Lady Windermere's Lover by Miranda Neville Page B

pushing aside a couple of blankets. “The man was unable to come in and restuff it today. The housekeeper tells me that she needs more notice. She apologizes for not being aware of your stuffing preferences. The mattress on the master bed was, she says, stuffed according to the common taste.”
    “I have uncommon tastes, I fear. I prefer a looser stuffing. No matter. When the—er—mattress stuffer can get here is time enough. I am quite comfortable in your bed.”
    “Are you sure my stuffing isn’t too tight for you?”
    “Thank you, but I found it quite comfortable, at least on the right side of the bed. If I find the other side isn’t loose enough I shall ask you to switch places with me again.” He climbed into bed.
    Not sure why the whole conversation seemed vaguely indecent, Cynthia glanced sideways to find him looking disgustingly at ease and shockingly handsome. If the marriage had turned out the way she’d naïvely hoped, what would they be doing now? That , she supposed, but was that all? Would not a husband and wife on good terms, who had just entertained guests, discuss the evening? That with Windermere had been disappointing, but a conversation appealed.
    “I enjoyed meeting your cousins,” she said.
    “Did you? I always thought them a dull pair.”
    “I understand he is your second cousin.”
    “My father had only sisters, which is why George is next in line for the earldom.”
    She felt on treacherous ground here. Having a discussion that touched on begetting an heir in the very place that heirs were commonly begotten seemed fraught with peril. “He seems a very worthy man.”
    “There’s not an ounce of harm in George.” She waited nervously for him to say something about the topic that hung over her like a thundercloud. When once again he said nothing, she wondered if her uncle had been wrong when he said Windermere was desperate for a son. He didn’t behave like a man intent on procreation.
    “You had no brothers, and I never knew you had a sister either until the steward at Beaulieu told me. I don’t know if she was older or younger.”
    “Amelia? Did I never mention her?”
    “You told me very little at Beaulieu, and most of that in French.”
    “We were twins.”
    Her heart caught. “As an only child I have no experience of such a relationship, but it seems to me that twins must be especially close.” She touched his arm timidly. “Will you tell me about her?”
    “What do you want to know?”
    Everything! she wanted to cry, but his expression and voice were distant and bleak, and she had to draw him in gently, not drive him away.
    “Did you look alike?”
    “People said so. Our coloring was the same but I couldn’t see the resemblance myself. She was just Amelia to me.”
    “Do you have a portrait of her? I should like to see it.”
    She held her breath, waiting for him to deny her request, or retreat into his shell of reserve. Without saying a word he rose and went through to the earl’s chamber. Her heart almost burst with relief when he returned, bearing an oval miniature in a pearl-encrusted frame.
    “Here.”
    She looked at her husband, who was returning to bed, and back at the portrait, comparing points of similarity, including the turned-up edges of the mouth. There could be no question of their relationship. Amelia was a feminine version of her twin, and even as a young girl gave promise of ravishing beauty. “Those who said you looked alike were right. I like her smile. She looks humorous.”
    “She was always laughing, like my mother.”
    “And your father?”
    “He was more serious.”
    “Like you.”
    “When I was with Mama and Amelia I laughed.”
    Cynthia’s attention was drawn to the technique of the portrait. “It’s painted on ivory, isn’t it? The creamy surface lends a lovely glow to the colors. Who was the artist?”
    “My mother.”
    “Truly?” She looked closer, running a fingertip around the pearl border. “She had a real