or plans for the morrow.
The man didn’t miss a single opportunity to disturb her equilibrium. Thankfully, she had good reason to rebuff him this evening if he should try, for surely he would not wish to bed her during this time of the month.
Besides, tonight he didn’t look like a man bent on seduction. He had a newspaper tucked under one arm, and although she was scantily clad, his eyes flicked only briefly over her attire. “I missed you at dinner. Your maid informed me you were unwell.”
She blushed. “Yes.” She said nothing else. He might be her husband, but discussing her monthly courses with him seemed too intimate for words.
“I brought you the latest edition of the Evening Gazette. I thought it might cheer you.” His expression was unreadable. “I see Lord X announced our marriage.”
“It would’ve seemed odd if Lord X had ignored such a topic.
” She swallowed. Had he read the entire article?
And what did he think? Two days ago, she’d thought that a little prodding in her usual manner might have some impact on him.
Now she wasn’t at all sure that had been wise. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“That everyone knows I married you? Why should I?” He ambled toward her. “But as you know, that wasn’t all you discussed.” He lifted the newspaper and read:
Some may question how a marriage between Lord St. Clair and any respectable woman can succeed when the man’s past is so mysterious, but despite what your faithful correspondent has previously written concerning the viscount, I wager that the man’s honor will compel him to be forthcoming with his wife, if not with anyone else.
“Yes,” she responded nervously, “I inserted my usual commentary.”
“You mean, your usual reprimand.” He folded the paper with a smile. “Tell me, querida, do you intend to lecture me in every edition of your column?”
Drat it, he wasn’t even angry. “It’s a thought,” she said peevishly. “It got your attention in the past, didn’t it?”
With a roguish smile, he dropped the newspaper in her lap. “Yes, but if you mention our marriage in every column, even the most dim-witted reader will eventually guess your identity.”
His continued good humor made her feel defeated. She returned to writing. “Rest assured, I’ve no intention of doing such a ninny thing.” Especially when her one mention had nettled him so little.
“That’s a relief.” Leaning over her, he snatched up the article she was working on.
Quickly he scanned the lines, and his smile abruptly vanished.
“How very interesting, my dear. Apparently you don’t need to mention our marriage to make your point.
You simply choose those pieces of gossip that are material to our situation. ”
His amused tone had hardened to sarcasm.
“Merrington’s mysterious quarrel with his uncle?
Pelham’s latest mistress and his pathetic wife’s ignorance of his unsavory character?
How clever of you to lecture me in a manner no one would understand but you and I.
” He tossed the foolscap on her writing table with a look of disgust.
She’d certainly gotten a reaction now. Only this wasn’t one she’d sought. “I didn’t lecture you in this column. I simply wrote gossip as I always do. You’re reading more into it than I wrote.”
“Oh, yes, it’s mere coincidence that you mention Merrington and his uncle.”
“That tale has been all the talk of London, and you know it.’
A wealth of contempt laced his tone. “And what about Pelham? You can’t tell me that the ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his silly wife by taking mistresses before her very eyes’ isn’t meant to be me. I know you too well.”
The unfair accusation stung. She would never liken Ian to Pelham, of all people. “Apparently not as well as you think. It isn’t about you, Ian.”
“But you do enjoy taunting me in your column. And an ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his wife’—”
“Everything is not always about you.” She rose from the chair, emotions roiling as she crossed the room to put herself as far away from his nasty temper as possible. “How clearly must I say it? I didn’t even consider our situation when I wrote it!”
Bracing his hip on the writing table, he glared at her. “You forget that I’m an expert on your column. You never poke fun at the helpless or the weak as you do here with Pelham’s pathetic wife.”
“Perhaps that’s because she isn’t pathetic, nor do I refer to her as such.”
He ignored the remark. “Besides, there’s too much passion in your words for them not to have some personal meaning.
‘Unfeeling brute’? ‘Mocking his wife’? As a spy, I excelled at interpreting coded messages.
But then you know that, don’t you? That’s why you write such things—so that I’ll understand your meaning even when no one else will. ”
“Sometimes you can be the most arrogant, unfeeling—” She broke off in sheer exasperation.
The foolish man refused to listen to her, and she was in no mood for this.
Resolutely, she headed for the door. “Think whatever you like. Clearly I’m not the only person in this marriage who jumps to conclusions. ”
In a few strides, he was beside her, catching her arm to halt her.
“You can’t mean you pilloried Pelham and his wife for their own sakes?
He’s a vain idiot, to be sure, and has an eye for young women, but ...
” His words trailed off, and she felt his hard stare on her.
“Wait a minute. Your father designed one of Pelham’s houses, didn’t he? I heard the duke mention it once.”
Old memories rose to choke her, and she nodded, unable to speak.
Ian’s fingers tightened on her arm. “At Lady Brumley’s ball, Pelham made remarks about your person that I shrugged off because he speaks of all young woman that way, but—” He turned her to face him, his expression stark in its remorse.
“My God, he did something to you, didn’t he?
That’s why you wrote about him! He hurt you! ”
“It was nothing ... a silly nothing.”