Only it would be worse, because underneath Selina’s hard veneer there was only emptiness. There was nothing there to love.
But that wasn’t true of Prue. As lovely as she was, Prue’s true beauty wasn’t in her face, but in the world of treasures hidden inside her heart. He could sense it in every word she spoke, feel it in her every glance, see it in every shift of emotion in those beautiful hazel eyes.
And he didn’t know how to touch any of it.
There was no softness inside him, no tenderness. If anything, Basingstoke’s advice would be less useful to him even than Grantham’s, because Basingstoke spoke as a man who knew how to love.
Jasper set his knife aside, his appetite deserting him. “There’s nothing amiss. My duchess is perfectly content. I’m perfectly content.” Loftus was perfectly content, and Keating and Mrs. Stritch, and every bloody person in his entire household was perfectly content, damn it, or as content as they’d ever be. “It’s all going swimmingly, I assure you.”
“Is it? That’s good news, Montford.” Grantham sipped his coffee. “You’re quite sure there’s nothing you wish to discuss?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Now the wedding is past, I daresay we’ll settle into a perfectly agreeable routine. We won’t live in each other’s pockets, but we both agreed that would be the case before we wed. Prue and I both prefer it that way.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Montford, though there’d be no shame in it if it weren’t going quite as swimmingly as you say.” Basingstoke’s gaze was steady. “If thatdidhappen to be the case, I would hope you’d confide in us.”
Jasper gritted his teeth. “You may wax on about love as much as you like, Basingstoke, but routine is just as important to a marriage. Routine, and obedience. Wifely obedience, that is.” Dear God, what was he saying? “For all that my grandfather insists Prue is a lady of spirit, I daresay she’ll settle down quite nicely now that we’re—”
“Montford! Back in London at last, eh? How d’ye do?”
Jasper jumped. He’d just begun to warm to his subject, and might have gone on about Prue’s burgeoning docility for the rest of their meal if Lord Rowell hadn’t appeared at his elbow. “For God’s sake, Rowell, where did you come from?”
Rowell, who was perfectly harmless, but perhaps not the brightest of London’s noblemen, gave him a guileless smile. “From Angelo’s. I saw your wife there. Very pretty, indeed. Well done, Montford!”
Hiswife? At Angelo’s Fencing Academy? Surely not. “You’ve made a mistake, Rowell. I just left my wife in Berkeley Square.”
“Indeed? But the lady arrived in a carriage bearing your crest, and I could have sworn I heard Angelo call her ‘Your Grace.’” Rowell’s eyes widened. “You don’t suppose there’s another lady running about London claiming to be the Duchess of Montford, do you?”
It didn’t seem likely, did it? “What did this lady look like, Rowell?”
“Rather tall, with light brown hair. Pretty, like I said. Lovely green eyes.”
Hazel.Hazeleyes, but there was no denying it did sound like Prue. What the devil did shemean, sneaking out of the townhouse and wandering about London without him? “Tell me, Rowell. What was this pretty, green-eyed lady doing at Angelo’s?”
Rowell blinked. “Why, fencing, of course. She’s not bad either, Montford. Quick on her feet, you know, and not a bit of hesitation in her. It looked as if she’d handled a foil before. She nearly disarmed Lord Quincy—”
“Lord Quincy!” Jasper went still, everything but his fingers, which went so tight around his wine glass, the stem snapped off in his hand.
“Oh, good Lord,” Grantham muttered under his breath.
“You mean to say, Rowell, thatmy wifeis at Angelo’s at this very minute, fencing with the Earl of Quincy?” If there was one man in London one couldn’t trust with one’s wife, it was that scoundrel, Quincy. By God, if the man so much as grazed a hair on Prue’s head, he was going to bloody kill him.
“Er, yes.” Rowell cast an uneasy glance at Grantham. “That is, she was when I left—”
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen.” Jasper rose to his feet and tossed the broken bits of his glass onto the table, a red haze descending over his eyes. “I believe I’ll pay a visit to Angelo’s.”
* * *
The first thing he saw when he brought his phaeton to a stop outside Angelo’s was a dark green carriage with a familiar gold-and-green crest emblazoned on the door. If that weren’t enough to convince him, his own coachman, Norris, was sitting on the box.
By God, Rowell had the right of it. His wife, the Duchess of Montford, was even now inside Angelo’s, foil in hand, sparring with that villain Quincy, the very last man in all of London he wanted anywhere near his precious. . . er, that is, anywhere near his wife.
With any luck, she’d slice the devil’s head off.
“Norris! What in God’s name is going on? Where is the duchess?”
“Your Grace!” Norris nearly toppled from the box in his haste to get down. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace! I didn’t think you’d approve, but Her Grace was quite insistent—”
“It’s alright, Norris. I don’t blame you.” For God’s sake, Prue must have lost her senses! “Where is she?”
