Liar. They had never discussed such a thing. He smiled.
She sighed so heavily that he could hear it from where he sat. ‘But I begin to wonder if that is the case. Last night, the capon you left for me was practically inedible. It was as if someone had upended the salt cellar over it. There was too much pepper in the carrots and the potatoes were bland. Fanworth shared his plate with me and neither of us got enough to eat. See that it does not happen again.’
‘Yes, your ladyship,’ said Cook, properly chastised.
‘And before we go any further, Mrs Sims, I must correct your other assessment of me. I am not a tradesman’s daughter.’
‘You are not?’ Now the woman was torn between bravado and confusion.
‘I am something far worse.’ It was said in a sweet and youthful voice that hardly matched her matter-of-fact tone. ‘My father has been dead for over twenty years. I own and run the business alone. I am in trade myself, Mrs Sims. As such I am accustomed to dealing with employees, both hiring and firing.’ She took another dramatic pause. Then she continued. ‘Perhaps other young ladies of my age would be intimidated by your obvious mastery of the household. But I am not. I respect it, of course. And Fanworth adores you. It would be a shame to have to replace either of you. But I will do so without hesitation if you are unwilling or unable to take my instructions.’
‘Of course, your ladyship.’ There was a kind of grudging respect in Mrs Sims’s answer, as though she had not expected the new lady of the house to have such starch in her.
‘Very good.’ Through it all, Margot’s voice had lost none of its cheerfulness. ‘Dinner at seven, then. Send up a maid, for I intend to dress. And remember, do not over-salt the meat.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’ This answer came in unison, as both women acknowledged her authority.
Then Margot was gone. The sound of her slippers pattering up the stairs was light, youthful and unladylike.
Stephen smiled and settled back into his chair.
* * *
As requested, dinner was served promptly at seven. Lady Fanworth looked well satisfied with herself and sent her compliments to the cook on an excellent meal. Then she smiled at him more warmly than she had in weeks.
Stephen smiled at her in return. For all he cared, they might have been eating gruel. He’d still have proclaimed it ambrosia. To see her smiling across the table at him was the fulfilment of the dream he’d harboured since the first day they met. And no part of that fantasy had prepared him for the sight of her, dressed for dinner.
Perhaps Bath society thought they could spurn her, as a lower-class woman who’d got above herself. But they had not seen her like this. She was perfection: her beauty unrivalled, her grace unaffected and her smile so warm and genuine that one could not help but be drawn to her. One had but to speak to her for a few moments to learn that her personality matched her looks. God made a woman once or twice in a generation who was fit to be a queen. It was only natural that Stephen should wish to make her a duchess.
And on a much more personal note, it was dizzyingly erotic to see her perfect shoulders displayed above the low neckline of her green-silk gown. He had kissed those shoulders. She wore the pearls around her throat to remind him that they had done far more than kiss. They would do so again tonight. He was, truly, the luckiest man in England.
She was staring at him as if she knew a secret. Her sea-green eyes were bottomless. He could gaze into them for the rest of his life, floating, sinking, lost in their depths.
She had spoken.
He had not heard. He dragged himself back to reality. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, I had a most interesting day at the shop today.’
‘Really.’
‘Your sister came to visit me.’
He could not even manage am abbreviated answer. All words were shocked out of him and he could do nothing but stare at her in silence.
‘She is perfectly charming. You should have introduced us sooner.’
He nodded. Of course he should have. He had attempted it. It had not been his fault that he had failed.
The smile that she was using on him was dazzling, as though she knew how easy it was to beguile him. ‘We spoke of you, of course. And of the rest of the family.’
They talked about him. Of course they had. What other common subject could they have? It was rude to tell him of it. But what had he to fear? Of all the people in the world, he could trust his sister to be kind. And, of course, he could trust Margot.
I do. Two simple words, Fanworth...
He had managed to forgive her that. She had been angry. But he had given her reason to be. If he wished her to forgive him, he could not rage at her over every slight. Last night, he had trusted her with his body and been well rewarded for his faith.
But that had not involved conversation.
Now, her smile looked positively smug. Could he ever truly trust a woman who knew his greatest weakness and mocked it on their wedding day? She might sound sweet, but today that honeyed tongue had put the servants in their place with just a few words. He had admired her ruthlessness. But then, she had been using it on others.
‘Fanworth.’ She waved a hand in front of him, to gain his attention. ‘Stephen.’
It was only then he realised that she had continued speaking and he had not heard a word.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I asked if you were enjoying the dinner.’
‘It is fine,’ he assured her.
She gestured to the plates on the table. ‘Do you have a favourite, perhaps?’ She was trying to persuade him to speak.
He looked down at the dishes set before them. Duck in burnt butter. Pickled beetroot. Potted pigeon. Pears in puff paste.
It was a trap.
His father might use force and shouting to make his point. But his wife was a subtle creature. Now that he had taken her into his life, there were a hundred ways she could find to make him miserable. If there were any weaknesses she had not already guessed, she was likely to learn the rest from his sister. And he had no one to blame but himself. He had been the one to court her, accuse her and seduce her. He had made her his enemy.
He had created his own hell.
He said nothing. To speak was to give her ammunition. Instead, he tossed his napkin on the table and left the room.
Margot crumpled the note in her hand. She had not seen her husband in days. And now he chose to communicate in writing. It was outside of enough. The worst of it was, she had no idea what she had done to make him angry again.
In her opinion, things had been going quite well. They had proved they were more than compatible, once the lights were out. And after speaking with his sister, some of her reservations about the marriage had been laid to rest. There was still much to discuss, of course. She still did not understand the matter of the necklace.
But to discuss, both parties had to speak. And for some reason, he had gone from speaking little, to not speaking at all. She had no idea what she’d done to cause the change.
She’d returned home early, specifically to please him. They’d dined at the table and she had dressed in a manner befitting the wife of a great man. If he could