One elegant eyebrow curled. They both knew it was a lie.
“I was under the impression it was. That playing your devoted wife was all you needed of me.”
Understanding hit him like a fist to the gut. His hands clasped behind his back, nails biting into his palms even as he kept his expression neutral.
A woman should not be so equal parts intoxicating and equal parts maddening!
Besides, he could think of many other reasons to need her—and a lot ended with her flushed and writhing beneath him.
“Indeed,” he swiftly cut instead, injecting a layer of frost to his voice, “I do need you.”
“As I expected.” She moved to the door. “Shall we?”
He nodded once, sharply.
It hurt to maintain the distance that had suddenly opened between them like a chasm in the earth after a quake. But he refused to be manipulated. Gideon Tarnley did not grovel or beg for forgiveness. He could see the glaring error he had made now—but resented the challenge being set.
Let her play her games. He could play his own.
They left Caerleon arm in arm, a portrait of marital harmony that fooled no one who looked too close. The carriage ride into London passed in peaceful silence.
At Obadiah Threnthorpe's rented townhouse, a butler announced them into the great hall where six other couples had already gathered. The Threnthorpes greeted them first, warm and effusive.
Gideon watched Catherine transform. She smiled, laughed, made pleasant conversation as they mingled, from guest to guest. His trained eye caught hints of uncertainty, the hesitation born of inexperience. But her genuine warmth more than compensated. There was something luminous about her that drew every eye.
Especially his.
“There you are at last!” Jeremy Bexley appeared at his elbow, grinning like a fool.
Gideon blinked. “Everdon? What the devil are you doing here?”
“Suchprejudice! My unmarried state should preclude me, should it?” Jeremy put a hand to his breastbone in mock horror. “Alas, I’ve just been offered a commission with the South Lancashire County Militia. Sir Obadiah wants experienced officers to protect his northern mills from the Luddites.”
“Luddites?” Catherine turned from her own conversation, her interest clearly piqued despite the frost between them.
“Men who have been displaced from their jobs by the machinery they made,” Gideon explained, “and so smash the machines… before they can make more. A sort of industrial tantrum.”
“Yes…quite,” Jeremy offered, deadpan. “Regardless, I find myself invited, now that I am unofficially on the staff.”
Gideon’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. He kept his circle small and useful—every man in it furthered a purpose, with none he truly trusted. Benedict, for gossip and introductions. While Jeremy, an old schoolmate of his brother’s, was excellent company at the club or the gaming tables.
Less so at formal dinners with potential investors. And even less so at fulfilling his commissions these days.
You better not ruin my shot, old boy.
“May I say, you look absolutely ravishing, Your Grace.” Jeremy bowed over Catherine’s hand with theatrical flourish.
“Careful, Everdon,” Gideon said without thinking.
His wife’s eyebrow arched. A flicker of something crossed her face before the cool mask returned.
“That is very gracious of you, Lord Everdon. Thank you,” Catherine smiled.
“Did you not bring a companion, Lord Everdon?” Sir Obadiah asked, approaching like a stuffed peacock.
“Alas, Sir Obadiah, I could find no one of my acquaintance suitable for such an occasion.” Jeremy’s grin was unrepentant. “Perhaps I shall have more luck in Lancashire.”
“I dare say.” Sir Obadiah turned to Gideon, his smile oily. “Now, the musicians are about to begin. Your Grace, may I claim the honor of the first dance with your lovely bride?”
