Wilde in Love(54)

Her corset hoisted her bosom into the air, and the bodice cleverly stayed just above her nipples, partly because it was skintight. Below her waist, lace and silk rioted in every direction.

Hannibal leapt to the floor when Alaric stood up. He came so close to her that he would crush her gown, but Willa didn’t want him to move away, not when he smelled so good that her heart skipped a beat.

She was fairly certain that she betrayed her feelings every time she looked at her husband. Every time she snapped open her fan in order to whisper to him behind its shelter. Every time she put her hand on his arm and glanced about, daring any of his admirers to approach.

It had taken a few days, but Willa had the house party under control. Guests were treating him like an ordinary man, which was a welcome change.

Tonight would be another challenge, but the last such for some time: tomorrow she, Alaric, Hannibal, and Sweetpea would depart for their own house, less than an hour’s drive from the castle.

In the last few hours, she had heard coach after coach pulling up in the courtyard, and the sounds rising from the ballroom had grown from a distant sibilant murmur to the clamor of a flock of starlings.

It would probably take a good part of the night to tutor the ladies of Cheshire that Lord Alaric was not the author, Lord Wilde, and that furthermore, he was not to be touched, questioned, or addressed inappropriately.

“We must go downstairs,” Willa said, before Alaric’s caresses grew too distracting. “We mustn’t be late,” she gasped, twisting away from a kiss that made her shudder with anticipation. “We mustn’t miss your father’s …”

The word escaped her because Alaric’s clever tongue was stroking her lower lip and all she wanted was to yield to him. “Your father’s gift,” she said with relief, grabbing the right word and holding on to it. “Your father’s gift to us, to celebrate our wedding.”

Alaric made a discontented sound, but he let her go. “Why in the hell did my father think he had to make such a fuss?”

“You are the first of his children to wed,” Willa pointed out. She stepped before the glass and began coaxing her hair back into the elaborate arrangement that allowed her to eschew a wig for the evening. “Do you know what his gift is?”

Alaric didn’t reply.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You do!”

“You will enjoy it.”

“But you won’t?” She met his eyes in the glass.

“You’re part of the family now, and you’re about to be introduced to my father’s sense of humor.”

Her smile turned to a puzzled frown. “Has His Grace summoned a jester to perform?”

“I only wish that were the case. The second duchess hated his sense of humor so much that we speculated in the nursery it was the reason she fled the country, lover in tow.”

“Funny stories?” Willa was unable to imagine the duke laughing at a merry tale.

“No. A pervasive interest in oddities, paired with a strong belief that Wildes should not be allowed to bask in their own consequence.”

Willa had that same interest in oddities; it made her feel warm toward her new father-in-law.

“Yes, you are very like him,” Alaric said, reading her mind. “Except for the way you look, which is luscious. We’d better go down before I decide I need to have your hips writhing beneath me.”

“Alaric!” Willa colored and almost ran out of the room, followed by his chuckle.

When they reached the doors leading to the ballroom, she squared her shoulders. In a way, she had been born for this.

If there was anyone in England who could liberate Alaric of the burden of Lord Wilde and give him the private life that every Englishman deserved, it was she. She had every intention of returning her husband to his rightful place in society as a member of the aristocracy, rather than a deranged scribbling girl’s idea of a hero.

She poised the fingers of her hand on his forearm, as if they were about to dance a minuet.

Alaric looked at her. “I wouldn’t wish anyone else to accompany me into battle.”

“You are cultivating the ability to guess what I am thinking,” Willa laughed.

“As do all the best husbands.” He seemed completely unperturbed by the fact of their marriage, whereas Willa was in a state of disbelief that a mere fortnight before she had arrived from London. She had felt nothing but amused skepticism about the object of Lavinia’s adoration, the famous Lord Wilde. How quickly her circumstances changed!

Now she was married to that notorious explorer. Sleeping with him at night. And she would be for years. Decades. For the rest of her life.

It was such an alien concept as to require a flowering imagination like Lavinia’s. One capable of picturing the inconceivable.

At Alaric’s nod, Prism threw open the ballroom doors.

Instead of musicians and dancing guests, the great space was filled with row after row of chairs. Those in the front were gilt, set far enough apart to accommodate ladies’ skirts. They were reserved for the family; a number of young Wildes were already seated, faces shining with excitement. At the sight of Alaric and Willa, there was some yelping, quickly curtailed by two nursemaids.

Behind them, chairs carried in from the drawing rooms were filled with house-party guests and the neighboring gentry who had arrived that evening for the ball. At the back of the room, ladies’ maids, valets, and grooms sat shoulder-to-shoulder, with a few leaning against the back wall.

“My father,” Alaric said, sotto voce, “wants to share the joke as widely as possible.”

Willa gasped and came to a sudden halt. “It’s the play, isn’t it!”

“The final performance, as I understand it,” Alaric said. “My father had the production closed and brought the actors to the castle before they disband. The last gasp of a murderous playwright.” His wry smile made Willa want to kiss him.

Though, obviously, propriety forbade it.

As they made their way to the front row, the audience became even more animated. Willa caught fragments of conversation floating from the assembled guests, who ogled them with the attention usually reserved for royalty, not mere neighbors.

“That’s he,” a robust lady announced to her elderly companion, who was blinking watery eyes as if she couldn’t make out Alaric’s form. “He looks a proper—”

Whatever she went on to say was drowned by a squeal from a young lady a few rows forward. “I cannot believe the luck of being able to see Wilde in Love! Petra’s father had to pay four times the price for—”

“Thighs,” a third lady gasped.

Yes, thighs, Willa thought affectionately. Her husband’s were magnificent, and magnificently shown off tonight, as Alaric was wearing one of North’s costumes. He had ransacked his brother’s wardrobe for formal attire.

He had complained that North’s breeches were entirely too tight, but the truth was that his legs flattered the tailor who had made breeches to that measure.

“I believe I am about to faint,” Lady Boston moaned as Alaric passed her chair. Willa gave her a look, just to make it clear that Lord Wilde would not be gathering swooning women from the floor and reviving them against his manly breast.

“You terrify me,” Alaric said into her ear.

When they reached the front row, Leonidas jumped to his feet. He and Betsy were dressed for the ball, whereas the younger children were going to be dispatched back to the nursery.

“With the arrival of the lovelorn hero, the play can begin,” Leonidas announced, doubling over with laughter at his own joke.

Alaric gave his brother a mock box on the shoulder as he escorted Willa to a chair and then seated himself as close to her as he could, given the luxuriant mounds of silk and creamy lace that pooled on either side of her chair.

Before them, a wide stage had been erected a few inches above the ballroom floor; canvas sheets painted with a jungle scene were suspended behind it and along the sides. An extremely hairy painted lion peeked from between two trees, and a painted crocodile lounged, open-mouthed, at the bottom right.

Green velvet curtains had been hung behind the canvases, shielding anything happening behind the scenes. A certain amount of excited activity could be detected on the other side of the curtains, a low burr of actors’ voices.

“How on earth did His Grace arrange for the performance to travel to Cheshire?” Willa asked.

Her husband shrugged. “He told me he was having the production closed down as a wedding present. I suppose he paid them enough to make the trip worthwhile.”

It was true that in the days after Alaric’s wounding, she had paid no attention to anything beyond his care. Still, a whole theater troupe had arrived without her notice.

“Good evening,” she heard a man say. She looked up.

It was North, but not the same North. For one thing, he wasn’t wearing an extravagant Parisian wig, but the sort a doctor, or a man indifferent to fashion, might wear. His plain black coat emphasized the shadows under his eyes, but his bow was as elegant as any courtier’s.

“I didn’t realize you had returned from London. Please do sit beside me,” she invited. “Prism just informed us that His Grace may not be able to attend the performance.”

“Ophelia is all right, is she not?” North asked, taking the chair she indicated.