Lady Torrington.
Yes, that was her. And here and now, as she stood with him in the sunlight streaming through the windows and a cat he had managed to find for her hiding under her bed across the chamber, she truly felt, for the first time, that she was indeed Lady Torrington. That she was his wife rather than a usurper.
That she belonged here.
Specifically, that she belonged withhim. That she was his, and he was hers, and that perhaps this marriage of convenience between two opposites—founded in scandal and unintentional mishaps—might actually work.
So she wrapped her arms around his neck, rose on her toes, and kissed her husband again, showing him all the happiness that was overflowing in her heart.
* * *
Torrie watchedBess happily petting the sleeping cat who was curled up in her lap, looking adorably innocent and not at all like the beast from hell who had scratched his neck and clawed his chest and shoulder earlier. From where he reclined amongst pillows on the floor of Bess’s chamber, the soft sound of the cat’s contented purrs reached him.
They had finally tempted the stubborn feline from her hiding place in the shadows beneath the bed using a plate of cooked chicken livers. After the little menace had begun eating, Bess had won her over easily. Not that he was surprised. Bess had a way about her that tended to win everyone over.
Except his mother.
But that was another story, and one he refused to dwell on as he watched the happiness radiating from his lovely wife. Despite the injuries to his person—which he would gladly sustain again just to make Bess happy—he was ridiculously pleased to do nothing more than watch her. At her direction, he had fashioned this mound of pillows and blankets, creating a cozy nest in which they had settled with the cat.
“What will you name her?” he asked, careful to keep his voice low and soft lest he wake the sleeping beast and send her racing back beneath the bed.
“I am trying to decide what she looks like,” Bess said, glancing up at him with a smile that melted everything inside him.
“She looks like a cat,” he pointed out, just to distract himself from the way Bess made him feel.
It was akin to the way he had felt earlier when he had spied the tears in her eyes. Like he wanted to haul her into his arms and bury his face in her sweetly scented hair, and never let her go. Like she was everything he had been searching for in this aimless life of his, without ever knowing it.
“Of course, she looks like a cat,” Bess agreed, her smile deepening. “That is not in dispute. But I want to give her a name that suits her. It needs to be the right name.”
She was putting a great deal of importance on the cat’s name. Upon the cat itself as well. And he was doing his damnedest not to feel jealous of the way she gazed on the furry little scamp.
“I’ve only had Mincey,” she added, her smile fading. “I wasn’t able to keep one with Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew or with Lady Andromeda.”
The reminder of the selfish, greedy distant relatives upon whose grasping mercies she had been unceremoniously thrust made his jaw clench. Sent anger on her behalf slicing through him. He had investigated whether there was any recourse for Bess concerning the misappropriation of her trust, but Pettigrew had drunk himself into an early grave, and his wife had taken ill soon thereafter and had died as well, leaving their own children orphaned. Lady Andromeda had lost everything as well, including her health. She was living with friends, and it was unlikely she would ever return from Bath.
It infuriated him to think there was no way he could regain what Bess had lost for her. That there would be no punishment for those who had hurt and used her. But Bess had been calmly accepting of the news. And in true Bess form, she had fretted over the Pettigrew brood, until he had reassured her the children had made a home with their maternal grandmother.
“I dislike thinking about the suffering you endured without reason,” he said now. “You should have had a dozen bloody cats if you’d wished.”
Her gaze caught his and held, searing him. “I have one now. That is all that matters. And she has to have the finest name I can possibly fathom. Do you have any ideas?”
He raised a brow. “Paws of Doom?”
Bess laughed quietly.
And dear God, that sound. He loved her laughter. Loved her happiness. He would never grow tired of hearing it, nor of being the reason for it.
“I was thinking of something far more formal.”
“Lady Razor Claws?” he suggested next.
“Too undignified,” she said, stroking the cat’s head as she slept. “She told me that she is embarrassed that your acquaintance began in such a regrettable fashion, and she is strongly looking forward to the opportunity to reform her reputation.”
It was his turn to chuckle now. “That is rather a mouthful for such a small cat, is it not?”
As if it were the most rational, reasonable act, pretending as if a sleeping cat possessed the ability to speak.
“She has much to say,” Bess offered with a small smile playing at the corners of her lips again. “She says she is sorry for scratching your neck.”
