“You are very handsome yourself,” she said, admiring the way his formal black trousers and coat hugged his impossibly tall and strong form.
He covered her hand with his for a moment and winked at her, the charming flirt once more. She supposed he was accustomed to hearing compliments from the fairer sex, but his words of praise were rare for her to hear, trapped away as she’d been in the country. Even before her marriage, however, she’d always considered herself plain. There were many women with far greater beauty than she possessed, women who commanded the interest of men like Pembroke. The thought curdled the warm glow of appreciation that had suffused her.
He seated her and lingered at her elbow, his spicy scent toying with her senses. He hadn’t come to her chamber since the night he’d returned, and the knot of longing within her continued to grow, particularly after their tableau in the music room. She didn’t want that knot. Indeed, she tried with all her might to undo it.
She treaded dangerous ground now. Victoria focused her gaze on the spray of English daisies and roses upon the table as she thanked Pembroke for his escort.
“You are most welcome,” he said, his voice a low, velvety timbre in her ear.
Unless she was mistaken, he hesitated just long enough to deliver a quick nibble to her earlobe before straightening and rounding the table. His expression remained impassive as he sat. Had she imagined the delicious tug of his teeth upon her? The peculiar sensation of restlessness skittering through her suggested that she had not.
Awkward silence descended as the first course, a lovely smelling turtle soup, was laid before them. Pembroke abruptly directed the servants to leave them alone, startling her. She looked at him askance, trying not to notice how rakishly handsome he appeared with his too-long mahogany locks brushing the collar of his coat, his lively eyes sparkling in that too-handsome face, his mobile mouth always quirked with a hint of naughtiness.
“Everywhere I look, it seems I find another change wrought by the fair hand of my wife. You’ve done away with the powdered wigs,” he noted when the door had closed, leaving them completely alone.
When she’d arrived at Carrington House, everything had been outmoded and dilapidated. She knew from experience that these days, country houses rarely required footmen to wear the wigs so preferred by previous generations unless it was the most formal of occasions. She was once again at a loss. He had always seemed far too busy being a devil-may-care to pay attention to the dress of his servants.
“Almost no one requires it any longer,” she offered. “Scratchy, dreadfully uncomfortable things, I’m told, though still preferable to powder.”
“Indeed?” He raised a brow. “Do you make it a habit of inquiring after the welfare of all our footmen?”
“Most certainly not.” She flushed, having difficulty concentrating with his gaze pinned upon her. “I asked my lady’s maid when I contemplated the change. It seemed so silly to continue the practice unless we actually had guests in residence. Do you object, my lord?”
“Pray call me Will, my dear. We are on decidedly intimate terms now, are we not? As it happens, I don’t mind the absence of the wigs. Always looked as if they were about to slide off anyhow.” He tasted his soup. “Delightful. I shall have to pass my compliments to Mrs. Rufton.”
She hadn’t known much of Pembroke as the master of his estate. But from what she’d gleaned from belowstairs gossip related to her by her lady’s maid, he hadn’t been the sort to notice anything in his household unless it affected his own pleasures. Yet it appeared he had gone to great length to take note of even the tiniest changes she’d made.
She wasn’t certain if it was because he’d taken an interest in her, or if it was because he disliked her taking up the reins. “I waited quite some time to begin making my mark here at Carrington House,” she offered, feeling as if she ought to explain. “You never answered my correspondence, and so I suppose I took your silence as acceptance.”
“Of course you would.” He flashed her a smile that she couldn’t quite decipher. “May I ask you something, my dear?”
“You may.” She stilled in the act of sampling Mrs. Rufton’s rich soup. “But I cannot promise an answer.”
His smile deepened, and it served to only enhance the startling effect of his good looks. “Everyone, from the new housekeeper to Mrs. Rufton to the very proper Wilton, has been raving about how wonderful a mistress you are. I can see much has changed, and yet when I arrived, there was an inordinate amount of dust in my chamber. Why?”
She felt her cheeks go warm. Oh dear. It seemed her husband’s newfound skills of observation extended to all matters. She was embarrassed that he’d caught her childish act of defiance. “You were not mistaken.” She paused. “I directed Mrs. Morton to tell the housemaids not to touch your chamber.”
“Indeed?”
“I had no reason to think you’d be returning any time soon,” she added hastily. “But I must admit that I was also hoping that should you return you’d suffer a very unpleasant welcome.”
He laughed at her admission. At least, she reasoned, he wasn’t angry with her for allowing the dust to grow in his chamber. Lord knew it had given her endless amounts of satisfaction to imagine him sneezing away in it during the months of his absence.
“I daresay you won that battle, my dear. I’m sure I was sneezing my wits out all evening when I first arrived.”
She shared his smile, aware she was ever falling more under his potent spell. “You deserved it, my lord.”
“Will,” he reminded her.
“Will,” she said, trying his Christian name on her tongue. Will seemed fitting. Pembroke had been the rogue husband who’d abandoned her. It was as if Will was the charming, perceptive man who’d taken his place. Except Will and Pembroke were one and the same, knave and charmer in one gloriously handsome form. There was the rub.
His expression sobered. “I confess I do like hearing my name on your lovely lips.”
She forced herself to recall the awful months he’d left her to cavort with other women in London, lest she throw herself at him there in the dining room. “You deserved it, Will,” she said pointedly before returning her attention to her soup.
“Touché.” He raised his wine goblet to her in mock salute. “But I still enjoy hearing you say my name.”
She looked back up at him. “I’m sure you’ve grown accustomed to hearing it on the lips of many otherladies.” The emphasis she put upon the word left no doubt that she did not think any of them had been ladies at all.
