“What, then?”
“Oh, it’s just that everyone’s saying how dashed pretty Lady Stanhope is and wondering why you kept her up in the wilds so long. Must say—trifle surprised m’self, Gil! I always thought she was supposed to be an antidote!”
“Did you? I never said so, Ferd!”
Ferdy’s brow crumpled as he considered this. “No, don’t believe you did, old man,” he agreed at last. “Might have been James who told me. Or maybe Dray. Can’t recall. Anyway, it’s what everyone thought, what with your lady always being up north and never coming to Town.” He blinked at Gil with innocent good humour.
Gil felt sick. He’d prided himself on never actively maligning Rose after their marriage—not even to James. As far as he was concerned, what lay between them was private, and the full truth of his resentment was unknown to anyone else. His friends had never spoken of Rose to him—nor had anyone else. She’d never been to Town, was completely unknown to the Ton. But of course they’d wondered about her. Even Ferdy—blinkered, horse-mad, oblivious Ferdy—had wondered about her.
And now they were turning up in their droves to find out why he’d exiled her for so long. He realised Ferdy was looking at him with a worried expression.
“Have I spoken out of turn, old man?”
Gil smiled tightly. It was an effort, but he did it. “Not at all. Aren’t you going to tell me about that pair of greys you bought last week?”
Ferdy needed no more encouragement. He launched into a horsey monologue, a paean to the virtues of his matched greys. It wasn’t long before Gil found his attention wandering back to his wife.
It was far too easy to look at her. She was perfectly in his eye line, sitting beside Gertie on a small sofa, talking and laughing.
She looked delightful when she laughed. She looked delightful when she did many things, of course: when she danced, when she looked up at him from her writing desk with a distracted expression, when she was kind to untalented would-be poets. But he did especially love the way she laughed. He loved the way she was hiding her laugh behind her hand as she listened to Gertie, her merry silver eyes sparkling above. Loved the beautiful quirk of her lips. Loved her—
Loved her.
He loved her.
Chapter Eighteen
November 1814
“Are you ready, Rose?”
Gil walked into his wife’s bedchamber to find the maid fastening a pearl pendant around Rose’s neck and Rose herself fiddling with an earring.
“Almost.”
He sat in the chair by the fire to wait. A few moments later, the maid stepped back, and Rose dropped her arms to her sides. Both women stared at her reflection in the mirror critically. Gil was rather less objective. He thought she looked delicious. Her satin gown was the colour of clotted cream with some sort of gauzy gold overdress. Creamy pearls bobbed at her ears and kissed the tops of her breasts. Another of those fairy queen ensembles, he thought.
“The pearls look very well, milady,” the maid said after a moment. “Much better than the other.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Would you put the others away before you go, Sarah?”
Sarah lifted a number of other pieces from the dressing table and took them away. Then, with a curtsey, she quietly withdrew from the chamber. Rose wasn’t quite finished, though. She touched scent to her throat and wrists, subtly rouged her cheeks and lips, fiddled with a hair comb.
Gil enjoyed watching her get ready like this. Her ordinary little movements were bewitching and seductive to him. And it was, after all, the only intimacy he enjoyed these days.
Lord, but he was feeling frustrated. It was weeks since he’d shared her bed. Rose had given him no sign that he was welcome to return, and he would make no assumptions about that again. The next time he came to her—if there was a next time—he wanted to be sure she was willing. He would wait to be invited.
He would happily forgo this evening’s entertainment. They’d been inundated with invitations these last weeks and had been out every evening—he longed for a night without small talk. But tonight’s invitation was one that could not be declined. It was the dinner Dray and Tilly were holding in their honour. He wished he could spend the evening peeling away Rose’s gown instead. Tasting those delicious breasts…
“There is something I’ve been meaning to mention to you, Gil,” Rose said, her voice distracting him from his pleasant thoughts. He tore his gaze away from the expanse of creamy bosom revealed by her gown and looked up to meet her gaze, suddenly aware that his enjoyment of the view was very visible. He crossed one leg over the other to disguise his erection. But it didn’t appear Rose had noticed. In fact, she was looking rather preoccupied, stroking the underside of her wedding ring with her left thumb, a nervous habit he’d recently noticed.