Aideen’s nails curled into her palm as she watched some alluring trollop smile at her husband. Uncle Seamus had once created a lady’s fan with poisonous tips…
When Rakecombe had finally made his entrance at the Buckland’s soirée, he’d merely nodded his acknowledgement across the room, as though his wife was a serving maid.
Supercilious blaggard.
Forgoing Jack’s rule number one – on balance it didn’t appear to be effective – she made her excuses and quitted Lord MacDougall’s company, to find Cordelia surrounded by an array of young bucks vying for her attentions.
Not a great surprise considering.
Apparently, Mrs Greenwood was under the weather, and so Cordelia was chaperoned this evening by her Aunty Bridget – a chaperone that not only had a voracious appetite for the card table but must also be exceedingly short-sighted.
It could be the only rationale for Cordelia’s attire.
A wave of shock had rippled through the room when she’d first arrived. The diamond of the Season wearing…peony red. It was bright and shiny and decidedlynotwhite, shocking to the ninth degree. Matrons tutted over the decorum of debutantes whilst those same debutantes giggled – surely she would be cut?
But the Duke and Duchess of Buckland had complimented her on the colour, which matched their paper hangings, and so with the full weight of their approval behind her, Cordelia had set the room alight. Gentlemen strived for her attention, ladies now envied and Lord Oakdean glowered from the corner.
“Cordelia?” The males parted – one of the advantages of being a duchess. Aideen had found that although the ton may stare in prejudice from behind their fluttering fans at an Irish upstart, not one of them dare make comment about the ruthless duke’s wife. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her friend smiled, accepting another glass of champagne from a besotted swain. “I decided to no longer be a sheep, and I have even laughed loudly…twice.”
“Er, wonderful. Has Oakdean spoken to you yet?”
“No.” She frowned and took a large gulp. “I no longer think he cares.”
Aideen wasn’t so sure. A blaze roared in Oakdean’s eyes that looked far from uncaring, but she nodded and left Cordy to her admirers.
Wandering the edges, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s ebony tailcoat disappearing towards the mirrored hallway – where was he going? Another mission?
She really shouldn’t. He had made it patently clear that his concerns were his own, but the anger and dissatisfaction which had marked her days caused her feet to follow nevertheless.
If a soirée was the only place to catch him alone, then the fault was his.
The hallway presented a splendid affair as supposedly inspiration had come from Versailles – albeit on a smaller scale. Mirrored in sections from floor to ceiling, it reflected the light from the chandeliers to a flickering crescendo, and tens of Rakecombes strode down it, all of them handsome and lean, the damn bugs.
Silently, she watched as he halted and scrutinised his attire, flicking a non-existent piece of lint from his jacket. He swiped a hand over his eyes, as she’d often seen him do – a sign of weariness, she’d learned.
Why wouldn’t he allow her affection? He was so deuced stubborn.
Having talked – well, interrogated – his mother, she had a feeling it had something to do with his sister, but Meghan had become tight-lipped and said it was Alex’s story to tell – and didn’t that say it all.
But how could she ask him anything when he was never at home. ’Twas like living with a ghost – the lingering scent of chocolate in the breakfast room, the infrequent hat left on the table, the occasional footstep and sloshing noise from his bedchamber…
Another couple entered the hallway and she observed Rakecombe slip through a door to the left. Was heworkingor just hiding?
The couple took some while admiring the mirrors, and themselves, but finally departed, and she snuck over to the same door, twisted the handle and stepped through.
He glanced up as she closed the door behind her, surprise etched on his hawkish features.
Instead of discovering him on the pry, however, he stood with a glass of brandy in one hand and a book in the other.
The room appeared to be a small library with comfy sofas and decanters to hand. His jacket had been discarded over a desk, his upright form slender and fine-looking. How like him to make himself at home in someone else’s house.
Unsure what to say or do, she wandered over. “What are you reading?”
With a careless shrug, he showed her the book. William Blake poetry. Rather depressing, she had always thought, and an engraving within depicted a dying red rose.
He surveyed her with hard eyes and tight lips, and she felt as if she didn’t know this man, had never traded barbs with him, never felt his body inside hers, his fingers trailing her skin with tender reverence.
