Chapter 10 #2
His tenants had been surprised to see him, a man only one day wed, away from his house and his new wife to see to their roofs.
They congratulated him and tried to hide their puzzlement.
He explained without being asked, in his best happy-rueful air, that the new missus had taken it into her head to get to the running of the household as soon as possible, without him around to provide distractions.
A lift of the brow that suggested he’d give plenty of distractions later satisfied those simple, deferential folks. They wanted him to be well shagged and happy. But he could not be both, at least not with her, now that he realized the sway he’d allowed her to hold over him.
“You can teach me how to play. Then you won’t need to play alone.”
He looked up sharply. The billiard room was a masculine refuge—that he was inside signaled he didn’t wish to be disturbed by any woman.
She stood by the door in a very pretty pastel blue dress, the expression in her very pretty eyes essentially stating that she would be more than happy to lie down on the table, naked.
“I saw the belvedere from the conservatory, by the way. The dress dummies were a stroke of genius.”
He should have known something was wrong with him when he had driven the dress dummies out to the foot of the hill and then carried them the rest of the way by himself.
His excuse had been that he hadn’t wanted to make such strange requests of his servants, but in truth he had enjoyed every step of his silly little gesture.
So much that he didn’t even mind the repeated trips between the house and the belvedere, so that the dummies would appear at just the correct angle when she put her eye to the telescope.
“What do you say we pay them a visit tomorrow?” she went on, her voice husky.
He could see her standing on the belvedere, her elbows braced against the top of the half wall, looking over her shoulder at him.
She would look perfectly respectable from the waist up, her blouse buttoned to the chin, her jacket similarly closed, her hair neat, her hat prim.
But the lower half of her would be entirely naked, except for her walking boots and stockings, perhaps.
And she would lean forward just a little, angling her round, pert bottom at him.
He was already hard.
“That would have to depend on the weather, don’t you think? It might rain again,” he said.
“Being coy, I see.” She tilted her head. “Are you trying to draw out my anticipation for as long as you can?”
“What do you think?” he asked, his tone carefully noncommittal.
“And are you going to make me wait just as long tonight?”
“Longer.” At least that was one promise he could make truthfully.
She wrinkled her nose. “What a way to endear yourself to your bride.”
“I am full of just such winning manners and tactics.”
“Ha. Two can play this game. For your insolence, I shall wear something particularly low-cut tonight—while employing one of my most robust bust improvers.”
Her oblivious cheerfulness drove a stake of pain through his chest. “I shall look forward to an excellent view at dinner then, Lady Wrenworth.”
She left, but the next moment, she was back. “By the way, Mrs. Pratt told me she had been in your employ only eight years. I thought she must have served some twenty, thirty years in this house.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“And Mr. Sturgess? How long has he been here?”
“Ten years, or thereabout.”
“Monsieur Boulanger?”
“No more than five years.”
“Is that not a little odd, that all your upper servants are so relatively new?”
“My father and my mother died within six months of each other. They both left generous bequests to longtime retainers, which led a majority of them to choose either to retire or to pursue other vocations of interest.”
He did not mention that once he had come of age and gained control of his fortune, he had offered further financial lures for those older servants who still remained to leave service and enjoy a life of ease and security—he had not wanted anyone in his employ who could remember the time before he was The Ideal Gentleman.
“That must have been lovely for those retainers,” she said, smiling at him.
She blew him a kiss before she left for good this time, her footsteps growing fainter and fainter.
* * *
When Louisa arrived in the dining room on her husband’s arm, she found the table packed from one end to the other with epergnes and candelabras. When she sat down, she could barely see him with all the obstructions in place.
The sneaky rascal. But still dinner was enjoyable, their conversation centered largely on matters having to do with the estate.
It was only nine when she rose from the table. So she sat down in the drawing room and wrote a long letter to her family, extolling the beauty of her new home.
He did not join her in the drawing room, sneaky rascal indeed. But she could not deny it: His distance was having the desired effect. Her heart was beating fast as she returned to her bedroom and changed out of her dinner gown.
This time she would make sure to disrobe him. Slowly. She’d seen so little of his body. She wanted to touch him, study him, and perhaps map out tiny imperfections on his person like constellations in the night sky.
She glanced at the clock: half past ten. He would come to her at eleven; she knew it. So she pulled out two pieces of stationery and wrote a letter each to Lady Balfour and Lady Tenwhestle.
It was two minutes to eleven when she was finished. She extinguished most of the lamps in the room and climbed in under the bedcover: She planned to emit some thunderous snoring noises when he opened the door.
She giggled to herself, imagining his response. They would probably burst out laughing in unison. And then she would grab him by the lapel and not let go until sunrise.
The connecting door, however, remained stubbornly closed. She listened, but couldn’t hear any sounds. Vexed, she sat up in bed. The man was being insufferable. Yes, a certain amount of waiting whetted the appetite. But beyond that certain amount, appetite was replaced by irritation!
At half past eleven, she’d had enough. She left her bed, shrugged into her dressing robe, and yanked open the connecting door.
His bedroom was unlit. Light meandered in from her room, enough to show that there was no one inside.
She walked to various doors leading out from his bedroom—nothing. The entire apartment was empty.
She went back to her bedroom, lit a hand candle, and set out for the billiard room, hoping she remembered the way correctly.
Her sense of direction served her just fine, but the billiard room was deserted.
As were the smoking room, the library, and the conservatory, and all the other rooms she passed along the way.
Muttering under her breath, she checked his apartment again. Still dark and vacant. Where in the world could a man go at this time of the night? Surely he did not mean to compel her to search the house room by room?
She sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of her neck. This couldn’t possibly still be a game, unless the point was to give offense and cause frustration. But if it wasn’t a game…
If it wasn’t a game, it would mean he’d had enough of her for the time being.
Impossible. The night before he had been so aroused he had not even taken the time to disrobe. He must want her still—and intensely, too.
Yet after an entire day away, instead of seeking her company, he had chosen his own.
She lay down on her bed, her mood glum. She wished she knew where he was.
She wished she understood what drove his strange decisions.
She wished she’d remembered never to lower her guard where he was concerned—she was to trust him only in bed and nowhere else, no matter how adorably he styled the dress dummies.
She fell asleep dreaming that he came through the connecting door, full of smiles and apologies.