Luck Be a Lady by Meredith Duran

contemptuous noise, then picked up her package and dashed him a hostile look as she jerked her head toward the door. “Follow me.”
    Already bossing him. Perhaps she didhave a touch of Irish, after all.
    Whitby wanted another word—reassurances about compensation, for the lost labor from giving his employees a holiday. By the time Nick stepped into the hall, Catherine was pacing. The click of the door brought her wheeling around.
    He’d thought her pale inside, but she was colorless now. “We’ll need privacy for the last bit,” she said through her teeth. “A hotel? We would need to enter separately.”
    â€œI’ve got a set of rooms at Diamonds,” he said.
    â€œYou propose to do this in a gambling den?” Her mouth twisted. “How fitting.”
    *    *   *
    Mr. O’Shea’s apartment at the House of Diamonds was as ornate as the gaming floor, although the color scheme, thankfully, was a more muted palette of bronzes and browns. Catherine paused in the sitting room, where a healthy fire was blazing, to remove her sodden cloak. The sight of the black bombazine sleeves startled her fora moment; she had forgotten she was wearing mourning. Perhaps it was disrespectful to her father’s memory to have worn this gown to such a charade, but she had required the matching veil to avoid notice from passersby on her journey to Whitechapel.
    As she laid down the cloak, she caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. How pale she looked! Like a mourner in truth.
    In the distance, a door closed. She waited, listening, but heard no footsteps. Mr. O’Shea had taken himself off on some private mission, and she was grateful for the chance to compose herself. There was no use giving him the satisfaction of finding her pallid and cowering, like some frightened virgin.
    She was a virgin, though.
    She refused, however, to be frightened.
    She walked to the mirror, pausing to smooth down her damp hair, then to bite her lips and pinch her cheeks. There. Better to look livid than fearful. Last night, lying alone in her bed in Bloomsbury, she had nearly talked herself out of this bit; had almost reasoned herself into believing that consummation was unnecessary.
    But Peter had made a remark at dinner that lingered with her afterward. He had been haranguing her again about Mr. Pilcher. “It is only natural to fear husbandly attentions,” he’d told her. “But your disinterest in marriage is unnatural in the extreme. It suggests some disorder of the brain.”
    If Peter suspected that she had not consummated this marriage—if he doubted the marriage was true—he might refuse to bow to blackmail. She would have to announce the marriage to the world, then, so she might claim the directorship and prevent him from selling Everleigh’s.
    That announcement would not profit Mr. O’Shea, however. His buildings would still be imperiled. He might feel tempted to deny the marriage himself.
    There must be no legal grounds for him to do so.
    She squared her shoulders, staring deeply into her own eyes. That kiss in the register office—it hadn’t been so bad. Rude, unnecessary, and unbearably presumptuous, but . . .
    His skin had scraped hers. She touched her chin lightly, remembering the sensation. That must have been his stubble—invisible, for he’d arrived freshly shaven. But a man’s skin felt very different, regardless.
    The rising color on her face made her scowl. She needed to do this only once. Never again. So Mr. O’Shea had agreed, in signing the betrothal contract. What a blessed relief that divorce would be! A pity that caution bade her to wait five years for it. But that span of time would provide ample opportunity for Peter to advance in politics, and lose interest in the auction rooms entirely. By the time the divorce petition was submitted, she hoped, she would have sole ownership of