Page 50 of The Luckiest Lady in London

Maybe marriage was not a hotbed of transparency and honesty, but she had never lied when it came to her physical desire for him.

Now he no longer smiled. Now he looked at her as he had in their bridal bower, with a ferocity that bordered on vehemence.

Only for a second. Then he took her hand in his, kissed her across the knuckles, and departed the front door without a backward glance.

Leaving her unsure whether she felt better—or even worse.

* * *

Louisa’s husband stepped into her room just as Betsey pronounced her toilette finished.

He dismissed Betsey and came to stand behind Louisa, inspecting her in the mirror, his hands behind his back. She had chosen an ornately embroidered dinner gown in a pale lilac brocade, a double strand of pearls—a wedding present from Lady Balfour—about her throat.

“Very nice,” he said. “But not quite right yet.”

“I would look better if I were more satisfied in bed,” she retorted.

“Really?” He brushed one hand against her pearl necklace. “I would have said you looked quite ravishing when you’d gone twenty-four years without.”

No doubt she would have come up with a witty and biting repartee, but he did something with her necklace, his warm touches upon her nape causing a cascade of sensations in-side her.

And now he removed the necklace altogether, placing it on the vanity with a soft click.

She wanted him to keep touching her. When he did, she felt less adrift, less…cast aside.

He pulled a handful of something from his pocket, which, as he placed it around her throat, resolved itself to be a sensational diamond necklace, the gems brilliant with an icy flame. “From my mother’s jewelry collection. All the pieces are yours to keep.”

She could not care less about the necklace, or the other pieces—her attention was solely focused on his fingers. Did they linger as he worked the clasp? Did he display the slightest interest in her skin?

No, he was completely impersonal, needing no more than three seconds to fasten the necklace.

“Now you look perfect,” he said, his words just as impersonal. “Shall we go?”

* * *

It took Louisa the entire predinner chitchat and the first course after sitting down before she was able to shove herself back into the role that she’d played so often and so well during the Season.

There were adjustments to be made, of course. Now it was the ladies she must cultivate. For while her husband’s wealth and stature gave her a certain cachet, that was not, by itself, quite enough to elevate her standing to the kind of stratospheric height he enjoyed.

And for five thousand pounds a year, she owed him a wife as popular and well-thought-of as he. To that end, she made sure she appeared amiable but also sure of herself—her public persona reflecting, at least in some measure, his cool sophistication.

After dinner, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. From that moment until the ladies retired, he spoke to her only once, to ask what time she had arranged for coffee and biscuits to be brought in—an inattentiveness that was exactly as it ought to be, as the duty of the host and the hostess was to see to the guests, rather than to each other.

Yet she felt herself constantly under observation, a sensation not unlike what she’d experienced the night of their first meeting. He would be speaking to each of their sixteen guests in turn, or participating in a game of cards, or taking part in a duet, his singing voice remarkably pure and warm—and she would feel the tangible weight of his scrutiny.

No solid evidence of this observation, only her intuition. But even her intuition could not quite decipher the nature of his inspection. Did it mean anything at all, or was he merely making sure that her performance as his wife was satisfactory?

At ten o’clock coffee and biscuits were served. The ladies, herself included, retired shortly thereafter. She had told her maid not to wait up for her. That freedom of movement now allowed her to conceal herself in the darkness of the solarium, across from the billiard room.

A quarter of an hour later, the gentlemen arrived in a herd.

“A game, Wren?” asked someone. “I’ll put down twenty quid.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” answered Louisa’s husband. “I will not be staying long enough tonight for an entire game—I am a married man now, with a married man’s duties.”

His friends chuckled. Some of them teased him good-naturedly. Louisa rubbed her finger on the heavy toile that covered the wall behind her. Did he mean it, or was he only acting the part?

Good for his word, he left the billiard room after only a few minutes. She slipped out of the solarium and followed him. At the stair landing, he stopped and turned around, his person only a silhouette. She caught up to him and together they ascended the steps.