“Who?”
Lavinia smiled as she sipped her wine. “My husband.”
Chapter Two
If Nicholas Halifax,Earl of Wilshire, knew the magnitude of the snowstorm that was about to make landfall on his doorstep, he’d have been wise to batten down the hatches. But instead of watching for the impending cloud of doom (otherwise referred to as his wife’s carriage), he was–per usual–in his study, a glass of brandy by his left hand, a quill pen in his right, and a scowl resting squarely in the middle of his forehead.
As an aristocrat of means, Nicholas didn’t have to work for his supper. He didn’thaveto do anything. But he’d tried being bored. He’d tried different vices. He’d even tried learning dead languages. None of it kept his interest. None of it gave him a purpose. But plucking a company from the brink of ruin and turning a profit within two quarters, then selling it off for thrice what he’d paid…that was a reason to get out of bed in the morning. An addiction better than drink, or opium, or the legs of random women. That was a challenge worthy of pursing. That was a channel to funnel the restless drive he’d always had inside of him, even as a child. That wasmeaningin a society that rewarded lazy excess and squandering inherited fortunes instead of multiplying them.
Nicholas didn’t want more, he wanted themost.
And he had it.
He had it all.
The enormous manor, the beautiful wife, the immeasurable wealth.
Until the damned stormed rolled in…and his entire life was turned upside down.
“NICHOLAS!” Lavinia’s voice rang through the foyer, followed by the slam of the front door and the stomp of quick, angry footsteps. Footsteps that sounded like they were coming suspiciously close to his study. “NICHOLAS, I WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOU!”
Flicking a glance at the long-case clock across the room to gauge the time–half an hour past midnight–he dropped his quill and picked up his brandy a second before the door sprang open and his wife crashed in.
“There you are,” she said, the accusation in her tone causing his brows to lift.
“Did you expect me to be somewhere else?”
“No.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing the pale ivory globes up and nearly over her square-shaped bodice trimmed in green ribbon. Forcibly dragging his gaze to her face, Nicholas took note of the pink flush in her cheeks and the glaze in her eye. His mouth thinned.
“You’re foxed,” he said flatly.
“Yes, I am.” She raised her chin, defiance written across every gorgeous inch of her flawless countenance. Ribbons of silky mahogany had come loose from her coiffure to frame high arching cheekbones and a long, elegant neck. Her nose, straight in the middle and tipped ever-so-slightly at the end, was lifted. Above it her eyes, a silvery gray surrounded by thick ebony lashes, were glittering with anger. She must have dropped her cloak in the foyer because her shoulders were bare, exposing the slant of her collarbones and the diamond necklace nestled in her cleavage. Once again, Nicholas’s gaze dropped lower. Once again, he clenched his jaw and pulled it up.
Lavinia’s beauty was, without a doubt, what had initially drawn him to her. One look at the ravishing brunette across a crowded ballroom of bland, boring blondes and he’d quite literally stopped in his tracks, stunned by the vision in front of him.
She’d been a debutante at her first large social event.
He a somewhat cynical earl feeling the pressure to find a wife.
At the end of their first dance, he knew he could stop his search. Lavinia was beautiful, but she was also bright, witty, and charming. She hadn’t fallen over herself trying to impress him, but instead had left him with the vague notion thatheought to be the one impressingher. That her favor wasn’t something to be given, but rather an object to be won.
And he had.
With presents, and carriage rides through Hyde Park, and trips to the theater, and a parlor filled with yellow roses (her favorite). Being with Lavinia, passing the time with her, had been easy. Falling in love with her had been a pleasure. Like the first decadent sip of drinking chocolate topped with freshly whipped cream.
They were wed on a wet, rainy morning in October and left on holiday for Bath that evening where they spent a luxurious fortnight soaking in the mineral waters by day and exploring each other’s bodies by night.
He was Lavinia’s first lover. She was his third. A small measurement, by the standards of a rogue, but Nicholas’s head had always been more preoccupied with arithmetic than affairs.
After that, they’d spent the winter at Wilshire Estate in Sussex. Aside from a few spats here and there, the early months of their marriage had been blissful. Tranquil, even. Then came the Season, and London, and a new business venture that had, admittedly, required more of his nights than he’d have liked to give up. But Lavinia had busied herself with charitable causes and all had been well. They were each pursing their own interests independent of one another, and wasn’t that refreshing? To focus entirely on his work without worry of upsetting his wife.
Somewhere along the way, he had a bed placed beside his desk because it was easier to fall asleep two feet from his contracts than trudge all the way upstairs. A means of convenience, nothing more.
Lavinia began to stay out later. Entire nights spent out of the house. But she’d always come home, often in the wee hours of the morning, and place a kiss on his temple before disappearing into their chamber to sleep the day away while he toured abandoned factories and worked tirelessly on acquisitions.
He didn’t know when, exactly, the kisses on his temple had stopped, but they had. Now he and Lavinia were more like ships than husband and wife, one gliding out of the harbor while the other came in.
Except for tonight.
