Not much time had passed since her husband’s return that evening and his subsequent discovery of her little furred gift for him. She had been distraught when she had taken tea with Freddy for the second time in as many days, but fortunately, the Duchess of Whitley had been present.
Though she had not revealed to the other ladies that Searle had suffered a nightmare, they had instantly noted her morose countenance. And, as lady friends were wont to do, they dug for the source. It did not take them long to realize precisely who was to blame. While she had related to them her husband’s cool nature and easily changeable moods, she had, just as she had promised him, kept the marquess’s nightmares to herself. However, the duchess, whose own husband had fought alongside Searle in Spain, relayed Whitley’s joy in the dog she had recently acquired for his companionship. Whitley took the adorable pug everywhere, according to the duchess.
The seed of an idea had instantly been planted within Leonora, and it took root when the duchess casually mentioned there remained a lone male from the litter which the duchess had taken under her wing, but who could not be kept with his sister, who Whitley had grown such a fondness for.
Leonora had instantly known what she must do. And when she had taken one look at the sweet brown eyes of Julius Caesar, she had known no heart, regardless of how hardened and withered it may be, could resist the innocent allure of a puppy. She had not quite anticipated the violence of his displeasure, but she was pleased with herself for remaining firm.
She was slowly growing to understand how best to approach the man she now called husband. Extraordinarily slowly, perhaps, but she did consider it a victory, albeit a minor one, that her clash with him at dinner had ended not just with him choosing to keep little Caesar on his own, but with him escorting her from the dining room and spending an hour with her and the pup in the drawing room.
The Duke and Duchess of Whitley had already taught Caesar a fair number of tricks. Searle’s delight at the pup offering up his paw upon command had not been feigned. Indeed, it had been so real, so sudden, the sting of tears had burned her eyes, and she had been forced to blink rapidly to dispel them, lest he see them fall.
A subtle knock sounded at the door joining their chambers.
So subtle, in fact, Leonora almost failed to hear it. Rather the opposite of the brusque manner in which he had stormed into her chamber the day before, as if he were an invading army, intent upon conquering. And conquer her, he had. Oh, how he had.
Her cheeks warmed, her body tingling in pleasant remembrance and delighted anticipation. “Enter,” she called.
The door opened to reveal him, the magnificently handsome, utterly vexing enigma who was somehow hers. He wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, firm calves and bare feet peeking from beneath the hem. She had never imagined a gentleman’s feet could interest her, nor his bare limbs. But when it came to the Marquess of Searle, everything interested her.
Far more than was decent.
“Good evening, my lord,” she greeted him hesitantly, an odd, unwanted shyness falling over her now that they were alone again, with precious few layers between them and space that decreased upon each confident stride of his long legs.
“Good evening, Leonora,” he said in return, a slight smile curving his well-molded mouth.
Her name in the decadent rumble of his deep baritone sent a frisson down her spine as he stopped before her. The delicious scent of his cologne hit her senses next. And then she drank in the beauty of the sharp, masculine angles of his face. He exuded a dark, dangerous elegance this evening, his aloof air once more firmly in place. She could not shake the impression he was half lord, half weapon. If he were a blade, he could slice her cleanly in two, and she would still somehow revel in her own destruction.
Understanding hit her, not with the subtlety of a butterfly’s wings, gently beating in the air, but with the trampling rage of a stallion gone wild, intent upon galloping over everything in its path.
She was a fool for this man.
Leonora wet her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. Anticipation and nervousness warred within her. She wanted to say something. He was staring at her with an expression of anticipation. Indeed, it was her turn to offer something to their dialogue. And yet, her mind failed her. It was empty. Cavernous.
Shaken.
“I have something for you,” he said into the silence, taking her by surprise.
His words startled her tongue into belatedly functioning. “I do not require a gift, Searle. The gift I gave you this evening was intended for your comfort alone, not with the hope you would reciprocate.”
His smile deepened, fine lines appearing alongside his vibrant eyes that suggested while he no longer smiled readily now, he had done so enough in his past for his happiness to have left its mark upon his skin. “No one has given me a gift in as long as I can recall. It was remiss of me not to thank you for your consideration.”
Leonora blinked, wondering if her ears had deceived her. If she was delusional. Had the Marquess of Searle developed a fever? She barely thwarted the urge to press her fingers to his brow and ascertain whether or not it was hot to the touch.
He laughed before she could respond, the sound laden with bitterness. “You need not look so surprised by my gratitude, my dear. I behaved in an abominable, ungentlemanly fashion to you earlier, and I know it.”
How very confusing he was. Though he had not offered an apology, she supposed this was Searle’s version of one. Very well, since they were dabbling in the art of honesty, she would meet him halfway.
“You left me this morning.” On a rush, she said the words. Not in an accusatory tone, but a mere stating of fact. “And you did not return until dinner. Your abrupt departure was more ungentlemanly than your reaction to Julius Caesar.”
His lips thinned, his jaw clenching.
She had displeased him with her honesty, but she did not regret it.
“I had matters which required my attention.”
“The same matters which required your attention on the day of our wedding?” she could not resist asking.
For the first time, it occurred to her that he may have a mistress. That she may be sharing him with another woman without even knowing it. The notion made her stomach clench and her mouth go dry. Of course, she ought to have expected it before now. In their circle, it was not just customary but expected for a gentleman to have a wife and a mistress at once.
