beyond that basic fact, I am my own person. You are the proof I have brought with me that I will not do anything merely because it is expected of the heir to the dukedom.”
“You did not have the courage merely to tell him that?” she asked.
“You, my lady,” he said, “are impertinent.”
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again without saying anything. She did not look away from him, though. She stared at him with wide eyes. He had the strange feeling that if he looked deeply enough into them he would see her soul. If she kept herself that wide open, he thought in some annoyance, sooner or later life was going to hurt her very badly indeed.
“You played your part well on your arrival,” he said. “You may confidently continue as you began. You need not be embarrassed by your lack of a fashionable wardrobe.And you need not be embarrassed by any lack of conversation—my family is not easy to converse with. We are expected in the drawing room immediately. You may stay close to me and leave the conversation to me. There is no necessity for you to impress anyone.”
She half smiled at him. “Augusta must have been very young when you went away,” she said.
“She was one week old,” he told her. “I stayed for my mother’s funeral.” He had shed no tears for his mother. He had sobbed painfully, the child in his arms, just before he left. The last tears he had shed—the last he would ever shed.
“Ah,” his wife said softly, and he could have sworn that she had slipped inside his head again and knew that he had wept over his last ever contact with love. Over his last foolishness.
He would not have her inside his head—or anywhere inside himself.
“Ours was a brief courtship,” he told her briskly. “You were governess at the home of an acquaintance of mine. I met you there, we fell in love, and we threw all caution to the winds. We married yesterday, mated last night, and are embarking upon a deeply passionate relationship today.”
She blushed and her eyes slipped from his for a few moments. But she looked back at him steadily enough.
“Then, my lord,” she said, “you must learn to smile.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You look,” she said, her eyes roaming over his face, “like a man who has married a stranger with the sole purpose of angering and perhaps disgusting someone else. You look like a man who is wallowing in bitter and unhappy triumph.”
His eyes narrowed. He found himself wondering if one short interview two days before had been sufficient time in which to learn about her character—or what hehad thought to be lack of character. But perhaps she had a point, he had to confess.
“You will have your smiles, my lady,” he said. “But below-stairs, where they will be seen by others. We have no need of them when we are alone.”
“No,” she said.
“Take my arm.” He offered it. “We are late. His grace does not tolerate unpunctuality.”
“That is why we have stood here talking instead of going down immediately?” she asked him. There was a look very like merriment in her eyes.
But he merely waited for her to take his arm.
T HE DUKE OF Withingsby’s family had moved directly to the drawing room from the hall. Although the fine weather might have tempted some of them out of doors to stroll until it was time for tea, they all felt an unexpressed need to remain together and to be out of the earshot of servants.
“One might have guessed,” Lord William Earheart said, the first to speak after the door had been closed, “that when he so meekly agreed to return to Enfield scarcely more than a week after his grace wrote to him, Staunton would have a trick or two up his sleeve. I would have advised his grace to leave the letter unwritten if my opinion had been sought.”
“Oh, William,” his wife said reproachfully, releasing his arm and setting hers about Augusta’s shoulders, “you would not have. You know you have longed for Anthony’s return as much
“You did not have the courage merely to tell him that?” she asked.
“You, my lady,” he said, “are impertinent.”
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again without saying anything. She did not look away from him, though. She stared at him with wide eyes. He had the strange feeling that if he looked deeply enough into them he would see her soul. If she kept herself that wide open, he thought in some annoyance, sooner or later life was going to hurt her very badly indeed.
“You played your part well on your arrival,” he said. “You may confidently continue as you began. You need not be embarrassed by your lack of a fashionable wardrobe.And you need not be embarrassed by any lack of conversation—my family is not easy to converse with. We are expected in the drawing room immediately. You may stay close to me and leave the conversation to me. There is no necessity for you to impress anyone.”
She half smiled at him. “Augusta must have been very young when you went away,” she said.
“She was one week old,” he told her. “I stayed for my mother’s funeral.” He had shed no tears for his mother. He had sobbed painfully, the child in his arms, just before he left. The last tears he had shed—the last he would ever shed.
“Ah,” his wife said softly, and he could have sworn that she had slipped inside his head again and knew that he had wept over his last ever contact with love. Over his last foolishness.
He would not have her inside his head—or anywhere inside himself.
“Ours was a brief courtship,” he told her briskly. “You were governess at the home of an acquaintance of mine. I met you there, we fell in love, and we threw all caution to the winds. We married yesterday, mated last night, and are embarking upon a deeply passionate relationship today.”
She blushed and her eyes slipped from his for a few moments. But she looked back at him steadily enough.
“Then, my lord,” she said, “you must learn to smile.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You look,” she said, her eyes roaming over his face, “like a man who has married a stranger with the sole purpose of angering and perhaps disgusting someone else. You look like a man who is wallowing in bitter and unhappy triumph.”
His eyes narrowed. He found himself wondering if one short interview two days before had been sufficient time in which to learn about her character—or what hehad thought to be lack of character. But perhaps she had a point, he had to confess.
“You will have your smiles, my lady,” he said. “But below-stairs, where they will be seen by others. We have no need of them when we are alone.”
“No,” she said.
“Take my arm.” He offered it. “We are late. His grace does not tolerate unpunctuality.”
“That is why we have stood here talking instead of going down immediately?” she asked him. There was a look very like merriment in her eyes.
But he merely waited for her to take his arm.
T HE DUKE OF Withingsby’s family had moved directly to the drawing room from the hall. Although the fine weather might have tempted some of them out of doors to stroll until it was time for tea, they all felt an unexpressed need to remain together and to be out of the earshot of servants.
“One might have guessed,” Lord William Earheart said, the first to speak after the door had been closed, “that when he so meekly agreed to return to Enfield scarcely more than a week after his grace wrote to him, Staunton would have a trick or two up his sleeve. I would have advised his grace to leave the letter unwritten if my opinion had been sought.”
“Oh, William,” his wife said reproachfully, releasing his arm and setting hers about Augusta’s shoulders, “you would not have. You know you have longed for Anthony’s return as much
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