when Anne pestered her about the garden incident, merely answering that, since her mother-in-law did not wish the fellow arrested, then she supposed that was the end of it.
But Anne must keep trying. Her frustration was mounting, and the only appeasement would be to learn something. It was either that or go back to pondering the feel of Lord Darkefell’s too-perfect lips pressed against her own. And his too-perfect body against hers. He was entirely too perfect—if there was such a concept as overabundant perfection—in a physical sense and entirely too maddeningly imperfect in every other way. Especially evident was the imperfect transparency of his motives and character.
He was making a mockery of her with that kiss; he must have sensed her attraction and was using it to disarm and distract her. Her cheeks grew warm, and she fidgeted in place, pulling at the fingers of her gloves. It had worked too well, for even the memory of his shocking action caused her heart to race and her palms to perspire. Agitated, she burst into speech, saying, “I don’t know how I’m to help you figure out what’s going on, Lydia, if you won’t speak to me!”
Lydia merely shrugged again, plinked a few piano keys, and sighed.
Anne narrowed her eyes, watched her friend, and said, “I shall just go home, then, when Sanderson brings my carriage tomorrow.”
Her younger friend sniffed back a sob but said nothing. Anne stood and stalked over to Lydia, putting her hands over the other girl’s on the piano keys and crouching down beside her. “My dear,” she pleaded, staring up at her young friend, “please talk to me! I don’t mean to badger you, but—”
“You don’t understand at all what it’s like to be married! How could you, a spinster likely never to wed?” She sobbed aloud, and her breath caught in tiny gasps.
“Has John been cruel to you in any way?”
“N-no,” she said but then added, “but he’s still a man, and men… oh, why do they kiss other girls and… ” She trailed off and shook her head.
“Kiss other girls? What on earth do you mean?”
But Lydia shook her head and turned away. Anne asked again what she meant, but she wouldn’t be drawn. Finally, she sighed and said, “I thought marriage would end all of my worries, and I did love… I do love John, but he has some secret that he’s not willing to share, and how can we be truly married if he won’t tell me what’s troubling him?”
Nudging her aside gently, Anne sat down with her on the piano bench. Now that she had broken through the girl’s silence, she must take advantage of her vulnerability to answer the nagging questions she had after the day’s events. “Have you ever heard Allengate’s name before today?”
“No,” Lydia said.
“Did Cecilia ever speak of Mr. Boatin?”
“Not to me.”
“Why does Mr. Hiram Grover not like the marquess?”
“I don’t know.”
Anne sighed.
“It seems my little sister-in-law is not as helpful in your snooping as you could wish, my dear Lady Anne.”
Anne whirled and stared toward the door, where the marquess leaned against the doorframe, handsome in a dark blue cutaway jacket, richly embroidered waistcoat, fawn breeches, and stockings that outlined muscular legs.
“So,” he continued, “you did not believe me when I said that Mr. Grover still holds an old resentment regarding my schoolboy corruption of his sainted son, Theophilus, whom I introduced to gin, rum, cards, tobacco, and women of ill repute?”
“Your school days are so far behind you, my lord,” she replied stiffly, “that I merely doubt any sensible man would hold such a long resentment as that would imply.”
He smirked. “Ah, yes, as you point out so cleverly, I am considerably older than you and more wise about the ways of men.”
“Age and wisdom have so long been paired, I must gracefully admit that his lordship would seem to have the better of me in both,” Anne commented, the waspish tone in her voice
But Anne must keep trying. Her frustration was mounting, and the only appeasement would be to learn something. It was either that or go back to pondering the feel of Lord Darkefell’s too-perfect lips pressed against her own. And his too-perfect body against hers. He was entirely too perfect—if there was such a concept as overabundant perfection—in a physical sense and entirely too maddeningly imperfect in every other way. Especially evident was the imperfect transparency of his motives and character.
He was making a mockery of her with that kiss; he must have sensed her attraction and was using it to disarm and distract her. Her cheeks grew warm, and she fidgeted in place, pulling at the fingers of her gloves. It had worked too well, for even the memory of his shocking action caused her heart to race and her palms to perspire. Agitated, she burst into speech, saying, “I don’t know how I’m to help you figure out what’s going on, Lydia, if you won’t speak to me!”
Lydia merely shrugged again, plinked a few piano keys, and sighed.
Anne narrowed her eyes, watched her friend, and said, “I shall just go home, then, when Sanderson brings my carriage tomorrow.”
Her younger friend sniffed back a sob but said nothing. Anne stood and stalked over to Lydia, putting her hands over the other girl’s on the piano keys and crouching down beside her. “My dear,” she pleaded, staring up at her young friend, “please talk to me! I don’t mean to badger you, but—”
“You don’t understand at all what it’s like to be married! How could you, a spinster likely never to wed?” She sobbed aloud, and her breath caught in tiny gasps.
“Has John been cruel to you in any way?”
“N-no,” she said but then added, “but he’s still a man, and men… oh, why do they kiss other girls and… ” She trailed off and shook her head.
“Kiss other girls? What on earth do you mean?”
But Lydia shook her head and turned away. Anne asked again what she meant, but she wouldn’t be drawn. Finally, she sighed and said, “I thought marriage would end all of my worries, and I did love… I do love John, but he has some secret that he’s not willing to share, and how can we be truly married if he won’t tell me what’s troubling him?”
Nudging her aside gently, Anne sat down with her on the piano bench. Now that she had broken through the girl’s silence, she must take advantage of her vulnerability to answer the nagging questions she had after the day’s events. “Have you ever heard Allengate’s name before today?”
“No,” Lydia said.
“Did Cecilia ever speak of Mr. Boatin?”
“Not to me.”
“Why does Mr. Hiram Grover not like the marquess?”
“I don’t know.”
Anne sighed.
“It seems my little sister-in-law is not as helpful in your snooping as you could wish, my dear Lady Anne.”
Anne whirled and stared toward the door, where the marquess leaned against the doorframe, handsome in a dark blue cutaway jacket, richly embroidered waistcoat, fawn breeches, and stockings that outlined muscular legs.
“So,” he continued, “you did not believe me when I said that Mr. Grover still holds an old resentment regarding my schoolboy corruption of his sainted son, Theophilus, whom I introduced to gin, rum, cards, tobacco, and women of ill repute?”
“Your school days are so far behind you, my lord,” she replied stiffly, “that I merely doubt any sensible man would hold such a long resentment as that would imply.”
He smirked. “Ah, yes, as you point out so cleverly, I am considerably older than you and more wise about the ways of men.”
“Age and wisdom have so long been paired, I must gracefully admit that his lordship would seem to have the better of me in both,” Anne commented, the waspish tone in her voice
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