Page 97 of The Language of Love

“Of a sort,” Lorie said, her cheeks darkening. “I sold one of my stories to the Minerva Press and they want more. So, I shall be able to afford to share expenses with Freddie.”

Annis hadn’t been sure whether to congratulate her on the sale, or not. “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, about them wanting more?”

“Yes, it is good. Don’t worry, Annis, I haven’t stopped working on my real novel.”

Lorie was a brilliant writer, but the sort of stories she enjoyed writing were not the sort that publishers wanted from female authors.

“I’m so glad you’ll be here with Freddie,” Annis had said. “She will need you, Lorie.”

At the time, they’d been in Freddie’s sitting room. Their friend had been out on the small terrace reading a letter from Miles, her beautiful face pale and stricken.

Both Annis and Lorie had known what that meant: Miles had finally become betrothed. Or at least he soon would be.

Tears prickled Annis’s eyes at the memory of Freddie’s shattered expression and Annis felt guilty that she had been fortunate enough to marry the man she loved—even if Henry didn’t love her—but poor Freddie and Miles could never be together.

“Is ought amiss, Annis?” Portia—now the Countess of Broughton—was rudely leaning across her gorgeous husband, Stacy.

“No, of course not,” Annis assured her.

“You are so quiet, my dear. It is unlike you.”

“I am just enjoying having my friends together.”

Portia dropped her voice to a whisper. “You are worried about tonight, aren’t you?”

Annis gave a nervous laugh and glanced at Lord Broughton. She could feel his gaze on her even if she couldn’t see his eyes, which were hidden behind the dark spectacles he was never without.

Although both his coloring and the classical perfection of his features made him look like a marble statue, his lips curved into a warm, human smile. “Portia, my love, I believe you are embarrassing your friend.”

His irrepressible wife shrugged off the earl’s gentle chiding. “Nonsense, Stacy. Annis is far too practical to be missish about physical love. But it is natural to be a little nervous.”

Annis’s face was on fire. “No, Portia, I am not nervous.”

“Making love can be a very beautiful thing,” Portia went on, cutting her husband a quick but scorching look. “Would you like me to explain what happens?”

“No!” she squeaked. “At least, not now,” Annis hastened to say. “Perhaps we might have a quick word before we leave?”

Portian nodded. “Bene. Io parlare con te più tardi.”

It was easier to accept her friend’s offer of a quick, after-breakfast conversation about coitus than to tell her the truth—that she was already familiar with the process.

Although perhaps she could practice confessing the truth to Portia?

Somehow, Annis suspected that confessing to a friend wouldn’t be the same as telling her brand-new husband.

Annis grimaced. A man expected his bride to come to his bed unsullied, and yet she had deceived him. And she had done so after promising him there would be no more lies between them.

She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly; there was no point in worrying now. She couldn’t do anything about it. Besides, there was nothing Henry could do if he was displeased with her.

Well, he could beat her or starve her now that she was his property under the law, but Annis knew he would never hurt her—at least not physically. She even believed that he still liked her. At least a little.

She could only hope that this next confession would not kill off the delicate sprout of affection that remained between them.

Annis sighed. Tonight, she could finally stop living a lie. And if he hated her for it, well, she would deal with that tomorrow. And for the rest of her life.

***

They were leaving London first thing in the morning, so they were saying goodbye to their friends right after the wedding breakfast—a meal that was actually a cross between nuncheon and dinner.