She pulled her hand away.
"Lady Tewkbury now, a newlywed." Louisa watched them with sharp, curious eyes.
He dropped her hands. "You're married?"
Ellen fumbled for words. "Well ... " Dear sweet heaven.
He must never find out this is a sham. She lifted her chin.
"Yes. I am married to Lord Edmund Tewkbury."
"Well, this will be a very entertaining few days, indeed. Smile," he hissed at her as he forced a bright smile upon his own face.
She felt the corners of her mouth lift in a reluctant smile and wished a hole in the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
For Robert himself had once, so long ago, given her his promise of marriage.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The new chap was making moon eyes at his wife, and Edmund did not like it one bit. He sawed into his steak with such force that the knife scraped the porcelain underneath and threatened to break it. His wife sat next to the new guest, and Edmund sat across from them—what was that fellow's name again? Every time he looked up, he saw the man tilting his head towards his wife and talking. And talking. While she listened. And nodded. And listened some more. There was this pinched, absent-minded smile playing about her lips that he'd never seen before. Somehow it gave him a pang in his chest, which made no sense at all. Edmund stabbed at the peas on his plate as if they were at fault.
He hadn't known that more guests were expected at this party. The fellow apparently was an old friend of Ellen's. Edmund suspected he must have been more than that, judging by the possessive way he now placed his hand over hers. Then, as he spoke, he touched her sleeve and leaned forward to look deeply into her eyes.
He'd called her Ellen, not Lady Tewkbury.
Edmund growled. What right had this fellow to call his wife by her given name?
"Is the steak not to your liking?" Lady Cynthia fluttered her eyelashes at him.
She was a beautiful but cold woman who'd been trying to flirt with him ever since they'd arrived at Dobberham Manor. At previous house parties, they might have had an unspoken understanding; they might even have flirted with the promise of more. But he had made no overt move towards her, nor had he ever made any promises. When it came down to it, Lady Cynthia was not to his taste. She was too tall, too angular and too sharp, especially with her tongue. Her eyes were sharp too, and she had already noticed that the new guest was making moon eyes at his wife.
Lady Cynthia smelled of lemon and bergamot; not an unpleasant smell, except that she'd poured so much of her toilet water on her hair that it was overpowering.
"Mr Mattick seems to be rather well acquainted with Lady Tewkbury," she mentioned between two sips of claret.
Edmund shrugged. What could he say to such an obvious statement? If he replied he did not care, it would sound callous and not in keeping with the image of a newlywed in love. If, on the other hand, he responded with jealousy, it rankled because… well.
His fork fell on his plate with a clatter.
Surely, it can't be true?
He wasn't really jealous?
Not of this ill-dressed oaf.
Edmund raised his quizzing glass.
This was no gentleman of fashion, he concluded. His coat was well-tailored but he wore it badly, and somehow the cut did not suit his physique. Nor was his cravat tied properly; it was slightly crooked. Edmund shuddered. He would shoot himself before showing up at a dinner party with a badly cut coat and a twisted cravat. His own cravat, of course, sat to perfection.
The man wore an unimaginative perfume, which he identified as a brand from Floris. One of their cheaper brands.
But this, what was his name again? Attic. Hattick. Mattick.
This Mattick, who exactly was he?
He turned to Lady Cynthia and abruptly posed the question. Her face lit up, for she was the gossip of the party and knew everything about everyone.
"He's from the well-to-do gentry, heir to a considerable fortune. Quite a catch, in fact."
