The Chadwick Ring by Julia Jeffries Page A

were said to have marked Emma Lyon’s “attitudes,” a diverting spectacle much appreciated among the ton in the days before that lady married Lord Hamilton and caught the eye of the great Nelson. But it was the very studied air of Amalie’s gesture that served to dampen any ardor that her deliberately erotic movements might have stirred. He knew her too well now. Although he had never pretended any affection for her, when she first came to him he had been amused and aroused by her apparently unbridled ardor. Only gradually did he become aware of the calculation behind her every action; only as their affair had progressed did he realize that the governing passion of Amalie’s life was greed.
    The marquess trailed his long fingers up her thigh and patted the auburn triangle with a dismissive gesture. “I must go now,” he said, and he slid out of bed.
    Amalie collapsed into a disgruntled heap. She stared resentfully at Chadwick’s lean naked body. Once she had been so sure of him, so confident of her power, and now he was obviously unmoved. She asked petulantly, “Why must you be in such a hurry? Why can’t you stay the night?”
    The marquess frowned at the proprietary note in her voice. He dressed quickly, and he tucked his shirt into his trousers and reached for his waistcoat before he answered, “I think not, Amalie. I would prefer that my carriage did not stand all night at your curb.”
    Amalie shrugged. “ Et pourquoi pas? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
    “No, but as yet my presence in Town is not generally known, and I wish to keep it that way.” He picked up his rumpled cravat and draped it around his neck, wrinkling his nose at the unmistakable smell of liquor. He had been deep in his cups earlier in the evening, but now his head was clear, and he was more than a little ashamed of his behavior. When he flung himself out of his London house and ordered his driver to take him across town to Amalie, he had been intent only on easing the frustration and rage that had fermented inside him for two days, ever since Ginevra rejected him. Now he regarded his conduct with distaste, the sort of gutter antics he had put behind him years before. If only to maintain his self-respect, he ought to act more temperately, with a modicum of discretion. His alliance with Amalie was of too long a standing for him to use and discard her like some two-penny jade. He owed her more consideration than that; she had always been a compliant, if expensive, mistress, and as far as he knew she had even been faithful to him, which was more than he expected, perhaps more than he deserved.
    As he tied his cravat into some semblance of a knot, he watched Amalie step down from the bed, naked as a wood nymph. She retrieved the bracelet and clasped it around her wrist again before she padded across the room to her dressing table. A diaphanous silk negligee the color of new grass lay slung across the stool. She slipped on the robe and sat down to brush her hair, frowning sulkily at the mirror. Where her heavy swath of hair fell down her back, the fresh green color of the silk made her tresses glow as if burning. Chadwick sighed. Amalie was a very inviting and seductive woman, and their relationship had always been thoroughly satisfactory physically. In addition, it was convenient and comfortable, virtues he found increasingly attractive. She had been there when he wanted her, and beyond her passion for jewels, which he had no aversion to indulging, she had made no demands of him. Until recently.
    Although he had for some months noticed with irritation Amalie’s growing self-assured and possessive attitude toward him, still he had been stunned by her violent, very public reaction when he told her he was being married. He had planned the evening carefully: a lavish meal followed by a concert and fireworks at Vauxhall; when she was in a good mood, he would assure her that her lease and accounts were to remain open long enough for her to