"Dido and Aeneas," one guessed.
"Amor and Psyche," suggested another.
Wrong on all counts.
The scene looked familiar, Ellen thought. But what could it be?
Miss Anne jumped to her feet with a shriek. "I know! How silly of me! Of course it is! I drew it myself only a fortnight ago. It's a scene from the Elgin Marbles, isn't it?"
Louisa nodded, pleased. "Well done, Miss Anne, very well done indeed."
"Tricky one," Dobberham murmured, "as most of the sculptures have no heads nor arms."
Louisa clapped. "Yes, but they did such a wonderful job. I congratulate you. And how difficult it is to choose a winner. You have all done a phenomenal job, and my works of art were difficult to recreate. But if I had to choose one that stood out above the rest, it would be ... " she paused dramatically, "Tewkbury and Lady Cynthia's Elgin Marbles, followed by Miss Anne's and Mr Tilney's Hades and Persephone, although you did not hold that position for more than a minute. And finally, The Love Letter by Lady Tewkbury and Lord Ainsley. Ainsley was a delightful sight as a woman."
Ainsley, who still wore women's clothes and seemed to have taken a liking to them, fluttered a fan he'd borrowed from Miss Anne and curtsied. "I am delighted, Lady Dobberham," he said in a falsetto voice.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the end of the first week, Edmund was deeply sorry that he had agreed to come to the house party. He should have just packed his bags and gone on a trip. He could have gone to Bath to take the waters, or to the Lake District, or even to Scotland. At worst, he could have fled to France.
Oddly enough, he enjoyed the daily stolen moments with Noni in the nursery, which reminded him of the time when he was young and ran about the house and park together with Dobberham. They'd scampered through forests and fields, swam in the lake, and fished in the brook.
It was because of Dobberham that he was here, he reminded himself. He was his friend; the only friend he had who knew what Edmund was really like.
The other gentlemen regarded him as a ninnyhammer, and that was fine with him; he was used to being seen by society as a fool who wasn't quite right in the head. He suspected he'd contributed to that image. Only with Dobberham did he let down his guard.
Despite appearances to the contrary, Dobberham, like Edmund, was not given to excesses in gambling, drinking or womanising. And though he liked to boast to the contrary, Edmund knew his friend was faithful to Louisa and worshipped the ground on which she walked.
The others, however, spent most of the night gambling and carousing, casting up their drinks under the table, only to imbibe more.
It was distasteful, to say the least.
Edmund made sure he never drank more than a few glasses, especially since his last drunken escapade appeared to have resulted in him being saddled with a ward. Now, some of the men shouted rowdy songs and suggested that they should all go down to the wine cellar, where there would be even more wine.
If he could, Edmund would have retired to his room long ago.
Only there was a woman in his bed, and that woman was his wife.
They had said vows in a church without meaning them. It had felt real, and yet it had been a lie. The whole situation made his head spin. He wouldn't say he regretted marrying her. There were some parts of the arrangement that were convenient. He no longer had to watch out for the unmarried misses or endure the fear that he might end up shackled to one of them. That had been the whole point of it all, hadn't it?
And then there were moments in his marriage when it felt all too real.
Like now, when he stood in front of their bedroom, stepping from one leg to the other, knowing his wife would be inside, sleeping.
Hang it all. He wanted a bed; he wanted a quiet, dark room, and if Ellen was there, so be it. She was supposed to be his wife, after all.
He opened the door carefully and stepped into the room.
She was asleep. The covers tangled around her, her red hair spread across the pillow, and a hand was tucked under her chin.
She looked like a little girl when she slept.
Edmund stood in front of the bed, stunned, barely able to tear himself away from the vision. With a sigh, he peeled off his coat and cravat and stretched out in the armchair by the window. He cast off his shoes and propped his legs up on the second chair. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but he was so, so tired. He tucked a small, hard, decorative pillow under his head and dozed off.
Sometime during the night, he found himself lying on the floor.
It was hard; he was cold, and he was shivering.
