Heavens, they’d rather converse aboutpoliticsthan their marriage, and wasn’t that a sad state of affairs?
“How often do you have Lord Maxwell have relations?” she asked abruptly, referring to Vanessa’s husband of nearly seven years.
Sevenyears.
Could she endure that length of time with Nicholas? Could she endure a lifetime with Nicholas? Her vows - the ones she’d made before King, country, and twelve dozen of their closest peers - said that she had to. But suddenly, Lavinia wasn’t so certain.
If he had a lover, ifshehad a lover, at least the excuse would be there. Not to leave (no one left a marriage because of something as inconsequential as a mistress), but she’d have areasonfor the wall between them. An explanation. Someone to direct her anger at. Someone to hate…besides herself. Because there was hate there, simmering under the surface of her carefully crafted smile and perfectly curled hair. Or, if not hate, then a general loathing for the woman that she was. The woman that was incapable of capturing the attention of her husband. The woman that must have hadsomethingwrong with her, or else why would Nicholas repetitively choose his books over the brunette waiting in his bed?
Unless the problem wasn’t her.
Unless the problem washim.
A fact she’d considered, probably more than she should have.
But it was hard to hate the man that you loved.
Although admittedly not as hard as it used to be.
“R-relations?” Vanessa asked, coughing into her wine.
“Yes,” said Lavinia, a tad impatiently. “Relations. Intimate relations.Sexualrelat-”
“I understand.” Vanessa coughed louder as she waved her hand in the air, the rings she wore on the outside of her satin gloves flashing in the candlelight. “We…he…ah…well…um….”
“A number will do.”
“Three.”
“Three times a year?” Lavinia said, feeling slightly better. “That’s not-”
“Three times a week.”
She almost dropped her glass. “Three times a WEEK?”
“Keep your voice down,” Vanessa hissed, her cheeks turning red. “Why are we discussing this, anyway? And in such a public venue. It’s shamefully embarrassing.”
No, what was shamefully embarrassing was that Vanessa was being pleased by her husband three days a week while Lavinia hadn’t felt the touch of hers in over three months. Not in any way that counted. Not in any way that made her blood burn.
“Something has to be done,” she muttered into her wine.
But what?
And more importantly,when?
Sooner rather than later, she decided abruptly. She wouldn’t go through another Season like this. She wouldn’t go into the New Year like this. If her calculations were correct, Christmas was precisely eight days away. It was a time for cheer. For celebration. For…reconciliation?
“Oh no,” Vanessa said warily. “You’ve got that glint in your eye.”
“What glint?” Finishing off the rest of her drink, she beckoned a servant over and held her glass steady while he refilled it.
“That glint.Theglint.” A line of worry creased Vanessa’s fair brow. “The same one you had when you declared that you were going to marry Lord Wilshire. And when you were going to challenge Lady Godshall’s position as chairperson.”
“Ididmarry Nicholas, and Ididforce Lady Godshall to give up half of her responsibilities.”
“I know,” Vanessa said with a serious nod. “That’s what frightens me. When you set your mind to a task, you don’t let anything–or anyone–stand in your way until you get what you desire. It’s mildly terrifying.”
“Good. I want him to be terrified.”
