suit.”
“I always forget.”
Cynthia put down her cards and stood up. “Let me ring for the tea tray. Will you tally the score, Cousin George? Setting aside the last hand when Oliver made the mistake, I believe you are a handy winner. We were quite outplayed. Dear Cousin Louisa, you must be parched.”
The contretemps cleaned up and brushed aside, she walked over to the bellpull, a few feet from Damian’s chair.
“Has my lord been entertaining you, Julian?” She gave Denford a sideways glance that Damian interpreted as coy.
“Windermere and I have discovered a surprising amount to talk about after all these years.”
“It’s odd that I am better acquainted with you than with my husband. And you know him better than I do.”
“How piquant that I should be what you two have in common. I shall have to bring you together.”
“We can share you.”
Damian was unable to believe what he was hearing. He had of course heard of such “sharing” arrangements, but he’d never fancied the idea himself. Even when he and Julian had been close, they’d never pursued that particular vice. As far as he knew, a certain Venetian courtesan was the only woman they had both bedded, but certainly not at the same time.
Except she wasn’t the only one. There was Cynthia too, his faithless wife. Disguising his shock, he stared at her through narrowed eyes. She smiled at him, apparently without guile, then turned to Denford. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her mouth widened a little when she regarded her lover. And yet he could swear there was nothing lascivious in either look. He was having a hard time imagining this angelic, golden woman in sweaty congress with even one man, let alone two at once.
Julian on the other hand looked amused. “I don’t think I would like you to share me with anyone,” he said. “I’d rather have you to myself.”
Cynthia blushed, the color making her appear prettier than ever. “That was a goosish thing for me to say. I only meant that I am glad . . .” She trailed off, flustered. “I am glad to see you mending your past differences.” She turned to Damian. “You must know, my lord, that without Denford and other friends I would have been uncommonly lonely during your absence.”
He flinched at the reproach in her clear blue eyes. “I am sorry for that, my lady. I heeded the call of duty. My work will always be important to me, but I see that it is time for me to tend to my domestic affairs as well as foreign ones.”
He had the urge to toss Denford out of the house forever, and turn his efforts to mending fences with his wife. He had no hesitation now about where to apportion blame for her straying. She was an innocent lamb in the jaws of a wolf.
C ynthia enjoyed the bedtime ritual of brushing her hair because she remembered her mama doing it for her. Even after she married and acquired the services of a personal maid, she continued to do it herself. Not in a melancholy way; her childhood had been a happy one. She preferred to dwell on past happiness rather than its premature loss.
Tonight the probable arrival of her husband drove away memories of life in the curate’s cottage. She prepared for the event by twisting her hair into a severe plait and donning her sturdiest winter nightgown, a voluminous flannel garment suitable for unheated bedchambers. She climbed into her side of the bed feeling overly warm.
Windermere, displaying further evidence of a flamboyant taste in nightwear that didn’t match his sober daytime attire, was resplendent in crimson velvet with gold frogging. She forbore from comment, even when he discarded the robe to reveal—thank heavens—a shirt reaching almost to his knees. Undistracted by more interesting parts of his anatomy, she allowed herself to note that he had shapely calves and ankles and long, elegant feet lightly dusted with dark hair. The room suddenly seemed stifling.
“I’m sorry about your mattress, my lord,” she said,
“I always forget.”
Cynthia put down her cards and stood up. “Let me ring for the tea tray. Will you tally the score, Cousin George? Setting aside the last hand when Oliver made the mistake, I believe you are a handy winner. We were quite outplayed. Dear Cousin Louisa, you must be parched.”
The contretemps cleaned up and brushed aside, she walked over to the bellpull, a few feet from Damian’s chair.
“Has my lord been entertaining you, Julian?” She gave Denford a sideways glance that Damian interpreted as coy.
“Windermere and I have discovered a surprising amount to talk about after all these years.”
“It’s odd that I am better acquainted with you than with my husband. And you know him better than I do.”
“How piquant that I should be what you two have in common. I shall have to bring you together.”
“We can share you.”
Damian was unable to believe what he was hearing. He had of course heard of such “sharing” arrangements, but he’d never fancied the idea himself. Even when he and Julian had been close, they’d never pursued that particular vice. As far as he knew, a certain Venetian courtesan was the only woman they had both bedded, but certainly not at the same time.
Except she wasn’t the only one. There was Cynthia too, his faithless wife. Disguising his shock, he stared at her through narrowed eyes. She smiled at him, apparently without guile, then turned to Denford. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her mouth widened a little when she regarded her lover. And yet he could swear there was nothing lascivious in either look. He was having a hard time imagining this angelic, golden woman in sweaty congress with even one man, let alone two at once.
Julian on the other hand looked amused. “I don’t think I would like you to share me with anyone,” he said. “I’d rather have you to myself.”
Cynthia blushed, the color making her appear prettier than ever. “That was a goosish thing for me to say. I only meant that I am glad . . .” She trailed off, flustered. “I am glad to see you mending your past differences.” She turned to Damian. “You must know, my lord, that without Denford and other friends I would have been uncommonly lonely during your absence.”
He flinched at the reproach in her clear blue eyes. “I am sorry for that, my lady. I heeded the call of duty. My work will always be important to me, but I see that it is time for me to tend to my domestic affairs as well as foreign ones.”
He had the urge to toss Denford out of the house forever, and turn his efforts to mending fences with his wife. He had no hesitation now about where to apportion blame for her straying. She was an innocent lamb in the jaws of a wolf.
C ynthia enjoyed the bedtime ritual of brushing her hair because she remembered her mama doing it for her. Even after she married and acquired the services of a personal maid, she continued to do it herself. Not in a melancholy way; her childhood had been a happy one. She preferred to dwell on past happiness rather than its premature loss.
Tonight the probable arrival of her husband drove away memories of life in the curate’s cottage. She prepared for the event by twisting her hair into a severe plait and donning her sturdiest winter nightgown, a voluminous flannel garment suitable for unheated bedchambers. She climbed into her side of the bed feeling overly warm.
Windermere, displaying further evidence of a flamboyant taste in nightwear that didn’t match his sober daytime attire, was resplendent in crimson velvet with gold frogging. She forbore from comment, even when he discarded the robe to reveal—thank heavens—a shirt reaching almost to his knees. Undistracted by more interesting parts of his anatomy, she allowed herself to note that he had shapely calves and ankles and long, elegant feet lightly dusted with dark hair. The room suddenly seemed stifling.
“I’m sorry about your mattress, my lord,” she said,
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