Page 41 of The Luckiest Lady in London

She had, of course, thoroughly studied the passage concerning Huntington in Lady Balfour’s book on the great manors of the realm. But dry, matter-of-fact descriptions could not possibly capture the charm and tranquillity of the place, all rolling hills and green glens.

Then the land opened and there stood the manor, grandly and dramatically illuminated by the rich, golden light of sunset. It was a Tudor house that had, during the course of its long life, acquired a lavish, baroque flair. The once plain stone front now boasted an elaborate cupola and twelve pilasters that rose three stories high from a gorgeous terrace accessed by double-returned flights of steps. Twenty-seven windows, nine to each bay, shone down upon the circular reflection pool in the center of the formal French garden.

“It’s almost unfair,” she told him. “The master of this place should look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“Sometimes he does,” said her husband, pulling on his gloves. “When you visit the family gallery, you will see that my ancestors are not the most prepossessing lot.”

There was no time for her to ponder his statement. The carriage had come to a stop before the manor, and it was time for her to meet the staff.

Afterward, she was led upstairs to her apartment, which had a private bath with walls and floor of blue and white marble, and a sunken bath with hot and cold running water.

She made sure to betray little of her marvel as her new maid ran her bath and showed her how to use the faucets. But when she was alone, she covered her mouth and screamed a little.

It was too much, her good fortune.

She stepped into this decadent bath, lowered herself into the perfumed water, tilted her head back, and felt…impatient. She smiled to herself. At least in this respect, there was nothing improper about her marriage. She would have married him as long as he had enough money to support Matilda. And if he hadn’t, they would have found a way somehow.

Schemers and schemers alike, the two of them.

And tonight they were headed to a place where she would have complete confidence in him: the marriage bed.

She finished her bath humming.

* * *

It was becoming more and more difficult for Felix to be objective about his new wife.

If his first impression was correct, then she was just a passably pretty woman who was very skillful at presenting herself to her best advantage. But as she entered the drawing room tonight, glowing, he could not remember a thing about her artifice.

She was stunning.

“You are a vision, Lady Wrenworth,” he whispered in her ear as they walked arm in arm toward the dining room.

“And you would have fortune-hunted most successfully if you’d had to do it, what with your charm, your wiles, and your sweet, Apollonian face.”

He felt an unfamiliar flutter in his stomach. “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever had before dinner.”

“I hope to also compliment you a great deal after dinner. Will dinner be long?”

He laughed softly. “No, dinner will not be long. The kitchen has been instructed to not overtire you with too many courses, as you’ve had a long day and would naturally prefer to retire early.”

“Naturally,” she answered as he pulled out her chair himself.

He would have never considered himself the sort of man who touched his wife while there were others present, but of their own volition, his fingers trailed across her nape, as if the softness of her skin had acted as a magnet.

She expelled a breath.

He walked to his seat with as much nonchalance as he could manage. “If you will look out of the windows, I believe you can see the Greek folly.”

Especially illuminated tonight, for her pleasure.

Her eyes widened. “Dear me, those are some very slender columns. They conceal nothing, do they?”

“They are not quite as slender as that,” he reassured her. “The folly appears closer at night than it actually is.”

“When will your friends be here?” she asked.

“Day after tomorrow.”