“I never thought of her that way.”
“Surely you saw it. We all saw it. I’m sure John knows what she feels for you.”
Trem shook his head. John and he were so close—they would have discussed it. John would have told him to be careful, not to raise her hopes, if he had any inclination. He cared very much for his sister’s happiness.
Montaigne whistled. “Have it your way, Trem. But of course she’ll have you. She has given you her virtue, or near enough to it—” Trem didn’t correct his friend here. It wasn’t important, after all “—and she has loved you since she was a girl. She’ll have you, mate. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Bollocks, you really do want her,” Montaigne said, his expression the most serious it had been all morning. “Well, brother, if that’s how you really feel, you should do whatever it takes to make her yours. If you miss your chance, you may never get it back.”
Trem started at this unusually solemn proclamation from his most roguish friend.
“What is this philosophy? When have you ever wished to see more of a woman?”
Montaigne looked down and immediately began engaging in a thorough inspection of his salt caster.
“Never,” he said, in a tone that was not quite convincing. “You know me.”
Then, his friend looked up with a grin.
“I just don’t want you to lose your chance, mate. From all I hear, Henrietta gets a proposal a week. Wouldn’t want another fellow to get to her first.”
Chapter Nine
Henrietta had been unable to think of anything but Trem—his hands, his mouth, his words—for the rest of the day and into the next morning.
Could lust be a disease? she asked herself when she woke that morning from a very deep and dream-filled sleep. She had dreamed about only one possibility, again and again, her imagination unfolding the fantasies that her body wanted to enact.
She had been a fool to think that what she had felt with Hartley was desire. In comparison to what she wanted to repeat—and experience anew—with Trem, the desire she had felt for Hartley was a pallid, sickly inclination. Her appetite for Hartley was what one felt for a piece of cake that was not to your taste but appeared in front of you at table. You might take a few bites because it was there, but you did not regret it when it was gone.
By comparison, her desire for Trem was the type that led one on a covert mission through the windiest, strangest streets of London to find that one treat shop that had given you, days before, a sample of its wares that you just could not forget.
In this instance, however, she couldn’t traipse across London, slavering like a dog to his door. She had already stayed too long at his town house yesterday. If she was seen calling on him alone once more, anyone might see—and begin to question. And that was not to even mention what he might think of her, how desperate she would seem if she ran after him like a love-struck girl.
No. He had said he would call. She would have to wait.
Henrietta had no idea what his promise to call meant, although she was very aware of her own hopes. She hoped that it might be the beginning of something…more. The possibility that Trem might care for her, want her, seemed impossible—and yet the prospect tantalized her.
Thus, she could not stop asking herself that one all-consuming question: would he come?
Henrietta knew she should be preoccupied instead by Hartley and his persistent assertion that she would be his wife. It was clear to her that he had no intention of giving up on his quest. But she found it difficult to concentrate on the unpleasant prospect of Hartley when Trem still filled her senses.
She had barely been able to make it through breakfast with John, Catherine, and baby Griffon. The warmth of their little family unit, which she had always before taken to include her, was usually a comfort to her. But this morning, their talk grated on her nerves, which made her feel even more ungrateful and unworthy of their easy love.
In a departure from aristocratic custom, Catherine and John insisted on having their infant son at table when they dined en famille. While Henrietta usually enjoyed the noise and comedy that Griffon brought to mealtimes, today she began to see why most high-society families kept children in the nursery.
“I will be attending the meeting of the Horticultural Society this morning,” her sister-in-law told John, while their baby banged his small spoon against the table. Catherine reached across the table to lay the spoon out of Griffon’s reach, wordlessly. “To prepare for the joint lecture I will be delivering with Lady Dalrymple at her salon next week.”
“Marvelous,” John said, smiling at his wife like she was the most brilliant, beautiful, singular woman who had ever walked the earth. Usually, Henrietta found this adoration endearing, but today it felt a bit tiresome. She loved Catherine, but she had announced an activity that for her was hardly out of the ordinary. “And this is the lecture on the history of Tintern Abbey? Where you will discuss the ruins themselves and Lady Dalrymple its native flora and fauna?”
“Exactly, my love.” Catherine beamed. Meanwhile, Griffon had resumed the same banging with his miniature fork. Neither John nor Catherine seemed to notice, however. They were sharing a besotted glance, which looked perilously close—in Henrietta’s opinion—to either a knowing look about the shared pleasures of the night before or a promise as to what would transpire this evening.
It put her off her breakfast. Even her chocolate.
She knew, of course, that John would feel more than off his chocolate if he discovered what she and Trem had done. Knowledge of her own hypocrisy didn’t stem her irritation, however.
She loved her brother and his family—but never before had they felt more like a separate unit from her, a group that could include her but that she wasn’t fundamentally a part of.
