Innocent in the Regency Ballroom: Miss Winthorpe's Elopement / Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess. Christine MerrillЧитать онлайн книгу.
go with you. We will take my carriage to save time, and I will return home once your mind is at rest.’
But on arrival at the Colton home, they discovered the true nature of the emergency. All the lights were blazing, and from the salon came the sound of voices, laughter, and a soprano warbling along with the pianoforte.
Tim swore softly and with vehemence threw his hat into a corner and stalked into the room with Adam following in his wake.
His wife seized him by the arm, forcing a drink into his hand and announced to the gathering, ‘Here they are! As I told you, they were detained.’
Adam was close enough to hear Tim murmur to his wife, ‘You knew my intentions, and yet you brought me home to play host to a gathering that is none of my making.’
She responded through clenched teeth. ‘And you knew my intentions. I wished for you and your friend to dine at home this evening. Do not cross me again, or you shall live to regret it.’
‘More so than I do our marriage?’ Tim laughed loud enough for the guests to hear, although they could not make out his words. ‘That would be an impressive feat, madam.’
‘You know how creative I can be.’ She turned away from Tim, and reached for Adam, linking her arm in his and pulling him forwards. ‘Come along, Adam. Do not think you can escape so easily. Have a drink with us before you go.’ She was pressing against him in a way that must be obvious to her husband, and smiling up at him too brightly.
He eased free of her grasp, stomach churning, unable to look his friend in the eye. ‘A glass of wine, then. Only one. And then I must be going home.’
Clarissa said, loud enough for all to hear, ‘Ah yes. Hurrying home to your bride, Adam. Just when will she be making an appearance in society? People are beginning to think that the woman is a product of your overheated imagination.’
‘You know full well, Clare, that she wished to remain at home, for you spoke to her this morning.’
‘But, Adam, everyone is dying to meet her. I have told them so much about her. They are aflame with curiosity. Penelope is the daughter of a cit,’ she informed the group gathered around them. ‘And from what I’ve been told, she is very rich. But she will not mix with us, I’m afraid. She is far too busy to be bothered. Adam’s wife is a bluestocking.’ The last was said with enough pity to make the other revelations pale in comparison.
He was expected to say something at this point, but was at a loss as to what. Most of what Clarissa had said was perfectly true, although it sounded far worse coming from her mouth. And she had probably used his absence to embroider what facts she had with as many scurrilous fictions as she could invent. So he seized upon the one thing he could safely refute. ‘Really, Clarissa. You make her sound so exclusionist that she should be a patroness at Almack’s. She is at home tonight, reading The Odyssey in the original Greek. I bought her the book this afternoon as a wedding gift. But she’ll mix with society soon enough.’
And then, he could not help himself—he added a fabrication of his own. ‘We are planning a ball, and I suspect most of you will be invited to it. Then you can meet her and see for yourself.’
The crowd nodded, mollified, and there was an undercurrent of curiosity in the gossip that stole the thunder from Clarissa’s tales. Bellston rarely entertained. The new duchess might be an eccentric, but no one would dare comment on the fact if it meant losing the duke’s favour and missing a chance to attend an event that would be eagerly anticipated by everyone of importance in London.
Everyone except the Duchess of Bellston.
Penny sat at the vanity in her bedroom, which she had transformed, with the help of a strong lamp, into a makeshift writing desk. The work had seemed to fly this evening, with words flowing out of her mind and on to paper as easily as if the text were already in English and she was only copying down what she saw. Perhaps it had been the gift of the book that had inspired her. Adam could be so effortlessly kind that she scolded herself for thinking ill of him earlier in the day.
Or perhaps the intellectual stimulation of strong tea and good conversation had freed her thoughts.
That was all it had been, of course. Any stimulation she might have felt, beyond her intellect, was girlish fancy. She had always admired the Duke of Bellston. To see the actual man in front of her, moved by his subject matter until he’d all but forgotten her existence, was more invigorating than she’d imagined. He’d invited her into his study, allowing her past a barrier of intimacy that she had not expected to cross, and for a time she’d felt she was very much in his confidence.
And then he had kissed her. Thank the Lord that their conversation had been at an end, for she doubted that she would have been able to string two thoughts together after that buss on the cheek.
She had gone back to her sitting room and curled up on the sofa and opened the book, ready to enjoy his gift, only to have her eyes drawn, again and again, to the kissing couple on the bookshelf. She must have looked as dazed and eager as that when he’d left her.
And it had not stopped him from going out, she reminded herself, returning to cool logic. Not that there was anything wrong with being apart in the evenings. How would she get any work done if he forced her to accompany him everywhere, like a dog on a leash? She enjoyed her work.
And she had been quite satisfied with her progress once she left the sitting room, which seemed to attract foolish fantasy like a normal library attracted cobwebs. She could work without fear of interruption in her bedroom.
Certainly without fear of interruption by her husband. If he preferred to be elsewhere, in the company of others than herself? That had been their plan, had it not? She could hardly blame him for it. An evening of cards at an all-male club was hardly cause for jealousy on her part.
And if she was not mistaken, he was arriving home; through the open window she heard the sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house, and the faint sound of her husband’s voice as the footman greeted him at the front door. She glanced at the clock. Barely eleven.
She had not expected him so soon. It had been later than this when they’d returned to the house on the previous evening, and he’d proclaimed it early. Was tonight’s behaviour unusual?
Not that she should care. She hardly knew the man, and his schedule was his own affair.
But he had come home. Not to her, precisely. But he was home, all the same. Perhaps it would not be too forward to go downstairs in search of a cup of tea, and pass by the door to his study to see if he remained up. She got out of her chair, reached to tighten the belt of her dressing gown, and, without thinking, straightened her hair. Then she laughed at herself for the vanity of it.
With her hand on the doorknob, she stopped and listened. But, no. There was no need to seek him. He was climbing the stairs, for she could hear him on the landing, and then he was coming down the hall carpet toward his room. She waited for the sound of his bedroom door, opening and closing.
It did not come. He had walked past his room, for she had been unconsciously counting the steps and imagining him as he walked.
And then he stopped, just on the other side of her door.
She waited for the knock, but none came. Perhaps he would call out to her, to see if she was asleep, though he must know she was not, for the light of her lamp would be visible under the door.
If she were a brave woman, she would simply open the door and go after the cup of tea she had been imagining. Then she could pretend to be surprised to see him, and inquire what it was that he wanted. She might even step into the hall, and collide with his body, allowing him to reach out a hand to steady her. Perhaps he would laugh, and she would neglect to step away, and she would know if he merely wished to continue their discussion, or if there was some other purpose for his visit.
But she was not a brave woman, and she was foolish to think such things, since they made no sense at all. There was a perfectly logical explanation for his being there, which he would no doubt tell her in the morning at breakfast. If