She laughed too, and it was a good moment. Though he felt a bit of a pang at the thought that neither he nor his wife was in love and perhaps never would be.
Or would they?
Orwerethey?
Was he?
They ate their way through five courses. Lucas was surprised to find that he was hungry. He was gratified to see that his wife had a good appetite too. They conversed on a variety of topics—with some ease, he was happy to discover. It was so strange, this—all of it. The whole day. The frantic preparations this morning while his grandfather clung stubbornly to life in his own room with Grandmama in attendance on him. The brief nuptial service in the familiar surroundings of the drawing room rather than in a church. The busy, noisy hours afterward with a surprisingly large number of their relatives about them. His grandparents withdrawing to their own apartments and Aunt Kitty informing him that she and Jenny would dine quietly together in Jenny’s sitting room. Everyone else leaving within fifteen minutes of one another. His realization when he was alone with his wife that they belonged together now and for all time while they both lived. And now this quiet meal alone together, far less awkward than he had feared it would be.
It was his wedding day. He was a married man. He had wed Lady Philippa Ware, of all people. Daughter of the late Earl of Stratton. It was enough to make his head spin on his shoulders.
“Shall I go to the drawing room and leave you to your port?” she asked when the covers from the last course had been removed and both their wineglasses were empty.
“I think not,” he said, getting to his feet and offering her hishand. “The drawing room is really not a cozy place unless there is company. It is not late, but it is not early either. Shall we go up?”
Their wedding day was not over, after all. The part of it that was still to come was at least as important as what had been accomplished this afternoon. And he was ready for it, by God. For there had not been a moment all afternoon or now, during dinner, when he had not been aware of her as a woman. Whom he desired quite acutely.
“As you wish.” She set her hand in his. Slender, long-fingered, smooth-skinned. He could feel her rings with his thumb. For a moment their eyes met and he saw in hers... Not desire, surely. But not revulsion either, or even just mute acceptance.
He closed his fingers about hers.
Chapter Twenty-One
He understood that there was one very basic difference between what marriage meant to a woman and what it meant to a man, Philippa realized. A bride must relinquish both her family and her home in order to live in the midst of a new family in a strange home. It was a huge difference. Did all men know that? She doubted it.
He had accompanied her downstairs to the hall this afternoon when her immediate family was returning home to Stratton House. He had shaken hands with her brothers, kissed the women on the cheek, and tousled Joy’s hair as she dashed by. He had stood in the doorway, not beside Philippa but slightly behind her. His presence had given support, but he had not intruded upon what was an emotional moment for all of them. He had given her space and the time to hug everyone at some length. At dinner this evening he had acknowledged that today must be more difficult for her than it was for him.
In fact, since meeting him in London, she had seen no evidenceat all that he was a man capable of arrogance or disdain or cruelty. And the story he had told her when he came to Stratton House to speak with Devlin and then her had really quite adequately explained his behavior on that notorious evening just before Easter four years ago.
Philippa stood at the window of an unfamiliar bedchamber, which would be hers while they remained in London. Behind her, candles burned on the dressing table. Before and below her was the garden at the center of Berkeley Square, visible in the light shed by the lamps about its perimeter. It never seemed to be quite dark in London as it was in the country whenever clouds hid the moon and stars. There was a couple walking arm in arm diagonally across the garden. It was really not very late, of course. There were probably balls and parties somewhere tonight that were just nicely getting started.
It seemed strange that he had kissed her only once. At Stratton House after he had told his story and just before Devlin came back into the library and interrupted them. He had kissed her only that once. Yet this was her wedding day. Her wedding night.
It was as though the thought brought him to her. There was a tap upon her dressing room door, which was not quite shut, and it opened as soon as she answered. He must have performed some sort of juggling act in order to tap on the door, though. He was carrying a glass of wine in each hand.
“I toasted you with our families and guests,” he said, approaching to hand her one of the glasses. “Then they toasted us. We did not toast each other.”
“It is champagne?” she asked, noting the bubbles in her glass.
“It is,” he said. He was wearing a burgundy-colored dressing gown and slippers. He was clean-shaven. She could smell what must be his shaving cream—a musky, masculine scent. His hair had been brushed to a smooth sheen.
“Do you have mistresses?” she asked abruptly, and was instantly appalled that she had spoken aloud. She did not know where the question had come from. She had not beenthinkingit.
He recoiled, rather as though she had punched him on the chin. He looked down to make sure he had not spilled any of his champagne.
“Plural?” he said. “No. Not singular either. And if I did, they—assuming the number to be plural—would have been dismissed early today and for all time.”
“I would not remain silent about it, you know,” she told him. “Even though ladies are taught that they must acquiesce with dignity and silence when necessary to the way their husbands choose to live their lives. I would not keep silent. I would make noise.”
“I could almost wish to hear it,” he said. “Alas, it will never be necessary. I have a wife. I made promises to her before a clergyman and both our families a few hours ago. There is no time limit on those promises, onlyuntil death do us part.”
He spoke quietly, though his tone was a bit grim.
“I did not intend to ask,” she told him. “The question seemed to ask itself. But I will not apologize for it. I will not tolerate a marriage like my mother’s.”
“You will never be expected to,” he said. “But it is as well you asked your question so that I can now ask mine. Will you ever take lovers? After you have presented me with a son, perhaps? It is done, you know, and far more frequently than you might think. Or so I have heard—and believe.Discretionseems to be the guiding principle of many in theton, both men and women. Almost any transgression can be forgiven exceptindiscretion.”
She had angered him, Philippa could see. But she was still not sorry. It was a question she ought to have asked last night before it was too late. But even now, after she had married him, she wouldnot allow him his conjugal rights if he kept mistresses. Or evenonemistress. Shewould notbe like her mother, despite all the admirable dignity Mama had maintained throughout her marriage.
