As it had happened, his cock was an indisputably randy prick.
Ah, if only the marchioness knew the filth that was invading his mind and that the polite excuse he’d given for Vivi’s absence was utter claptrap. Or that mere hours before, when dawn had been cresting over the sleepy Yorkshire landscape, his tongue had been deep inside his wife’s cunny yet again and she’d been eager and so very wet, making the most deliciously wicked sounds.
The dragon would likely snort herPartridge à la Clarenceout her haughty nose at the vaguest hint of such untoward behavior.
He hid his smile in his glass of wine, feigning interest in Lady Featherstone’s endless conversation. Although he was inordinately proud of the fact that he had so thoroughly sated his wife that she had slept past noon for the first time in her life, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of joining her houseguests for luncheon.
Initially, he had been grateful for the distraction after the heaviness of his revelations to Vivi the day before and their incredible night together. His heart was wound tighter than a watch spring, and he was desperate to make the last confession to her he hoped he ever needed to—that being his love for her. He was also terrified to tell her, not entirely knowing what to expect. Neither of them had spoken of finer emotions during their sensual idyll. The night had been about pleasure and reunion, about making amends for all the hurt and pain that had come between them.
“I know you shall be an improving influence upon Her Grace,” Lady Featherstone told him with an ominous air, as if her words were more threat than prediction.
And although she sipped her soup with perfect aplomb and the exquisite manners to which she had undoubtedly been born, the marchioness somehow managed to drip a tiny chunk of meat directly on the black pleated silk adorning her bodice. There it remained, like a jaunty little salute.
He could only think that even the partridge found Lady Featherstone insufferable.
Why the devil had Vivi invited such a paragon of hypocritical virtue? If there was a good reason, he couldn’t, for the life of him, think of one in this moment.
“You are most kind,” he managed, forcing a smile. “However, I am reasonably certain that it is Her Grace who shall be the improving influence upon myself.”
“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Lady Charity Manners from down the table. “I fear you have confused matters, Lady Featherstone. You see, His Grace has been traveling abroad for the last year, and it is plain to see that Her Grace has rung the bell to call him home. I daresay a bit of domesticity is just what he needs.”
Another of Vivi’s circle that had formed in his absence, Lady Charity was brash and audacious. She had been goading Lady Featherstone since their arrival, and he couldn’t deny that he admired the younger lady’s ability to hold her own against the dowager. Lesser women would have already waved the white flag of surrender beneath Lady Featherstone’s censorious glare and withering setdowns.
Even so, his masculine pride winced at her suggesting Vivi had rung a bell and he had bounded home like a mongrel being called to dinner.
“Of course it is domesticity that every gently bred man requires,” Lady Featherstone snapped before Court could speak. “However, a gentleman also requires his own sphere, in which a good wife never must intrude. It is the husband’s prerogative to do as he must, and it is the duty of the wife to obey her husband in all things. Is that not so, dear daughter?”
She turned her question and her sharp gaze upon Lady Edith, who had the misfortune to be seated at Lady Featherstone’s side, in addition to the misfortune of having been born the detestably opinionated woman’s daughter.
“Of course, Mother,” Lady Edith said dutifully, offering a wan smile.
She was painfully shy, with brilliant red hair and a pair of spectacles perched on her freckled nose. Court had met Lady Edith and her mother in passing at various Society gatherings over the years. And it rather saddened him to see that, although it had been some time since he’d last crossed paths with the pair, Lady Edith remained just as firmly under her mother’s thumb as ever. Hardly surprising, he supposed. The marchioness’s personality was sharp as a blade. Lady Edith would likely remain unwed for life.
“Perhaps a good wife ought to intrude in some instances,” he suggested lightly, nettled by Lady Featherstone, despite the amusing addition to her bodice. “I am certain that most gentlemen appreciate the opinions and companionship of their wives both.”
“Opinions?” the marchioness scoffed, and this time, another small sliver of partridge went sailing from her mouth to the snowy white table linen, landing perilously near to the epergne. “It is not a lady’s place to have any opinions at all.”
“None?” Lady Clementine asked, a note of outrage in her voice.
“Perhaps one,” suggested Lady Edith quietly.
Meekly.
The poor chit.
Someone had to rescue her from her mother. That much was apparent.
“Perhaps it is done differently here in England,” Miss Lucy Chartrand said archly. “But in America, a woman is entitled to as many opinions as she likes.”
“And being an American, no doubt you have many,” Lady Featherstone said sourly.
“I am reasonably certain that all women harbor opinions, be they in America or England,” added Miss Madeline Chartrand pointedly.
The sisters hailed from a hideously wealthy family that was essentially New York City royalty. It was apparent that the eldest daughters were making inroads in the English aristocracy. Likely, their parents were eager for them to make advantageous matches. It wouldn’t be the first time that a wealthy American family secured a lord for its daughter, nor, he knew, would it be the last.
“It is not the existence of opinions that matters, Miss Chartrand,” Lady Featherstone announced loftily. “Rather, it is the airing of them.”
Ah, hell. Where was more wine when he needed it? His glass was empty. He signaled to a footman. For that matter, where were some fellow men when he needed them? He’d give his left ballock to be away from this hideous spectacle of a luncheon, hidden away somewhere playing billiards or riding or shooting. Anything. Anything at all that would take him away from Lady Featherstone.
