The full aristocratic gaze speared her way and she steadily glared back. His eyes wandered over her ringlets, paused on her face, narrowed on her lips. Lower, his perusal caught on her bosom, caressing her waist, until finally it landed at the table.
“I cannot wait for supper,” he drawled.
Jack choked on his wine, and Aideen scowled. The arrogant jackanapes. “Perhaps, Your Grace, I will also be out and not return for supper.”
His nostrils flared, eyes livening to a verdant forest, and he leaned forward.
“Hellcat,” he hissed.
“Hellhound,” she answered, also leaning forth.
They were inches apart. The green in his eyes became absorbed by black and that dilated gaze dropped to her lips.
“I think this conversation should continue tonight,” murmured Jack, slanting into their midst. “Such sweet love play does not belong at the wedding breakfast table.”
With food still heaped upon the serving platters and guests still making merry, Aideen watched her husband depart the festivities with Jack. She knew the marquess also worked for the Crown and so supposed they must be off on spy business.
If there was some reason behind his hasty departure, she wouldn’t mind being abandoned quite so much.
Napoleon and his minions didn’t care that he’d married today, and enemies of the state hadn’t sat down for a cup of tea solely because Miss Aideen Quinlan had gotten a husband.
In actuality, she and Uncle Seamus had worked all hours on occasion too, crafting some urgent piece for the fellows at Whitehall. Fiendish snuff boxes with hidden space for papers, pistols that fitted in a beaver hat and waistcoats that guarded guineas. All for the freedom of these islands and the Continent.
So how could she begrudge an afternoon?
Contemplating the grand room, she felt pleased the duke had suggested hosting the breakfast at his Grosvenor abode as the Beckfords’ would have been too small. She had attended here once as a guest but living in this austere house would be a different matter.
Tall ceilings and cold marble caused the place to feel unloved, and sound echoed eerily in the substantial rooms. The servants had stood at the steps to greet her – all thirty-two of them, not including those from the stable mews – but they’d acted welcoming enough.
Family and close friends still filled the room, with Meghan chatting to Sophie and Cordelia, and Kelmarsh sat with a certain Viscount Rainham.
She tapped a finger against her mouth and scrutinised Lord Rainham.
A shrewd face. Intelligent and wise. She’d noticed him talking quietly with Rakecombe earlier and assumed he must be something to do with Crown affairs.
At that moment, he glanced up as though hearing her thoughts. Both men stood and made their way to her.
“Aideen, you look beautiful.” Kelmarsh grinned. “May I introduce the Viscount Rainham.” She held out her hand. “And Lord Rainham, may I present, Her Grace, the new Duchess of Rakecombe.”
The gentleman kissed said hand. “Delighted, Your Grace. And a pretty given name, I overheard too, means litt–”
“Yes. I’m afraid I am,” she responded before he could ask.
Lord Rainham smiled, displaying straight white teeth. “Then you are perfect.”
“And you’re the third to say that today. It could all go to a girl’s head but thank you, I don’t know why.”
“The duke needs a robust companion.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Are you aware of my connection with your husband?”
“I believe I can guess, my lord.”
His brow lifted, and his gaze inspected her again. Finally, he nodded. “Come meet Lily Mereworth, my wife-to-be. She asked me to marry her last week.”
Lord Rainham hustled an open-mouthed Aideen to the delicate blonde she’d seen at his side earlier, and she was once again envious of a loving couple as introductions were made.
Although there was no overt physical show of affection, Lord Rainham’s hazel eyes softened as he beheld Lily and the lady’s smile in return was equally tender.
In an instant, she recalled Rakecombe and herself spitting words over the wedding table. Would they mellow with time? Was she normal to enjoy the baiting? The taunting?
