‘But not a large one,’ she replied. ‘The settlement from my father is generous, but I do not intend to squander it.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, somewhat mollified. Her frugality might be common ground between them. ‘Despite my behaviour yesterday, I have no desire to see you unhappy.’ Now he should apologise, but the words stuck in his throat. Since the argument had been from her unwillingness to cede control of the marriage, she should be the sorry one. It was the natural order of things that she follow his lead.
But he had known that she was an unnatural creature from the first. Proper women did not turn up half-naked in sporting clubs. Nor did they trick unsuspecting men into marrying them. Could he really fault her for being consistently inconsistent? ‘I am sorry that we argued,’ he said at last. That truth did not require him to give any ground.
‘And I am sorry if you find me difficult,’ she said, giving him an equally weak contrition.
It would do. He let out a small sigh of relief. ‘Then we agree that we wish to make our way through this awkward situation as pleasantly as possible.’
‘You speak of our marriage as if it is a bog,’ she said, focusing her full attention on the toast in front of her, slathering it with marmalade to the very edges and licking a drip from her finger with the tip of her tongue.
He stared at it and felt his own mouth water. He was giving her table manners far too much attention. Probably because he was not used to being distracted by an attractive female at breakfast. Perhaps tomorrow, he could eat alone, in silence, reading his mail, just as he always did. But today, he needed to speak to her, if he could manage to remember what it was that he’d meant to say.
She was cleaning her other fingers now, with catlike dabs of her tongue. They were almost like small, wet kisses. They would be sweet kisses, because of the jam…
She looked up at him, returning his stare.
He looked quickly back to his own plate which was already empty. He put another kipper on it, not because he was hungry, but because it seemed foolish to be lingering at table with her when he was so obviously finished with his meal.
‘Do you view our union as an obstacle?’ she said, reminding him of the discussion in progress.
‘I view our marriage as a challenge,’ he said. There was no point in avoiding the truth. ‘But not an insurmountable one. If we work together, we can solve it,’ he added.
‘What sort of challenge? And why must we do anything together? You made it quite plain that you wanted nothing to do with me.’ Did she sound hurt? ‘And I want nothing to do with you, either.’ She’d added that so quickly he wondered if it was meant to disguise a tender heart.
‘Living separate lives is not quite the same thing as having nothing to do with each other,’ he said, patiently. ‘There will be questions enough about our marriage without making the world think we are enemies.’
‘But why should it matter what the world thinks?’ she said, her annoyance returning.
He and his friends had said something similar when they’d started the club. But Fred had come to realise that, no matter what he said, he’d felt something quite different when he had watched his family’s behaviour. ‘It matters to me what the world thinks of us. Since I am your husband, it should matter to you as well.’
It was a simple enough explanation for even a child to understand. He knew what was best and she should abide by his rules. Instead, she looked at him not just with doubt, but with rebellion. ‘You think because we have been forced into a union, that your opinion, which did not matter at all to me a week ago, should be the mark upon which I measure all future behaviour.’
‘I do.’ But why did she make unquestioning obedience sound so unreasonable? ‘Since I am not asking for anything more outlandish than a truce between us, perhaps you can enumerate the problems you see with agreeing.’
Perhaps he was learning to be subtle. By the puzzled look on her face, it was clear that she had no good response. Then she said, carefully, ‘Just what might such a truce entail?’
‘Nothing too terribly onerous,’ he assured her. ‘We both want to live separately. But I would like to do so without adding to the gossip that is already swirling about our sudden wedding. Interest in us will wane if we attempt to seem like a happy couple, at least long enough for a honeymoon.’
‘A month,’ she said, taking said moon as a literal measure of time.
He nodded. ‘We should be seen in public together over the next few weeks. The Season is almost over. By the end of June, most of the gossips will have gone to Bath or Brighton. At such time, we can adjourn to the country…’
‘Or to separate homes,’ she finished.
‘By next Season, our marriage will be old news. If we maintain multiple dwellings and do not spend all our evenings in each other’s pocket, we will be no different from most other couples in London.’
She stared at him for a moment as though weighing advantages and disadvantages before answering, ‘Very well. How do you suggest we begin?
‘A ride this afternoon, I think. Everyone who is anyone will be in Hyde Park. I suggest we join them.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
George’s problems with Mr Challenger’s truce began almost immediately.
Or was she to think of him as Frederick now that they were pretending to be happy? Somehow it did not seem natural. Perhaps not. It was rare to hear a wife be so informal as to use her husband’s given name, though her parents had never spoken with formality at home. The Christian names they’d exchanged were always passed with smiles of such warmth that she’d had no doubt of their love for her and each other.
But now, as she looked at the man next to her, she could not imagine ever calling him anything but Mr Challenger. Or perhaps Major Challenger, since he seemed intent on ordering her about.
