A Worthy Wife(10)
Aurora couldn't take her eyes off his lips as he finally put the strawberry in her mouth, then withdrew it. And again, almost as if"I think I have had enough strawberries. Any more and I am liable to get spots."
"Any more and you're liable to let me make love to you here on the rug in front of the fire." Kenyon reluctantly wiped his hands on a napkin. He'd made his point, but wasn't cad enough to press the advantage. "Admit it, Aurora. I could have seduced you tonight, without ever laying a finger on your rosy skin. You are a warmblooded woman, so why are you denying us both the pleasure of that comfortable bed?"
Because she didn't want to be seduced; she wanted to be loved and cherished and esteemed. Because she did not want to be like every other woman he had lain with, her wedding lines notwithstanding. Aurora couldn't say any of that, of course. What she did say was, "I thought this was a discussion about Harland and his motives."
"He was not after simple sexual gratification."
There was nothing simple about it that Aurora could feeland she was still feeling quivers down to her knees. But he was wrong; she might succumb to strawberries, but Harland had never made her feel like this, not by half. "What, then?"
"There has to be money somewhere. Perhaps from your father's family?"
"The Halles sent Papa out to India just before disowning him, I'm afraid. He had gambling debts, you see. I have avoided wagering my entire life, lest I become addicted to it, as he was reputed to be."
"Perhaps he gambled on something and died before he could collect? Podell might have discovered it somehow. Someone else in India might have known."
"The only one I know was Lord Phelan, but he was only there a month before contracting malaria. He left and took me and a nursemaid with him, I understand, because my mother was ill. He would have told me long ago if I was any kind of heiress."
"Someone else, then, someone who made a practice of knowing every tidbit about every Englishman in India. Did you ever meet Lady Anstruther-Jones? Her husband was an official of the Trading Company, and she was the unofficial British hostess."
"I left India before my second birthday; I really don't recall anything but the heat."
"No matter, Lady Anstruther-Jones will see us anyway. She enjoys chatting about her India days. I'll send around a note tomorrow morning, asking if we can call, shall I?"
Aurora shrugged. "If you wish, but I swear it's hopeless. You'd do better to drag Harland back and ask him."
"He should be halfway to Portsmouth by now, on his way to catch the next ship for Jamaica. Lord Phelan was going to escort him to make sure the loose screw didn't slip away, so perhaps your godfather learned something more. He said he'd call on us as soon as he returned to Town. We'll visit the viscountess tomorrow. If anyone knows anything, she will. Meantime, the evening is still young. I thought we might might" He'd been going to suggest cards or something, but Lud, she didn't gamble. "Discuss color schemes. That's it, I want to redecorate the master suite at Warriner House and need to know your preferences. I brought some fabric swatches back with me."
Goodness, Aurora thought, if strawberries could rouse such a fever in her blood, imagine what havoc silks and brocades could wreak. She quickly yawned. "I'm sorry, my lord, but that will have to wait for morning, also. I'm not used to Town hours yet, you know, and I am much too tired. It's been a long day, hasn't it?"
And it looked to be a longer night, but Kenyon was not giving up. He gave her a chaste good night kiss on the cheek, and then he intended to give her thirty minutes to prepare for bed. He changed into his nightshirt meanwhile, then paced in his own bedroom, peering at the clock.
Before twenty minutes had passed, he heard a scratch on his door. Thinking his valet must have suicidal tendencies in returning after he'd been dismissed for the night, Kenyon yanked the door open. "What the devil do you"
The devil indeed! There stood his wife in a sheer gown, limned in the glow from the firelight. Speechless, he could only watch as she took a few steps into the room, turning slowly. He'd wager that she didn't know how the light behind her made her nightdress almost transparent, from the dark peaks of her breasts to the darker triangle between her thighs. He'd lose.
Aurora knew precisely what she was doing, licking her lips and shaking her head till the blond tresses flowed down her back. She waited only until she was positive she'd stirred his interest, by the stirring of the front of his white lawn nightshirt. Staring pointedly at the pointed evidence, she smiled and skipped back to the door. "You see, my lord, two can play the game. I have managed to seduce you, without even saying a word."
He had to laugh. It was either that or cry. The chit had bottomand top, and everything in between. Playing knight errant hadn't been an error after all, it was appearing, though she'd lead him a merry dance. Well, she'd had her jig; now it was time for a nice, slow waltz.
He waited until the sounds of movement stopped, when her maid called good night and the hall door shut with a click. Then he tiptoed back across the darkened sitting room toward Aurora's bedchamber. Before he got there, though, he discerned a lump on the floor. He went back for his quizzing glass. Devil take it if he wasn't going to have to pay for a new carpet, with all the to-and-fro.
Closer inspection revealed the lump to be a half-grown, half-starved boy. There was Ned, asleep on the floor in front of his mistress's closed door like a faithful watchdog. And there went Kenyon's hopes.
Ned's hair was still wet, and his cheek was red from scrubbing. The earl went back and fetched another blanket to cover the lad. Returning one more time to his own cold, empty room, Windham wondered, had he ever really wanted a restful wife? This restful?
Chapter Eight
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A female of a certain age was entitled to a certain number of eccentricities. An old woman of infinite wealth was forgiven an infinite number of whims. Lady Anstruther-Jones was of the latter class of character. Hortense had been concubine to an Oriental prince, favorite in a sultan's harem, and first wife to a tribal chieftain before marrying her India nabob viscount. Or else she'd been a vicar's daughter from Devon. No one seemed to recall, or care. With Anstruther-Jones gone to his final reward, the lady was finally able to indulge herself. Now she was titled an Original. Her notions of gracious entertaining, for example, were an eclectic blend of rites and rituals from any number of ancient societies, or guidebooks.
One never wore shoes in her house. Silk slippers were offered to guests in the entry hall in summer, thick woolen socks from Yorkshire mills in winter. Granted, the lady had white fur rugs, but the rule held for the bare-floors areas, too. And no one sat on chairs. Guests couldn't, for none were available, only thick cushions. Ladies as well as gentlemen were invited, nay, encouraged to smoke, as their hostess was never without a long pipe carved out of ivory. No one called without an invitation—or left without a token of her esteem. Her regular guests quickly learned not to admire anything in the house, for they'd be leaving with it. To refuse was to insult Lady Anstruther-Jones, which meant social disaster, since Hortense had become one of London's luminaries, despite barely leaving her house. No matter that you were expected to reciprocate with a present of equal value, you graciously carted away the elephant-foot umbrella stand or the brass gong that rang so loudly the windows shooknext door. Exchanging gifts was a tradition from the East, Hortense always claimed, but it could have been East Anglia. Finally, as Lord Windham explained to Aurora, one never, ever , arrived without a gift in hand. Hence their shopping expedition.
Lady Anstruther-Jones had responded to Kenyon's note with an invitation to pay a morning call, which meant sometime after noon. Of course she would be delighted to meet with Windham and his wife, since they were the premier topic of conversation now that the notice of their marriage was in the papers, and Lady Anstruther-Jones was the premier gossip.
Not wishing to waste an opportunity to get into his wife's good graces, and not daring to leave her alone to get into more scrapes, Kenyon was therefore taking his lady shopping, just what he least enjoyed. "I suppose it will have to be jewelry, though the old dragon must have a lairful of gems by now. I cannot imagine what else she could want or need. I never bought you a wedding gift, either." He reluctantly headed the curricle toward Rundell and Bridges, where he'd doubtless stand around for hours, until it was time to pay for Aurora's choices. Since she seemed to possess nothing but a string of pearls, he expected to spend a great deal of time and a great deal of money. She was wearing her mother's wedding ring, for he'd refused to allow the one Podell had purchased to touch her finger. That should take another hour, judging from his past experience in purchasing finery for a female.
"I knows a place what has pretty gewgaws the old lady might like," Ned offered helpfully from his tiger's place behind the driver's bench.
Kenyon clamped his jaws shut. He hadn't wanted the boy along in the first place. Just what he needed, a diminutive duenna. Now he was to be bear-led by a barely civilized brat, one who hadn't the least notion of what was due a lady of Quality like Lady Anstruther-Jones or Lady Windham. "I'm sure Rundell's will suffice."
"I don't know about no soft ice, but No More Morris has sparklers what should turn the old bat up sweet so she tells you what you wants to know. Real pretty, they are, and half the price of what those top-lofty, thieving jewelers in Mayfair charge. That's why they calls 'im No More Morris. 'E sells stuff for what it's worth, 'n no more."