At their first meeting, he’d reminded her of Schahriar, the sultan fromArabian Nights’ Entertainments(minus the wife-killing tendencies) and that fanciful image of him had deepened over time. She pictured him wearing flowing robes, strolling through his palace the way he was strolling toward her now. With the casual confidence of a man who knows he is master of all he surveys.
The hairs on her skin tingled as she took in the subtle flexing of sinew beneath his clothes…not exotic robes, of course, but English tailoring, somber and precise. Restrained power infused his every movement, his very being. His utter control and self-discipline awed her: she would never understand in a million years why a man like him had chosen her to be his wife.
“May I have a word with you, Mrs. Garrity?” he asked.
Dear heavens.Even after eight years of marriage and two children together, his silky baritone made her feel like a bride on her wedding night.
“Of course,” she said breathlessly.
Mrs. Page discreetly departed.
Adam took the housekeeper’s vacated seat. His gaze settled on Gabby, and she shivered at the intensity of his regard. His irises were so dark that they melded with his pupils, giving the impression of fathomless darkness. His eyes could be as cold as a winter’s night or hotter than an iron brand left in the fire.
Others might be intimidated by her husband’s keen scrutiny, but strangely she wasn’t. Perhaps it was because he’d always been honest with her and seen her for who she was. He’d married her because he’d wanted a virtuous wife, a devoted mother to his children, and a gracious hostess to his friends and associates. And, Gabby thought with trembling pride, he’d made the right choice because shewasall of those things. Being Mrs. Adam Garrity was the only thing she’d ever been good at, an honor she tried her utmost to live up to every day.
“Did I forget that we had a meeting on the schedule?” she asked.
Adam smiled…and, oh, how she loved that faint curving of his hard, sensual mouth. Instead of softening him, it made him look even more virile. More deliciously sinful.
“This wasn’t on the schedule, my dear,” he said.
She was relieved that she hadn’t forgotten something on the daily calendar. Years ago, Adam had come across her in a state of distress. It had been soon after the birth of their son Maximillian, and she’d been beset by inexplicable doldrums. Up until then, she’d taken pride in her ability to create a comfortable domestic sphere for her family but, in a blink, everything had changed.
Motherhood, household management, and the many social duties expected of the wife of a successful businessman became overwhelming. She’d felt like she was her children’s favorite juggler at Astley’s Amphitheatre, keeping ten balls in the air at once. She’d tried to hide her bouts of tearfulness, but her husband had caught her sobbing...over a spilled cup of tea, for goodness’ sake.
Adam hadn’t rejected her for being odd, the way the girls at finishing school had. Nor had he told her to buck up and gain control of herself, which had always been her father’s advice. He hadn’t even told her to save her tears for a private time as her schoolmistress would have done.
Instead, he’d just…listened. Without comment. He’d sat beside her as she’d sobbingly—and a tad nonsensically—confessed that she was a terrible juggler who was dropping ballseverywhere. After she’d ceased to be a watering pot, he’d dried her tears, made love to her (which proved to be a powerful remedy for worry), and tucked her into bed.
The next morning, she’d awoken to find a schedule on the pillow next to her. It clearly highlighted the priorities of her day. Periods were also designated for rest and leisure activities, two things that, left to her own devices, she tended to forget.
It was better than any love note she could have received. To her mind, his actions conveyed his affection louder than words ever could. From that day on, she received a daily schedule written in his bold hand, and she cherished them for what they were: reminders of his care for her.
“What is it that you wished to speak with me about?” she asked curiously.
“It isn’t whatIwish to talk to you about. It is what you have to say to me.”
“Me? But what do I have to…” Seeing his lifted brows, she trailed off. Merciful heavens, but the man knew her well. Perhaps better than she knew herself.
She expelled a breath. “I’m an open book, aren’t I?”
“It’s part of your charm, my dear.”
“You won’t think it’s charming when I pester you about tonight’s meeting again,” she warned.
He flicked an invisible speck of lint from his grey trousers. He was a valet’s dream. Unlike her, he had nothing to hide and never got rumpled or stained. His charcoal frockcoat and plum waistcoat, like all his garments, fit flawlessly on his lean, muscular frame.
“It seems my assurances have not allayed your worries,” he said. “I would not wish to leave the house with you in an unsatisfied state.”
At the possible innuendo, her core fluttered. Her thighs pressed together against a sudden lick of heat. But no, he couldn’t be making conjugal overtures…it was the afternoon, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention Friday. When it came to marital activities, as with everything else, Adam followed a precise routine.
He arrived at her bedchamber on Wednesdays at nine o’clock in the evening. He made love to her until she was too weak to move…to eventhink. Afterward, he returned to his own room. An alteration to the schedule occurred only if she had her monthly flux, in which case he would postpone his visit to the following Wednesday, or if either of them was feeling unwell (and by either of them, she meant herself because her husband was never in anything but robust health).
In their eight years of marriage, there’d only been one exception to this routine. That Saturday night a few months ago when Adam had returned home drunk, a state she’d never seen him in before or since. He’d shown her a side of him she’d never witnessed before. The mere thought of his unleashed carnality—and her own shockinglyunvirtuous behavior—made her shiver now, with confusing pleasure…and painful doubts.
Luckily, the spirits had wiped his memory of that night. He seemed to have no recollection of what had transpired between them. And she told herself she was glad. She’d shoved that episode into the mental bin labelledLet Sleeping Dogs Lie, and there was no reason to dig it out…not when she had more pressing anxieties to deal with.
“Couldn’t you let your men handle the exchange tonight? Why can’t you wait in the carriage? What if there’s fighting and gunfire and—”
