find a new patron; and then as a final gesture of their amicable parting he would present her with the magnificent ruby bracelet. But the evening had ended with fireworks of a kind Handel never orchestrated: instead of meekly accepting Chadwick’s decision, Amalie had shrieked and railed like a betrayed wife.
Chadwick stared at his mistress, as the explanation suddenly occurred to him, the motivation for her shrewish temper and her unconscionable intrusion upon his wedding day: Amalie had been so sure, of him that she had dared to imagine he might marry her. The very insolence of the thought took his breath away. Oh, certainly, almost every year some member of the aristocracy scandalized the ton by wedding his demirep, and of course many of those women who pretended to be high sticklers were in fact little better than married whores, but such would never be the case for a Marchioness of Chadwick, and he could not understand how Amalie had come to think otherwise.
Indeed, until recently he had little thought to marry again. His first marriage had been such a misalliance that he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It had been the shock of the death of his son, so like him and yet a stranger, that had made him think seriously about reestablishing some sort of family life. He already had his mother and Bysshe who depended on him, and indeed the idea of finding some suitable young woman to grace his table and share his bed, perhaps give him more children, was not unappealing. He had taken time away from his political duties to survey the latest bevy of debutantes at Almack’s, but while his mere presence in that hallowed hall raised the hopes of sundry doting mothers, not one of the simpering misses paraded for his perusal had aroused any feeling in him other than boredom. His reaction had puzzled him, for certainly some of the girls were attractive, one or two even beautiful, and still another few showed promise of wit. He had not understood his indifference until the day he rode to Reading in answer to Sir Charles’s curious letter, and he spotted a girl with eyes like gold guineas cowering behind a beech tree.
Chadwick’s hard mouth quirked wryly as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders. How arrogant he had been, how supremely confident that he could order his own life! He would dismiss his mistress with a minimum of fuss, and then he would overcome his young bride’s very natural reluctance and with skill and consideration initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood. Instead his mistress declined to be dismissed, and his wife retreated from him as if from Beelzebub. Of course he hadn’t helped matters any, allowing himself to become so hipped by the presence of the hapless Ferris that he had lashed out at Ginevra and then stormed back to London. He had embarked on a binge unequalled since those long-ago days when his first wife died, and he had come to his senses only as he plunged himself feverishly into the familiar darkness of Amalie’s body. And all the time his mind had protested, Ginevra, Ginevra ...
Amalie turned away from her mirror and looked at the marquess, trying to assess his strange mood. Her voice was carefully humble as she asked quietly, “Richard, are you still angry with me about last Tuesday? Is that why you will not stay with me? I tried to explain...” She gave a laugh that was just short of convincing. “I’m sorry I made a fuss, but you should have been frank with me, mon chou. Did you think I would not understand? How could I not? The French invented the marriage de convenance. I can see that you might decide to remarry if some girl’s dot were tempting enough, but of course it need make no difference between us.”
Standing by the door, Chadwick regarded the woman perched on her vanity stool. He looked at her—not sadly, but perhaps with a twinge of regret for all those times their bodies had merged in an act of love that had no love in it. He knew the contours and
Chadwick stared at his mistress, as the explanation suddenly occurred to him, the motivation for her shrewish temper and her unconscionable intrusion upon his wedding day: Amalie had been so sure, of him that she had dared to imagine he might marry her. The very insolence of the thought took his breath away. Oh, certainly, almost every year some member of the aristocracy scandalized the ton by wedding his demirep, and of course many of those women who pretended to be high sticklers were in fact little better than married whores, but such would never be the case for a Marchioness of Chadwick, and he could not understand how Amalie had come to think otherwise.
Indeed, until recently he had little thought to marry again. His first marriage had been such a misalliance that he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It had been the shock of the death of his son, so like him and yet a stranger, that had made him think seriously about reestablishing some sort of family life. He already had his mother and Bysshe who depended on him, and indeed the idea of finding some suitable young woman to grace his table and share his bed, perhaps give him more children, was not unappealing. He had taken time away from his political duties to survey the latest bevy of debutantes at Almack’s, but while his mere presence in that hallowed hall raised the hopes of sundry doting mothers, not one of the simpering misses paraded for his perusal had aroused any feeling in him other than boredom. His reaction had puzzled him, for certainly some of the girls were attractive, one or two even beautiful, and still another few showed promise of wit. He had not understood his indifference until the day he rode to Reading in answer to Sir Charles’s curious letter, and he spotted a girl with eyes like gold guineas cowering behind a beech tree.
Chadwick’s hard mouth quirked wryly as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders. How arrogant he had been, how supremely confident that he could order his own life! He would dismiss his mistress with a minimum of fuss, and then he would overcome his young bride’s very natural reluctance and with skill and consideration initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood. Instead his mistress declined to be dismissed, and his wife retreated from him as if from Beelzebub. Of course he hadn’t helped matters any, allowing himself to become so hipped by the presence of the hapless Ferris that he had lashed out at Ginevra and then stormed back to London. He had embarked on a binge unequalled since those long-ago days when his first wife died, and he had come to his senses only as he plunged himself feverishly into the familiar darkness of Amalie’s body. And all the time his mind had protested, Ginevra, Ginevra ...
Amalie turned away from her mirror and looked at the marquess, trying to assess his strange mood. Her voice was carefully humble as she asked quietly, “Richard, are you still angry with me about last Tuesday? Is that why you will not stay with me? I tried to explain...” She gave a laugh that was just short of convincing. “I’m sorry I made a fuss, but you should have been frank with me, mon chou. Did you think I would not understand? How could I not? The French invented the marriage de convenance. I can see that you might decide to remarry if some girl’s dot were tempting enough, but of course it need make no difference between us.”
Standing by the door, Chadwick regarded the woman perched on her vanity stool. He looked at her—not sadly, but perhaps with a twinge of regret for all those times their bodies had merged in an act of love that had no love in it. He knew the contours and
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