“Rundell was shocked,” he said. He was uncomfortably hot, and not in the good way, the lustful way. “He showed me scores of elegant, tasteful diamond rings. But I told him I wanted a great, vulgar stone, one that people could see flashing from a mile away.”
“Oh, Marchmont,” she said.
“Perhaps you could unclench your hands,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“Give me your hand, please,” he said.
She drew nearer. She put out her hand.
His heart beating unevenly, he slipped the ring onto her slim finger. It fit, as it ought to do. He’d been there, hadn’t he, when she was measured for gloves—for everything.
His heart continued its erratic nonsense all the same.
She held her hand up and watched the diamonds flash in the daylight streaming through the windows. There wasn’t a great deal of sunlight in this room at this time of day, but it flashed.
“It’swonderful,” she said softly.
“It is?”
She nodded, gazing down at it. She took in and let out a long breath. He watched her bosom rise and fall.
“It’sperfect,” she said. “Elegant, tasteful rings are for lesser women. The Duchess of Marchmont must wear a diamond that could serve as—as a lighthouse beacon in an emergency. Oh, Marchmont.”
She laughed then, and flung her arms about his neck. Her soft body went along.
He wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close. He buried his face in her hair and drank in the summer scent of her. She tipped her head back, inviting him, and he bent his head to accept the invitation. His mouth touched hers, soft and warm and fraught with memories: the Green Park and Hyde Park and the wild heat in the corridor of this house and in their mad coupling in his aunt’s carriage. His hold of her tightened.
A loud “ahem” came from behind him.
He and Zoe hastily sprang apart.
“The thirtieth, I see, will be not a minute too soon,” said Lord Lexham. “Marchmont, we had better find a way to keep you occupied. Come along to my study. Let us reach an agreement about the marriage settlements before we summon the lawyers and they begin wrangling.”
On Sunday, Priscilla arrived at the crack of dawn. She was obviously overflowing with news, because she pushed past Jarvis and burst into Zoe’s bedroom mere moments after Zoe stepped out of her bath.
It was harder to bathe in England than it had been in Cairo, but daily bathing was one Mohammedan custom Zoe refused to abandon. Here she had only a portable tub, not a great pool, and no coterie of slaves to wash and massage her and remove the hair from her body and oil and perfume her. But the English were not troubled by hair, and she didn’t need the other attentions. The tub served the main purpose.
“He chose ithimself,” Priscilla said.
“Chose what?” Zoe said as Jarvis wrapped the dressing gown about her.
“The ring.”
“What ring?”
“That monstrous great stone of yours. The engagement ring.”
“Oh,” said Zoe. “That was obvious.”
More obvious than she could have supposed.
He’d hidden it well, but she had been trained to see and hear what men hid. She was coming to understand him better. She was learning to read him better.
He’d thought about her.
He’d cared about whether she liked the ring or not. Cared deeply.
