“I must speak with Mr Beckford,” said Lord Rainham. “He wants to know why he keeps losing at piquet.” He bowed to Aideen. “Give my regards to your Uncle Seamus when you write to him.” And with a subtle wink he turned, leaving Aideen open-mouthed…again.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” said Lily Mereworth, and Aideen wondered who she was talking to.
“Oh, that’s me,” she gasped. “Please, call me Aideen… It’s too strange.”
The lady laughed, a broad warm chuckle which she felt impulsively drawn to.
“You are reminiscent of my betrothed.” Lily’s eyes flitted to the deep-blue tailcoat of Lord Rainham. “He has recently been made viscount but still looks around for one when thus addressed.”
“Did you really ask him to marry you?” Aideen blurted before raising a hand to her runaway mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that was most rude.”
But the lady just giggled again. “I did. Although I didn’t lower to one knee. That would have been frightfully improper.”
Aideen laughed with her and felt…content. She gazed around the room, at the loving Beckfords, at Sophie and Cordelia, at Meghan, staring wistfully at the wedding cake, and at this sweet lady that she felt would become a good friend.
This was her family now, she realised. Not always of blood, but of friendship and mutual care. And she was enfolded within it.
∞∞∞
Rakecombe stood naked beneath his bathing contraption and pulled the rope, letting the freezing cold water sluice over his body.
It cleared his head but didn’t halt the raging lust that had beset him all afternoon. He angrily pumped the handle again, venting his frustration on the device. Water shot up the pipes and he pulled the release rope once more, dispensing the contents directly onto his face.
Once in a while, he requested heated water be put into the storage vessel of this newfangled apparatus, and if he was lucky, it was still warm when he staggered in. But tonight he needed some ice-cold clarity.
It was a half after nine and he’d been informed that following the wedding breakfast, Aideen had toured the house, dined with his mother and then retired abed, ordering that no supper was required.
The little minx.
Fortunately, his valet Thorn knew his master’s habits well and had laid out cold meat and bread. Most of the servants had been given the night off as part of the celebrations, his valet included, but he often asked for the bathing device to be filled and food to be left on the dresser.
If a night’s investigation had ended badly or without result, he didn’t want to be fussed over by Thorn. He wanted to be left well alone.
Towelling himself as he stepped out, he pondered on what to wear. A bronze-coloured banyan had been laid out but that felt presumptuous, so he strode over to the wardrobe and gathered shirt and breeches.
Not that this afternoon’s investigations had concluded negatively.
Winterbourne had suggested taking the carping butler to an ale-house to loosen him up.
He’d loosened aplenty – boasting of his conquests, complaining of how cold the house was and bemoaning his master’s lack of manners. Apparently, he considered Stafford an uncouth thug and lamented the shortage of decent families to butler for.
Perhaps he had sought employment and if the grizzled fellow had been a chef, Rakecombe might have been interested.
After that, he’d departed the ale-house in order to sort out a guard for Aideen. Someone reliable and quiet. A veritable shadow that she would never see.
It had taken longer than expected as he’d had to interview sixteen candidates but eventually an unassuming but suitably brawny chap had been selected.
Now dressed, Rakecombe slugged a brandy.
Would his wife’s door be barred to him? He had, after all, left Aideen alone at their wedding breakfast, and what had seemed such a good idea yesterday evening seemed utterly despicable in the cold light of day.
He’d abandoned his beautiful bride with unknown guests in a strange house.
He’d called her a hellcat.
Swiping a hand over his face, he wondered if he should even attempt to enter her quarters at all, as ’twas probable he’d get a chamber pot in the physog. And he wouldn’t blame her.
But surely as soon as they’d burned this lust from their bodies, they could live their lives peacefully…and separately. His gut burned in torment, and he wasn’t sure it was the brandy.
