“I know you’re in there, Prue. I can hear you moving about. Come out of there at once and give me a chance to seduce you, damn—”
“Jasper? For pity’s sake, what in the world are you shouting about? I could hear you all the way from the entryway!”
He whirled around, and there in the open doorway that led from the corridor into his bedchamber stood his wife, blinking at him in astonishment. “Where in God’s name did you come from?” He looked from her to the closed door between their bedchambers and then back to her again. “More to the point, where have youbeen? It’s only just past dawn!”
She snorted. “It’s nine o’clock, Jasper. The sun rose a full three hours ago.”
“As I said, only just past dawn.” He eyed her, crossing his arms over his chest. She was dressed in a fetching peacock-blue frock, a matching blue hat perched atop her golden-brown curls. To look at her, one would never guess she could have been up to any mischief, but he’d discovered quickly enough that the appearance of innocence meant precisely nothing when it came to his wife. “Where in God’s name have you been this early in the morning?”
She may appear to be the picture of ladylike innocence, but the truth was, the Duchess of Basingstoke was a slippery one. It was rather too bad he’d devoted all his energy to becoming a wicked rake, because he would have made an excellent spy. If the last few days had proved nothing else, they’d revealed his heretofore hidden talents for eavesdropping, lurking in hallways, listening at closed doors, and muffling his footsteps so he might sneak about without being detected.
He’d drawn the line at picking locks, but only just.
Still, sneaking about like a thief, in his own house! A man’s home was meant to be his castle, damn it, but it seemed that was only the case up until the moment he acquired a wife.
Or, no. Perhaps that wasn’t quite true. A gentleman and his wife might happily share a castle, but only insofar as his wife wasn’t a stubborn, hazel-eyed termagant, and far too beautiful and tempting for her own good. Such a wife could transform a man’s castle into a torture chamber in the blink of an eye.
Not that Prue made herself unpleasant. She didn’t scold him, or complain, or argue, nor did she subject him to the barbed tongue that lurked inside that sweet mouth.
No, it was far worse than that.
Instead, she made herself utterly, diabolically irresistible. She was everywhere, and always with a smile on her delectable lips, flirting and teasing him, or casting him heated glances from under heavy eyelids. She was driving him mad, her every move, her every breath, her every cursed flutter of long, dark eyelashes a delicious torment. If her intention had been to reduce him to a blithering fool, she’d succeeded most admirably, and their wager had hardly begun.
It had been four days. Four long, torturous, lust-addled days. Yesterday, she’d laid her hand on his arm, and his cock had surged to instant, aching attention.
Hisarm, for God’s sake!
And now—now, she was gaping at him with wide, hazel eyes, as if he’d lost his wits! “Well, Your Grace? I asked you a question. Where have you been? You’re meant to be in your bedchamber in the mornings!”
How the devil was he meant to seduce her if he couldn’tfindher?
“Am I, indeed? Well, no one informedme. I left my bedchamber hours ago.” Her chin rose. “And if you really must know, Jasper, I was at Tattersalls.”
“Tattersalls?” Ladies didn’t go to Tattersalls, ever. It was sacred ground, the exclusive province of London’s fashionable gentlemen. “My God, how in the world did you manage that?”
She shrugged. “Colonel Kingston arranged it.”
“Ah. Of course, he did.” He might have known his grandfather had a hand in it.
A fond smile crossed Prue’s lips. “As it happens, the colonel is a great friend of Mr. Tattersall.”
Oh yes, his grandfather was great friends with everyone in London. No doubt the old man was also behind Prue’s infamous visit to Manton’s Shooting Gallery earlier this week. At this rate, she’d be holding court in the bow window at White’s before the month was out.
God only knew what thetonwould make of this latest escapade to Tattersalls, especially after the commotion the incident at Manton’s had caused. She’d made her visit well after the gallery had closed for the day, but of course everyone had got wind of it nonetheless, and some of London’s more conservative gentlemen had complained bitterly about Manton’s hallowed halls being defaced by the presence of a lady.
Others, though, had merely laughed at it, and professed themselves delighted with the Duchess of Montford’s daring. That was typical of London’s reaction to their new duchess. Half thetoninsisted she was quite mad, while the other half maintained just as stubbornly that she was merely a charming eccentric, and a lady of uncommon spirit.
Spirit. That word kept coming up in relation to his wife, didn’t it?
Whatever one might think of Prue, one thing was certain.
The Duchess of Montford had caused a sensation in London. Not because she fenced, or shot at Manton’s, or assessed horseflesh at Tattersalls with an eye any gentleman in London would envy, and not because she dressed differently than the other aristocratic ladies.
No, it was because she wasn’t afraid of them. Their gossip, their whispers, their viciousness—she wasn’t afraid of any of it. She did as she pleased, and never troubled herself over what people said about it.
“There’s no need for you to stand outside my bedchamber door shouting, Jasper.” Prue pinched her lips into a prim line. “You might have knocked like a civilized gentleman, you know, rather than raving like a bedlamite.”
“I did knock! I’ve been knocking for the better part of an hour! And if I am a bedlamite, it’syouwho’s driven me mad!”
