English supper.” Could he sound any more of an ass if he tried?
He sipped from his wineglass and watched over the rim to see if his new wife would agree with his self- assessment of assedness, but as usual, the dratted woman wore a polite mask.
“Cook does make a pleasant Yorkshire pudding,” she murmured.
He’d hardly seen her in the last few days, and this was the first supper they’d shared together. Yet she didn’t scold or fret or indeed show any emotion at all. He set his wineglass down and tried to pinpoint the source of his discontent. This was what he’d wanted, surely? To have a complacent wife, one who didn’t make scenes or cause a fuss? He’d thought—when he’d thought ahead at all—that he’d see her now and again, escort her to the odd ball, and when she’d become safely pregnant, discreetly take a mistress. He was well on the way to achieving that goal.
And yet the reality was oddly dissatisfying.
“We’ve invitations to Lady Graham’s annual masked ball, I noticed,” he said as he cut his beef. “Rather a tedious event, of course, what with the need to wear masks. Mine always makes me hot and gives me a terrible urge to sneeze. But I thought you might like to come?”
She winced slightly as she raised her glass of wine. “Thank you for asking, but I don’t think so.”
“Ah.” He applied himself to his meat, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “If a mask is the problem, I can have one made in a trice. Perhaps a gilt one with feathers and little jewels about the eyes?”
She smiled at that. “I should look like a crow in a peacock’s finery. Thank you, but no.”
“Of course.”
“I trust you’ll attend, however,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to spoil your enjoyment.”
He thought of the endless damnable night hours and how he tried to fill them with the company of drunken strangers. “Most kind. I’m afraid I can’t withstand the temptation of a masquerade ball. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of watching otherwise dignified gentlemen and ladies prance about in dominoes and masks. Childish, I know, but there it is.”
She didn’t comment but merely watched him as she sipped from her wineglass. A single line had incised itself between her brows. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said to change the subject. “The candlelight becomes you.”
“I’m disappointed.” She shook her head sadly. “I sit with one of London’s most famous lovers, and he tells me the candlelight becomes me.”
His mouth twitched. “I am chastised, madam. Then shall I compliment your eyes?”
She widened them. “Are they liquid pools that doth reflect my soul?”
A surprised laugh burst from his lips. “Lady, you are a hard critic. Shall I tell you of your wondrous smile?”
“You may, but I may yawn.”
“I can shower praises on your figure.”
She arched a mocking brow.
“Then I shall expound upon your sweet soul.”
“But you don’t know my soul, sweet or otherwise,” she said. “You don’t know me.”
“So you’ve said before.” He sat back in his chair and examined her. She looked away from his gaze as if regretting her challenge. Which only piqued his interest more. “But you haven’t offered any insight into who you are either.”
She shrugged. One hand was pressed to her belly; the other idly twirled her glass stem.
“Perhaps I should go exploring into my lady wife’s mind. I shall begin simply,” he said gently. “What do you like to eat?”
She nodded to the cooling beef and Yorkshire pudding on her plate. “This is nice.”
“You don’t make this easy.” He cocked his head. Most ladies of his acquaintance loved to talk about themselves—it was their favorite subject, in fact. Why not his wife? “I mean, what do you like to eat most of all?”
“Roast chicken is nice. We can have that tomorrow night, if it’s agreeable to you.”
He placed his arms on the table and
He sipped from his wineglass and watched over the rim to see if his new wife would agree with his self- assessment of assedness, but as usual, the dratted woman wore a polite mask.
“Cook does make a pleasant Yorkshire pudding,” she murmured.
He’d hardly seen her in the last few days, and this was the first supper they’d shared together. Yet she didn’t scold or fret or indeed show any emotion at all. He set his wineglass down and tried to pinpoint the source of his discontent. This was what he’d wanted, surely? To have a complacent wife, one who didn’t make scenes or cause a fuss? He’d thought—when he’d thought ahead at all—that he’d see her now and again, escort her to the odd ball, and when she’d become safely pregnant, discreetly take a mistress. He was well on the way to achieving that goal.
And yet the reality was oddly dissatisfying.
“We’ve invitations to Lady Graham’s annual masked ball, I noticed,” he said as he cut his beef. “Rather a tedious event, of course, what with the need to wear masks. Mine always makes me hot and gives me a terrible urge to sneeze. But I thought you might like to come?”
She winced slightly as she raised her glass of wine. “Thank you for asking, but I don’t think so.”
“Ah.” He applied himself to his meat, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “If a mask is the problem, I can have one made in a trice. Perhaps a gilt one with feathers and little jewels about the eyes?”
She smiled at that. “I should look like a crow in a peacock’s finery. Thank you, but no.”
“Of course.”
“I trust you’ll attend, however,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to spoil your enjoyment.”
He thought of the endless damnable night hours and how he tried to fill them with the company of drunken strangers. “Most kind. I’m afraid I can’t withstand the temptation of a masquerade ball. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of watching otherwise dignified gentlemen and ladies prance about in dominoes and masks. Childish, I know, but there it is.”
She didn’t comment but merely watched him as she sipped from her wineglass. A single line had incised itself between her brows. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said to change the subject. “The candlelight becomes you.”
“I’m disappointed.” She shook her head sadly. “I sit with one of London’s most famous lovers, and he tells me the candlelight becomes me.”
His mouth twitched. “I am chastised, madam. Then shall I compliment your eyes?”
She widened them. “Are they liquid pools that doth reflect my soul?”
A surprised laugh burst from his lips. “Lady, you are a hard critic. Shall I tell you of your wondrous smile?”
“You may, but I may yawn.”
“I can shower praises on your figure.”
She arched a mocking brow.
“Then I shall expound upon your sweet soul.”
“But you don’t know my soul, sweet or otherwise,” she said. “You don’t know me.”
“So you’ve said before.” He sat back in his chair and examined her. She looked away from his gaze as if regretting her challenge. Which only piqued his interest more. “But you haven’t offered any insight into who you are either.”
She shrugged. One hand was pressed to her belly; the other idly twirled her glass stem.
“Perhaps I should go exploring into my lady wife’s mind. I shall begin simply,” he said gently. “What do you like to eat?”
She nodded to the cooling beef and Yorkshire pudding on her plate. “This is nice.”
“You don’t make this easy.” He cocked his head. Most ladies of his acquaintance loved to talk about themselves—it was their favorite subject, in fact. Why not his wife? “I mean, what do you like to eat most of all?”
“Roast chicken is nice. We can have that tomorrow night, if it’s agreeable to you.”
He placed his arms on the table and
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