Chapter 12 #2
“She is rather sharp, your lady.” She leaned forward an inch. “And how do you like married life, by the way, Felix?”
He had not thought much of Lady Tremaine’s unexpected arrival—this was where she was accustomed to spending half of her August, so why should she not have availed herself of his hospitality, when she found herself back in England sooner than expected?
He also had not thought much of her interest in his sudden marriage—it would have come as quite a surprise to her, since the last time they spoke he’d had no idea himself that his bachelor days were coming to an end.
But now he was beginning to be a little wary.
There was something in the tone of her voice.
Perhaps it had been there since she stepped into Huntington, but he’d been first too distracted by his wife’s touch on his shirt button, and then even more distracted by the sight of her smiling at Drummond, her fan fluttering prettily.
“Married life is more or less as I’d expected,” he answered, choosing his words carefully.
“What? No paean to marital felicity?”
“Since when do you believe in marital felicity?”
“You are right. What a vulgar concept—and quite beneath The Ideal Gentleman.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. My wife and I deal with each other very favorably, you will see. And I have every expectation we shall maintain great harmony in this house for decades to come.”
“Well, then, my congratulations,” said Lady Tremaine.
But he was already once again distracted. In the mirror above the mantel he could see his wife tapping on Drummond’s arm with the tip of her now-closed fan, in an almost flirtatious manner.
He’d thought she could not stand the man.
“Thank you, my dear. Now, if you will please excuse me, I believe Drummond has something he wants to say to me.”
Drummond, of course, didn’t yet know that he wanted to say anything to Felix. But Felix planned to steer him into a conversation about horseflesh. And if there was anything Drummond could not resist, it was a discussion on the making of a prizewinning stallion.
He set his hand for a fraction of a second on Louisa’s lower back, before placing an arm around Drummond’s shoulders. “I know firsthand how irresistible Lady Wrenworth’s company is, but I do believe Mallen was hoping to arrange a match between your Gibraltar and his Lady Burke.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Drummond. “Lady Burke has a fascinating bloodline, from what I’ve heard—a worthy match for Gibraltar.”
“Forgive us,” Felix said to his wife, as he maneuvered Drummond away from her.
She nodded, a thin smile on her face. “Of course you are forgiven for every trespass, my lord. Always.”
* * *
For days, it had seemed that the house party would never end, that Louisa would always need to have her public demeanor firmly in place, sixteen hours a day. Then, abruptly, the last full day of the party was upon them.
The morning saw a vigorous tennis tournament. Louisa did not participate in the matches, but she was obliged to watch and applaud as her husband handed out one defeat after another.
For several days after the handkerchief incident, it had seemed as if she were made of cold ash, incapable of even the smallest embers of lust. She had thought that it would always be so, that his contempt had permanently smothered all her yearning.
Unfortunately that had not proved the case, especially at times like this, when she must keep her eyes on him to maintain her image of the devoted bride.
So much athletic grace, so much stamina, so much cleverness and strategy—the angles of his shots were a thing of beauty—not to mention, from time to time, sheer physical dominance, when he simply overpowered an opponent with a muscular forehand.
It made her almost thankful for Mr. Drummond’s presence at her side.
He did not criticize Lord Wrenworth’s technique or shot selection, but no one else escaped his criticism.
And his constant faultfinding grated on her nerves just enough for her not to be prostrate with desire for the husband who did not reciprocate it.
Without that lust on his part, she was just a woman to whom he gave five thousand pounds a year, and who existed in the periphery of his life as a mobile ornament for the estate.
After luncheon, it began to rain. Many of those who had taken part in the tennis tournament were down for a nap, in order to be in top form for the bonfire party in the evening.
Of those left awake, the ladies stayed in their rooms to write letters and the gentlemen made use of the billiard room.
For once, Huntington was quiet and relaxed.
Louisa retreated to the window alcove in the library, to spend time with a volume on the care and proper operation of telescopes.
It was a wonderful book, tailored to a novice, the explanations detailed yet clear—or at least she thought so.
She could be reading a housekeeping manual, for all she knew.
Why had he married her at all?
And was that the limit of her womanly appeal, all exhausted in a single night?
He made her miss the man who had baldly schemed to make her his mistress. At least that man had wanted her enough to take risks and damn the consequences. Whereas this man…
A thousand times she had cautioned herself against trusting him.
But stupidly, she had been anxious only that she should not translate the physical pleasures he would give her into cascading verses of love.
That he would distance himself from her during the honeymoon itself—the thought had never even crossed her mind.
The door of the library opened. The alcove was hidden behind a bookshelf that could slide along on concealed rails. It offered wonderful privacy, but on the other hand, the bookshelf, its back entirely paneled, made it difficult for Louisa to see who had come into the library.
But the sound of the gait was nothing like her husband’s. A woman, most probably. The woman made a round in the library and left after less than a minute.
A light fog had descended on the lake along with the rain, obscuring the opposite bank like a gauzy curtain. But now that curtain drew apart and Louisa found herself looking directly at the Greek folly.
A marble-columned pavilion stands by this lake.
A quick sentence in a matter-of-fact guidebook, yet in those days when he had tormented her with the possibility of becoming his mistress, she had concocted an entire three-act play around that setting.
Act I: The girl, staring longingly at the great manor from across the lake, is ravished in the shadows of the pavilion.
Act II: The girl, staring longingly at her evilly perfect lover, is ravished all across the grounds of his extensive estate.
Act III: The girl, back home after a fortnight of ravishment, stumbling about like an empty shell of her former self, hears the doorbell ring at a most unusual hour.
A two-and-a-half-act play, rather: The clear-eyed realist that she was had never been able to picture opening the door of her house to him. The real Lord Wrenworth would not call, write, or send presents. She would just have to wait months upon months before staring longingly at him again.
Then he’d proposed, and her world had turned upside down in the most pleasurable way.
And she had forgotten that around him she always needed her shield and her sword.
Had walked into the dragon’s lair naked and unarmed, with nothing but the foolish conviction that the dragon would never incinerate a girl he liked.
But looking back, ought she to have been surprised?
He had deliberately made her simmer in a state of arousal at the dinner at Lady Tenwhestle’s house.
He had clearly enjoyed informing her that her preferred suitors were both deeply flawed.
Not to mention he had never experienced the slightest qualm about enticing a respectably raised virgin to sell her body.
Why shouldn’t such a man prove himself capricious and heartless?
The door of the library opened and closed again.
“There is no one here,” said a woman. “I came through just a minute ago.”
Lady Tremaine.
“And pray tell, why is the lack of a public so important?” That serene voice belonged to none other than Louisa’s husband.
“Privacy is always nice, don’t you agree?”
He chuckled but gave no reply.
They were coming closer. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of a woman sitting down and adjusting her skirts. “Care for a seat, Felix?”
Lady Tremaine sounded as if she were speaking directly into Louisa’s ear.
“I will be able to better admire your toilette, Philippa, from my superior vantage point right here,” he answered.
There was a smile in his voice, a cool smile.
Lady Tremaine laughed, a sultry sound. “Look all you want, Felix.”
A long pause. Lurid images exploded in Louisa’s head. Then Lady Tremaine spoke again. She did not sound as if there were a man pressed against her. “Congratulations on your stellar results in the tennis tournament.”
“Thank you.”
“You were very, very vigorous.”
“I am a man of twenty-eight, rusticating in the country. If I didn’t abound with energy, I’d need to consult my physician.”
“You are also a man on your honeymoon. Shouldn’t you have conserved a bit of stamina for pleasuring your wife?”
“Your concern is very kind. But I am sure I will somehow gather the wherewithal to see my wife to her satisfaction.”
Liar.
“Maybe you can, but are you? For every day of my stay, I have seen you from my window at half past four in the morning, coming back into the house.”
It was hardly news to Louisa. But that Lady Tremaine should know about it…She flushed with hot shame.
Lord Wrenworth did not address Lady Tremaine’s point, but instead asked, “What were you doing up at half past four in the morning?”
“Having trouble sleeping, obviously.”
The sound of rustling silk again, and of someone standing up. Footsteps. Louisa imagined Lady Tremaine circling Lord Wrenworth like a she-wolf about to pounce.