Lady Windermere's Lover (6 page)

She wasn’t in Birmingham anymore. And since her husband clearly didn’t care a rap what she did as long as he received his new clothes, she would please herself.

Chapter 5

R
eturning home from dinner with the foreign secretary, Damian learned that Her Ladyship had already retired. He followed suit, finding that his valet had set up his gear in the earl’s bedchamber. Damian wasn’t much acquainted with the room. It had been his father’s and was without much character, except for a certain austerity of decoration that fitted the personality of its late occupant: plain walls, dark drapery, and nothing personal at all. His father had never been much of a reader so there were no books. As for pictures, Damian would have been surprised if there was a single one. The late Lord Windermere had use only for family portraits, kept at the ancient family home at Amblethorpe in the Lake District. No, Damian was wrong. A small landscape framed in gold hung over the fireplace. Damian carried a candle over to get a closer look: a gloomy oil rendition of Amblethorpe Hall that matched the dour grayness of the original. As always, he thought of his ancestral estate without affection and Beaulieu without any more pleasure. He supposed Windermere House was as much his home as any other, until duty sent him abroad again. The trouble was, he was no longer unencumbered.

A door connected to the chamber that housed the countess. He’d often visited his mother in that room, once his father had left the house. She liked the company of her children in the morning, after she had risen. How eagerly he and Amelia had awaited the summons that gave them a welcome respite from their studies and plunged them into the enchanted, scented world of Anthea, Lady Windermere. For a moment he was ten years old again, showering his twin with hair powder under their mother’s amused gaze. He ached to step through that door and discover that the two females who’d dominated his childhood were still alive and still laughing.

Instead he would find his unwanted wife.

He had to admit that under other circumstances she would no longer be “unwanted.” Her looks had improved, greatly, since their marriage. In her personal appearance she showed signs of the good taste so lamentably lacking in her additions to the decoration of the house. He hated to think what she might have done with his mother’s chamber.

He’d looked into her eyes that afternoon and had the oddest desire to kiss her lying mouth. If not for Julian, damn him, he’d be quite eager to join her in bed, but his intention of resuming marital congress with his wife had been complicated by the discovery of her infidelity. His immediate reaction was to cast her off, but things weren’t as simple as that. Only by siring an heir were the greatest financial advantages of his marriage to be reaped; he needed to maintain relations with Denford, at least for now; and a divorce was unthinkable if he was to have any future success in his career. It was highly unlikely that such a scandal would allow him to achieve the post of foreign secretary.

Clearly he was never going to enjoy the kind of love that his oddly matched parents had enjoyed, but when he wed Chorley’s niece to gain back Beaulieu he’d given up that chance. He ought, at least in theory, to be able to live with a faithless bride, as long as discretion could be maintained. Such a marriage was hardly unheard of in the higher levels of society. In one area, however, he’d discovered a sticking point: His children must be his own.

Until he was certain that Cynthia was not with child by her lover, he would not share her bed. In the meantime, he’d pretend to resume his friendship with Julian and get him to sell the pictures to the Prince of Alt-Brandenburg. After that he would decide what to do. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pleasant for the dastardly duke, and Lady Windermere would need to atone before she was (perhaps) magnanimously forgiven on a promise of future good behavior.

Pacing around the room he was drawn to that door. Placing his ear against it he heard nothing. His wife must have dismissed her maid some time ago, as he had his valet. Then he heard a latch, and soft footsteps in the passage outside their rooms. He sped over to his own exit and discovered her holding a candlestick and headed for the stairs.

“My lady.” He bowed ironically.

“My lord.” Her free hand clutched at her pale blue satin wrapper, liberally trimmed with lace. With golden hair streaming over her shoulders, she looked more like an angel than an adulteress.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I was going down to fetch my book.”

“Why not ring for a servant?”

“They have retired and it’s no trouble for me to go. I am not ready to sleep.”

She blushed, as well she might if she intended to slip out into the garden and meet her conveniently located lover. Damian made one immediate decision. If he was to be cuckolded again, it would not be by Denford. His wife had enjoyed Julian’s attentions for the last time and he would make sure of it, even if he had to personally stand guard.

“Go back to bed, my dear,” he said. “If you will tell me the title, I will find your book.”

“Thank you,” she said. What else could she say? “It’s on the table next to the chaise in the small parlor. It’s only a novel.”

“I shall bring it to you
tout de suite
.”

H
e had called her “my dear” and he was coming to her room. Expecting him to be eager to start siring an heir, she’d been relieved when he’d failed to appear at the connecting door earlier. Perhaps he was too tired after his night with Lady Belinda. For all she knew, he’d been with his mistress that evening. Although she had little practical knowledge of the sensual habits of men, she’d picked up a good deal of gossip from Caro’s circle and knew that some men weren’t capable of performing more than once a night. Certainly Windermere had never repeated the act with her: into the room, into the bed, into her. In and out a few times, then out, out, out.

She couldn’t help wondering if she was so unappealing that his lack of interest was somehow her fault. She had gathered that both men and women had different levels of skill and attractiveness in these matters. Perhaps she should have taken the opportunity to find out with Julian, who had quite the reputation. If she couldn’t take and give pleasure with
him
, it probably was her fault.

On second thought, it might be better not to know. In the absence of any certainty, she could keep up her well-deserved anger against Windermere for his indifference and his betrayal.

She sat at her dressing table and fiddled with her brushes. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left her emotionally wrung out and too agitated to sleep. She hoped reading would calm her and let her sink into blessed forgetfulness for a few hours, before she had to wake up and deal with her erring husband. She now feared that she wouldn’t gain that respite.

He didn’t bother to knock, merely slipped in and closed the door behind him. He stood and looked at her, without saying a word. Remaining on the padded stool of her dressing table, she stared back defiantly. He’d always seemed the epitome of the English gentleman with his blue-gray eyes and neat brown hair. But a full-length banyan made from richly embroidered silk lent an exoticism to the regularity of his features and figure. She felt a stirring deep inside her that signaled a greater danger to the peace of mind he’d already rocked.

“Miss Burney’s
Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress
,” he said. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Not as much as
Evelina
. Have you read it?”

“I liked
Evelina
better too. Mortimer Delvile seemed excessively proud, making Cecilia relinquish her fortune rather than marry her and take her name. You cannot accuse me of such behavior.”

The marriage settlement included a provision that their children would take on her name. The family name of the Earls of Windermere would henceforth be Chorley-Lewis. Having lost his only son and the chance of establishing a dynasty, her uncle wished to immortalize his name through her. To Cynthia it had made her uncle seem rather pathetic, not a word she would normally apply to the great bully.

“I acquit you of
pride
, my lord,” she said. “Mortimer Delvile is a tiresome creature and Cecilia deserves better. Our cases are not comparable, however. Delvile wishes to marry Cecilia for love, not for her great fortune.”

Whatever reaction she expected from him wasn’t forthcoming. She picked up a powder puff for something to do in the ensuing silence and waited for him to leave. When she dabbed at her neck, a sound came out of his throat, though what it signified she couldn’t guess. “Thank you for fetching the book, my lord. You may leave it on the bed.” Mentioning the word
bed
made her blush and she powdered furiously to cover it up.

Peering past her reflection in the mirror, she saw him lay the volume on the mattress, but he did not leave. Her eyes widened as he removed a pair of leather slippers with turned-up toes, and placed them neatly next to the bedside table. Next to go, drawing a shocked gasp, was the robe, sliding off and revealing his back and buttocks. Never having seen such a sight in the flesh, she was fascinated and unwillingly impressed. He turned, and before she could see any more, she closed her eyes. Never once during their marriage had he revealed his body to her in the light. Neither would she expect it. The very notion of sleeping—or doing anything else—naked was contrary to the precepts of her upbringing. By the time she dared look he had climbed onto the mattress and settled himself under the covers, half reclining against the pillows, displaying surprisingly broad shoulders and a muscular chest sprinkled with light brown hair. A surge of indignation drove out appreciative curiosity.

What right did the man have to invade her room without so much as a by-your-leave and occupy her bed? He had the right of a husband, of course, to her body. But something about the cool way he’d taken possession of her private apartment, like a storming army, roused her fury. His action wasn’t motivated by desire—he wasn’t even looking at her. It was pure arrogance.

“What are you doing?” She marched over, almost tripping on her billowing robe, and glared down at him with her arms folded.

“Lying in my wife’s bed,” he said, quirking his brows as though the question were a foolish one.

“I am not accustomed to sharing this bed.”

“I would hope not, since your husband has been absent.”

“It’s not big enough for two.” It was in fact the widest bed she’d ever occupied, even bigger than that at Beaulieu.

“I think we can manage without being crushed.” He generously shifted about an inch nearer to the edge and smiled blandly. He looked ridiculously handsome without his shirt, but she was not in the mood to admire.

She cleared her throat. “My lord.”

“Yes?”

“We have lived apart for more than a year.”

“True.”

“And before that we weren’t married for long.”

“Also true.”

“We don’t know each other very well.”

“That dearth can be remedied by spending more time together.” He settled deeper into the bedclothes. “Starting now.”

She stilled her nervous fingers that were plucking at the lace edging on her favorite wrapper. “What I mean to say is that . . . about marital relations . . . I don’t wish.” She almost swallowed her tongue in her feeble efforts to articulate this awkward request. “I would ask that until we know each other better that we should . . . not.”

“Not?” She wasn’t sure if he understood her confused mumbling. Raising his arms behind his neck, which flexed the muscles of his shoulders and chest, he regarded her in a silence that increased her disquiet. Her tongue swept convulsively over her lips and her mouth felt dry. He didn’t seem eager to fall on her and demand his rights, but neither did he make any move to depart.

To encourage him to go away and stop disturbing her peace, she offered him the robe that he’d draped neatly over a chair. “No, thank you. I prefer to sleep naked.” His lips stretched into that humorless smile she’d got to know so well at Beaulieu.

“And I would prefer you to sleep elsewhere,” she said, betraying her frayed nerves.

“I regret, my lady, that I cannot accommodate you. The mattress in my bedchamber is not to my taste. The feathers are too tightly packed and full of lumps.”

This seemed highly unlikely in her well-run household, though she hadn’t inspected the thing herself. She wavered, torn between arguing and sleeping in the other bed herself, lumpy or not.

“Come,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “No need for either of us to suffer. There’s plenty of room for both and I promise not to lay a finger on you. There is nothing unusual about a husband and wife sharing a bed, is there?”

“Nothing at all, in the normal course of things,” she said cautiously. “We, however, have not been in the habit of excessive intimacy in our living arrangements.”

“That will change now that I am home.”

Against her better judgment she decided to remain. She didn’t see why she should be driven from her own comfortable chamber into the earl’s gloomy lair. She’d embellished the already elegant and pleasing room with personal touches: her brushes and dressing set; a shelf of favorite novels; a delicate inlaid round table on which were arranged the fashion journals and other periodicals she subscribed to; a silver bowl containing potpourri; and the miniature portraits of her father and mother.

“It is my understanding that aristocratic couples occupy separate chambers. Not that I have special knowledge, being from a lower station.”

“My mother and father always shared a bed.”

“You surprise me.” Not least by imparting a private family detail. She couldn’t remember another instance of him volunteering such personal information.

She let her wrapper slide to the floor and climbed gingerly into bed, not on the side she usually favored, but she wasn’t up to demanding a rearrangement tonight. Unlike him she dressed decently for bed in fine but sturdy linen, buttoned to the neck. “Aren’t you cold without a nightgown?”

His shrug sent his muscles rippling. “The room is well heated for winter.”

“If you are to sleep in my bed I request that you dress properly.”

“Your preference is noted—for the future.”