He smiled, reaching for my hand. “You have never looked lovelier. Where are you bound?”
“March House.”
“Ah! One of Lady Hermia’s musicales, am I right?”
“You are. Shall I plump your pillows for you?”
“Please do. I should far rather have you do it than Renard.” He leaned forward and I busied myself fluffing the feathers. “I remember those evenings,” he said, his voice tinged ever so slightly with nostalgia. “Edward played the most awful piano, but your singing was quite—”
“Vile,” I put in helpfully. He gave me a reproachful little look.
“I was going to say original, but all right. You are frightfully tone-deaf, my darling.”
“I know. Pity that I love to sing, isn’t it? But you must have paid better attention than Edward to your piano master. Your melodies were always so lovely.”
He gazed down at his hands, swollen a little about the knuckles. “I doubt I could play now. Doubt I even remember a note of anything,” he said ruefully. “Funny how we spend our entire adolescence learning skills that are supposed to serve us in society, then spend our entire adulthood forgetting them.”
“Not all of them. The last time we danced, you still remembered how to do that quite well.”
“Well, dancing is different. I always enjoyed that. Music and gaiety and breathless promises to meet in darkened gardens—so much intrigue.” He raised a brow meaningfully.
I settled him back against his pillows. “Ass,” I said affectionately. “When did you ever make assignations in the garden?”
He waved an airy hand. “Loads of times. I cannot tell you how many lovely memories I have of fumbling with buttons under the cover of leafy darkness….” His voice trailed off and his eyes were dreamy.
I slapped lightly at his hand. “You are a beast, Simon Grey.”
“Yes, but a discreet one. You never knew I was off misbehaving, did you? Did you never once see me slip back into a ballroom, cravat askew, face dewy and flushed with rapture?”
“No, thank God. What of the poor creatures you were deflowering? Were they ever discovered?”
“No, not one, mercifully. But as I say, I was discreet. Edward used to get up to the same, did he never tell you?”
There was a flash of excitement in his eyes, an avidity that comes with truly succulent gossip.
“No!” I leaned forward, heedless of my neckline. “Do tell.”
He smiled and wagged his finger. “I shall not. Some secrets should be kept. But the stories I could tell…”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I don’t care a bit.” I kissed him again and bade him good-night.
“Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious.” I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.
Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably. Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct. Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night. Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.
Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise. Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness. Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat. Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness. We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father’s butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.
Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.
“She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout.”
His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.
“It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady,” he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.
“Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots.”
I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.
